Catcher: A Short Story

Arriving back at his apartment, Booker found Tom curled on the couch, his gaunt face a mask of misery. Dressed in ill-fitting sweats, the borrowed clothing swamped his slender frame, giving him the appearance of someone much younger than his twenty-five years. There was a bucket next to the couch that smelled faintly of vomit and Booker averted his eyes, unable to stomach the sight of the foul smelling liquid. His lower body ached, and all he wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed. For the first time since Tom’s arrival, he was aware of the enormity of what he was taking on. He could say goodbye to his carefree bachelor’s life, he was now responsible for a sick and emotionally damaged

Booker’s grinned widened. He knew exactly how to push Tom’s buttons to trigger a reaction, so much so that he hardly considered it sport anymore. However, he continued to goad the younger officer because any response, even an angry one, was better than no interaction at all. He needed Tom’s attention in the same way he needed oxygen; it was crucial, and he knew the only way he would get it was to continue to piss him off. But, in

The emotional anguish shining from Booker’s dark eyes brought a lump to Tom’s throat, and before he had time to think about the consequences of his actions, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over his friend’s quivering pout. The brief contact sent a shiver of arousal down his spine, and flustered and confused by his overt display of affection, he stepped back, his face flaming red and a shy smile playing over his lips. He had no idea what had made him act so impulsively, and uncertainty quickened his pulse. His stomach rolled with a mixture of nerves and humiliation, and he quickly lowered his eyes to the floor, too embarrassed to meet Booker’s gaze. But as a lengthy silence hung in the air, he dared to peer up through his long lashes,

Turning a corner, Tom slowed his pace as he approached his apartment building. Although he longed for the comfort of his home, the thought of facing Booker filled him with dread, the psychological burden weighing him down. Consequently, he purposely dragged his feet, delaying the confrontation and the inevitable argument. He’d reacted badly to the news of Booker's tape, and his guilt hung like a noose around his neck, waiting for the moment his mind yanked at the metaphorical rope, and the painful castigation crushed his airway. But while his remorse was real, his jealousy was a far bigger beast, a raging fire-breathing monster that easily dominated all other emotion. It was a deep-seated sensation that encompassed feelings of fear, rage, and

Tom’s expression became pensive before his lower lip pushed into a soft, enticing pout and lifting his gaze slightly, he peered solemnly up at Booker through his long, thick lashes. “I have trouble trusting people,” he confessed softly, his dark eyes shimmering with emotion. “But I do trust you. I’m lonely, Dennis. I had no real human contact for six months and then you showed up. It was terrifying, but suddenly, there was someone who had belief in me and didn’t just see a disabled ex-con. You made me want to be Tom Hanson again and that’s why I stopped taking my meds; I didn’t want to be that fucked up zombie anymore. But I crave more… I need more. There’s something between us and I can’t live here pretending there’s not. I know we can’t be intimate, but there’s nothing wrong with hugging and kissing, is there? I mean, we’re friends, right? We can do that as friends… can’t we?”

The hall was surrounded with pictures of Morrie. The room spun, giving me a nauseous feeling. I turned around and flung open the door; I couldn’t bear to be in that room for another second. I went to my dorm and shut the door. I sat in dark emptiness, thinking of everyone who left me in my life: Hoppie, Doc, Nanny, Geel, my mother, and now, Morrie. It was too much to handle. I didn’t move from my spot on the bed for forty-eight hours. I drove myself deeper and deeper into the sadness I felt for the death of my best friend. As I laid there pitying myself I heard a knock on my door. I didn’t get up. The noise grew louder: KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Still I didn’t move from my throne of self pity. The door gently opened. A man stepped into my room. The first thing I noticed was his size. He cast a shadow that nearly

In J.D Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, Holden is a hero that wants to protect the innocence and health of young children. He is constantly helping other people, whether it is by preserving children from adulthood or protecting their physical well-being; yet Holden never really helps himself, even in the worst times. He takes care of other people more than he takes care of himself, showing that he would risk his own health in order to save other people.

Having endured an hour-long grilling from Fuller about Booker’s disappearance, Tom exited his superior’s office feeling more than a little dispirited. Astute enough to know something had happened at the fraternity, his captain had badgered him relentlessly about the hazing case, but Tom had remained stubbornly tight-lipped and had revealed only the bare facts, much to Fuller’s indignation. Now Booker was gone, his rape was his own private hell and not something he could readily share with his friends. It was the source of his social withdrawal during the day, and a nightmare he relived in vivid color when he closed his eyes at night. But Tom felt he had no choice. To admit his failure as a police officer and more importantly,

He stood up, not realizing he was starting to cry until his vision blurred. They shouldn't be dead, he kept telling himself. People like him were supposed to be, in gutters, with too much of something in their blood. These two were supposed to live forever.

After carefully considering Fuller’s advice, Tom had formally taken a leave of absence for the remainder of the week. As Booker had been due back at work the day he had started his so-called vacation, he had spent each day waiting expectantly for the young officer to make contact. But after enduring an agonizing seventy-two hours pining for the man who now occupied his every thought, he had come to the unwelcome conclusion that the young officer had decided to end their budding friendship, and therefore, whether he liked it or not, he was left to deal with the emotional impact of his rape on his own.

After an excruciatingly uncomfortable cab ride back to his neighborhood, Tom paid the driver, and ignoring the curious stares from the many bystanders going about their Saturday morning business, he hurried into his apartment building. He felt vulnerable wandering around in public in his underwear, and he longed for the sanctuary of his home, free from the scrutiny of prying eyes. While he recognized he had acted irrationally, spurred into action by the ferocity of Booker’s kiss, it was the second time his lover had pounced on him and forcefully tried to demand what should only be given freely, and the uncharacteristic behavior unnerved him. Something wasn’t right, but as much as he loved the dark-haired officer, he was too afraid to hang around and find out exactly what was going on inside his head. He needed space, and although he didn't want to admit it, he also needed time to reevaluate their relationship. A ripple of uncertainty was slowly gaining momentum inside his mind, and he was no longer sure if committing to Booker so soon after his rape was the right thing to do.

After his confrontation in the bar, Booker 's consciousness shifted to self-reflection, the intensity of his resentment decreasing as his levels of anxiety increased in slow, measured bursts. Tom had not only infected his heart, but he had also infected every fiber of his being, leaving him unprepared as a rising surge of emotion consumed his mind, body, and spirit. The Booker of old would have taken the attractive man back to his apartment and screwed his brains out, but the new and improved Booker had no interest in casual sex. He wanted Tom, not just as a sexual partner, but as a friend and confidant, someone he could share his innermost thoughts with when he needed advice or a sympathetic ear. He didn’t want to spend his life alone, and with the calming effects of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, their fight now seemed trivial, a superfluous response born from jealousy and embarrassment. In the heat of the moment he had overreacted, his protectiveness coming to the fore, his need to coddle Tom ultimately pushing him away. It was a foolish mistake and one he knew he might have to live with for the rest of his life if he didn’t make things right. Therefore, he made the decision to ignore his ego, apologize for being a monumental pain in the ass, and beg forgiveness, even if he had to do so on bended knee.

At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification”

"Beneath the trees where nobody sees They'll hide and seek as long as they please Cause that's the way "

I’m a pretty pretentious person, believe it or not. I don’t know if my admittance makes it any better or if that itself is pretentious. Probably. Anyway, it’s final exam week and I’m here just trying to study for my 11th century Norwegian poetry final, and maybe it was a dream, J.D. Salinger in the flesh appears in my bedroom. Okay, I know it sounds crazy and it could have been a caffeine and lack of sleep induced hallucination but I swear it was real. He was actually standing there watching me.