The first things he notices are his shoes. Specks of blood on them, but still the shoes he wore

when he took that walk through the city. The jeans are torn, dark wet with blood, as are the jacket and

shirt. Bruised flesh on display. The man, and on a rational level he knows he is that man, is lying on

his back, limbs spread out in grotesque disorder. There are several photographs from different angles.

All being variations on the same theme.

Daniël’s hand trembles when he tries to click on the link to the video. So Steve takes the hand

into his own, brings it to his lips and kisses the fingers one by one until the trembling stops.

The obscenity of what his eyes see is beyond his imagination. Or perhaps it’s not even the

image itself, though it defies description, but the knowledge that the ones causing the suffering chose

to calmly, perhaps even with some naive curiosity, observe his last moments. Chose to record the

image of their dying victim in order to be able to share it with the rest of the world. In anonymity, for

sure, but it still had been a human being making those images.

“Brain damage,” he whispers his recognition when he sees the shocks and tremors.

The eyes wide, but no longer seeing. Breaking. The mouth gaping in agony. The laboured

gasping for breath. Pink froth on the lips. White dots of what remains of his teeth. Clotted blood, so

dark it looks almost black, matting the hair.

The camera phone must have been held mere inches from his face at that moment.

Such utter loneliness.

He sees himself dying, like the one holding that mobile phone must have seen it. Like the

others present in the Queen Elizabeth Park at that time must have seen it. Like anyone with access to

an internet connection is able to see it. Like Daniël sees it.

Without a word he closes the laptop and sets it aside. Daniël gets on the bed and this time, it is

Steve holding him.

*

For more than a week, his days are filled with him doggedly trying to get on his feet. He’s

finally starting to get ready for his anger. A small flame yet, but it’s enough. The pictures are never

mentioned. There’s no need.

He wants to stand next to his man when they make their pledge to each other. He feels a joy

and pride in his being asked to share his life with this beautiful human being that’s almost too much

for his body to contain. So he moves weights and kicks water to test the limits of his endurance.

His nights are filled with dark dreams. He greets them in the same way he smiles his welcome

at the pain when he’s doing his exercises, because they both fulfil a purpose. And Daniël is always

there, holding his hand and whispering his love until he’s able to sleep again.

He tries and fails. He tries a dozen times and fails. He tries a hundred times and fails.

With his hands firmly gripping the bars and his arms rigid, he stands upright. His feet are

carrying most of his weight for the first time since what seems like an eternity. He takes one single

step. It’s not even long enough to be able to count a full second, but time can be measured in much

smaller units.

That night, his sleep is peaceful.

Chapter 16

That one step proves to be the first of many. There are numerous skills he learns to master with

some confidence. Not as before, but what a pleasure to brush his own teeth and comb his hair without

having to thank a nurse for his or her trouble. To be able to finish a meal and the only reason Dan is

feeding him a few bites is because it’s such fun. He marvels at the sheer luxury of taking a shower and

washing his own hair, even if it’s sitting down on a plastic stool. Getting dressed in normal clothes,

even if the jeans and shirts Gael gets from Steve’s apartment are at least two, and possibly three, sizes

too large. His hands are not stable enough to shave himself, but having Daniël doing it for him is

something he can live with. The quiet morning ritual, so intimate in its simplicity, grows on him. On

both of them he guesses, judging from the expression on his lover’s face.

He no longer spends the majority of his time in bed, even if it means investing a big part of his

energy and concentration on simply staying upright. He sleeps no more than nine hours, with an extra

hour after lunch.

He knows not to dwell on the thought that almost all has been taken from him and is being

given back incompletely and slowly. And it’s not even a free gift, because he has to work for it. Hard

work, that’s often painful and tedious. For a short few days, he had somehow hoped it would be more

or less like recovering from an extremely serious football-related injury, as far as getting to walk

again is concerned. Perhaps taking a bit longer, but certainly not so much different and harder he

might just as well have no experience at all at getting mobile again.

Day after day, he finds himself taking careful, hesitating steps behind the Zimmer frame,

willing an unwilling body to follow orders from a brain that has, and he knows it with absolute

certainty, changed forever. No neurologist needs to tell him otherwise.

The anger stays within firm boundaries. It’s there, he acknowledges it, no longer afraid to look

at it, but he lacks the need to feel it rushing through his veins. It might look good in the movies, blind

rage, but he doesn’t know how to set it free without hurting Daniël. Mourning is a slow trickle, a mild

sadness that isn’t bad enough to hurt but unstoppable in time, and Steve dreads the day it will have

grown into an ocean of tears. There will be no way to rationalise his way out of this; no words of

consolation, pointing out to him how much worse it could have been, that he came out of his ordeal

alive, will be enough.

He’s in no way prepared, however, for the shock of having lost the written word. The

possibility had never even entered his mind during all those weeks and months of slow, imperfect,

recovery. He’s able to form coherent thoughts in his head; he’s able to express those thoughts

adequately enough to be understood by others. Whatever speed he had, and he was never a fast talker

to begin with, has been lost, but the hesitation between thought and uttered sound doesn’t prevent him

from saying anything he wants or needs to say. Or to understand what others are saying to him. He

assumes, not without good reason, that if he feels like it, he can take a newspaper, open a website, and

read it.

So when Daniël works on his blog to jot down the proud achievements of his soon to be

husband during that day and Steve gets curious, it’s easy enough for Dan to turn the laptop in Steve’s

direction.“ Read it yourself, if you want to.” It’s also a perfect excuse to steal a kiss.

Great kisser, that boy, and he is getting even better at it with each new day.

Steve smiles contentedly. He has worked incredibly hard today. Performed the aqua exercises

in the small pool beyond what was asked of him and he really made that Zimmer frame see every

corner of the physio room. Perhaps not all that impressive for the average 80 year old but considering

all he had been through, every single tiny step counts for something.

“Danny? You’re writing your blog in Dutch?”

Confusion on Daniël’s face.

Steve laughs, still assuming this is some sort of misunderstanding. “I don’t recognise any of

this. I’m not as clever as you are, I’m afraid. Alsjeblieft, dank je wel, ja, nee, ik hou van jou and a few

dirty words. That’s about the extent of my fluency in Dutch.”

“I’m sorry, but what do you mean? It’s all in your language. The English guys swore to me it’s