Chapter 8

Hercules. When Dylan hears the name, his mind immediately travels to Greek mythology. Then his thoughts swerve over to Disney. Which should be funny, but he's not laughing, not when this personification of Hercules is currently giving him excruciating pain.

His name is not really Hercules, but that's how the staff at the center calls him. "My real name's Hank," is the first thing that the physical therapist says when Dylan is brought in for the first session. 

Hank is one of the few people at the center who seems to carry a sack-full of positive energy that normally irritates the hell out of Dylan. His almost child-like attitude doesn't match his large frame but Dylan finds this endearing for some fucking reason. He would never admit that to anyone though, not while he's alive.

"You are extremely lucky you hit the grassy part of the garden Mr. D," Hank says and Dylan cringes at the new nickname. Hank insists that it sounds cool and Dylan doesn't have the energy to argue. "I don't want to imagine what could have happened if you actually ended up flat against concrete or worse, falling on the rose bushes." Dylan wonders if Hank has a written script because it's the same thing he says almost every fucking day.

"I can't say the same thing for Thomas, though," Hank says while helping him stretch his leg, triggering a sharp sensation in his muscles.

"Thomas?" 

"The janitor responsible for leaving the hallway door that leads out to the balcony unlocked. He's been suspended, I think," Hank explains. "Poor dude. I hope he doesn't get fired though. He's new and I know that's no excuse for being so careless but…"

Hank continues to blabber, says, "Well, let's just say it's a good thing that the balcony is only two floors high," and Dylan thinks that maybe… maybe that's the reason why residential buildings only have two levels. Perhaps they have anticipated something like this may happen.

Of course, there is less possibility of anyone dying if they only jump from the second floor. Too bad. Dying would have been better than breaking his fucking wrist and leg and spraining his ankle. Not to mention the freaking concussion that has him disoriented half the time.

Hank eases Dylan between the parallel bars, tutting. "That's quite a stunt you pulled, Mr. D," he says, the playful lilt in his tone apparent.

Despite knowing that Hank's only teasing since it's his nature and Dylan should be used to it, Dylan still can't help but snap a retort. "It's not like I was trying to kill myself." Shit. That sounds a wee bit defensive. It's the truth, anyway. 

For once, Dylan is glad that Dr. Kern exists since he's the one who convinces Doctors Brynich and Harper that Dylan doesn't need to be tied to his bed. Again. But they did assign a handful of security people and orderlies to watch him closely and it's infuriating as fuck.

"Easy now," Hank says behind him, his hands firmly planted under Dylan's armpits. 

Dylan's grip on the steel bar tightens. He can only use one hand for support; his other hand rests limply in the arm sling that's beginning to itch against his neck and his arm. One of his legs is trapped in a leg cast and refuses to move. His other leg wasn't any good in supporting his weight either because his ankle feels like there are a hundred nails buried in his ligaments.

"Just a couple more steps," Hank encourages and Dylan's tempted to snap back, 'You said that three fucking minutes and a couple of steps ago, asshole,' but he kept it in his thoughts instead.

The pressure on his leg hurts like hell but Dylan welcomes the pain – the physical pain. It's enough to distract him from the emotional weight that's clogging his chest.

*

"MBC has kept you for as long as they could," were the sugar-coated words that Dylan really didn't want to hear from the manager of the Moonshot Baseball Clinic but he knew Doug only wanted to break the news to him as gently as he could.

His life had been filled with so much crap for the past several months that Dylan. His graphic design business had gone down the drain long ago, lost one client after another. So he grabbed the opportunity to teach at a baseball clinic close to his town. He had been enjoying his time here until...

"The school has to let you go," Doug added but no matter what he said to make that sound positive somehow, the underlying meaning flashed like neon lights at the forefront of Dylan's mind. It was simple logic: They were a bunch of fucking homophobes and he was the gay ex-baseball player they couldn't stand having around young boys.

There was nothing left for him here, no more reason for him to stay. His house was on a fucking mortgage he couldn't pay. If he didn't leave, he would probably lose his sanity. He might have already.

"Are you sure about this?" his younger brother, Tyler, asked. His face was tainted with doubt and hesitation but that wasn't enough to make Dylan change his mind. 

"I'm sure." Dylan had to look away. The sadness surfacing on his brother's eyes threatened to weaken him. He packed the last of his belongings while Tyler hovered around him like he was planning to break Dylan's legs just to make him stay.

"You're going to another country," Tyler said as if Dylan wasn't aware.

"It's not like I'm going to cross an ocean, Ty. I'm just gonna be next door." Dylan zipped up his large backpack, hauled it over his shoulder and faced his brother. "I'll call you as soon as I reach Quanon Island."

Dylan threw an arm around Tyler, giving him a quick hug. His eyes swept around the house that had been his home for the past three years or so. It was time for him to move on, find his luck elsewhere.