Five years.
... wow, it sounds even longer spoken out loud then it had seemed to be, living trough it.
It was now nearly exactly five years ago that I packed my bags in the death of the night and left home, left behind estranged friends who ignored me wilfully, an alpha who couldn't stand me, a pack which only used and abused me and a father who not only took the side of the wolfy things that go bum in the night instead of mine, but one who also seemed to take, at least in the last few weeks before my departure, great delight in drowning his sorrows in the numbing effects of alcoholic beverages. A father I still loved, sick as it was. Sounds like a bad movie, huh?
Well – sadly, that was my life. Or, in the words of one of my favourite bands: ' Welcome to my life'.
Or, just as perfectly fitting 'Like somehow you just don't belong'. Story. Of. My. Life.
I love that song. It's me to the fucked-up 'T'.
Nevertheless … I simply couldn't take it anymore.
So I did the only logical thing left to to me – logic! What a strange concept in this insane world I had found myself in! - and got my graduation certificate early, not exactly rocket science with my grades, packed my bags, got the fuck out of that mess of a town and started somewhere new, somewhere I had a chance at actually living my life and beating my demons instead of being consumed by them and ending as a teenage statistic.
In other words: I got the hell out of that pathetic hell hole.
It was literally a matter of timing. Once I had gotten wind of my father's ambition to put me back in Eichenhaus, I got the fuck out of dodge. The night I left, I had nothing but my school diploma, three bags full of legal documents, i.e. my birth certificate and a few other necessities like passport, a few pitiful clothes that had certainly seen better days, my favourite books, a handful of bath articles, my beloved laptop and the vocal promise from my mom's old friend Miriam for a full ride to NYU. Thank got that she held true to her promise. At least one adult still cared.
I hadn't chosen NYU for shits and giggles. Having arrived with nothing to my name, I lived for about half a year by Adrian and Shelly, both of which I knew from an online RPG where we often battled together against monsters that now seemed quiet real to me. They were the only ones I even trusted enough to turn to, and thankfully, this trust wasn't misplaced. The two took me in and with Miri's quick help I got my official full ride to NYU confirmed, starting that fall semester. It was never my inclination to become a free loader, no matter how fucked up I was at the time, so I worked in the five months spent waiting for the next semester. At first, it was only part-time jobs like shelving goods at the supermarket or helping out at the local library, but then, I got an offer I couldn't really decline.
It was completely unintentional on my part to even land that particular job, but I nevertheless took it – and wow, I had never seen myself playing escort to rich old men, desperate boys who just wanted their families to shut up and gay guys and girls, either hiding themselves or wanting to flaunt their trophies. It was ... interesting. Fuck, it is still interesting. Even through I do have my bachelor decree and my master in information management now, even through I successfully defended my dissertation and have a more than simply respectable job on the line and quite a few other offers should that one not work out, I still like to work as an escort from time to time. Somehow, I got hooked. And not just because of the money, which was quite tempting in itself: To get to know new people, to see places and be treated like someone precious - to just hold intelligent and stimulating conversations ... it was something I hadn't known beforehand and something I wouldn't want to miss now. The only one in Beacon Hills who could have provided me that had left before things went to hell, and I had no idea which stance he now took. And if I wanted to feel good, to feel wanted now – who could fault me? Really?
Okay, some people give me grieve about it, and yes, okay, they call me slut and whore, ask me after my sugar daddies, but honestly, I. Couldn't. Care. Less.
Because really – how do you define and measure less than nothing?
They are so insignificant, I can't bring of the effort to think it through.
I like how my life turned out. My job is amazing, and had already I moved out of Adrian's and Shelly's apartment into my own just before the semester started. I didn't get something big or fancy, I just wanted a nice little apartment, central and near campus, not to expensive but airy. And I love it - I only needed two viewings to find it, a beautiful three-room apartment with a big bath, enormous bath tub, a lot of big and spacey windows as well as a nice kitchen isle.
After really settling down in New York, it was finally time for me to join the ranks of NYU's freshman. I started the semester in October and was a Major in Information management with Minors in English and Mythology. Just because I left home didn't mean that the supernatural lost it's hold of fascination over me. I was still just as google-manic and research-obsessed as before. It was a freaking busy schedule, but I nevertheless did things I learned to love, got to knew New York, actually made really good friends and somehow formed my own mismatched little family of misfits.
I loved it.
Honestly, sometimes I woke up only to think that I was still asleep, because, really, how could this feeling of happiness and contentedness be actual a huge part of my life? It really didn't add up - and maybe just because of that it was so perfect.
There is no denying that I changed. Drastically. I remember the pale little boy arriving in New York, scared and uncertain of everything. I looked a mess: sickly pale skin, skinny to the extreme considering my height, bruised and a little battered, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks, uneven buzzed darkbrown hair and tattered clothes. Nightmares followed my every moment, I was nervous and stuttered, obsessive and so high-strung that it was truly painful. The Nogitsune, my so-called friends accusation and my father's abandonment really had done a number on me. Somehow I can't even really pin-point the moment I started to take care of myself again, the moment I started to put even the tiniest amount of effort in my appearance. For so long, I hadn't cared, but somehow, receiving unconditional support … it shook me to the core, in a way I didn't anticipate. Maybe it was the day Adrian sat me down and gave me an earful about how little I ate, the day he forced me to eat the first curly fries in months and I honest to god moaned in ecstasy. Or it could have been the first girls night Shelly and I had, how we gave each other manicures, pedicures, masks and relaxed simply because we could, how she simply sat behind me while shaping my brown mob into a haircut that actually deserved the name, making it look nice and neat and dispensing the impression that I was homeless.
Without Shelly and Adrian, I wouldn't be alive today. I would have burned out long ago.
They were my saviours. They are my anchors.
My family.
It is thanks to them that I like myself, that I like the person I have become. Wicked, bitchy, mouthy – Queen (more like King, but whatever) of sarcasm. They taught me how to trust once again, how to love unconditionally and how to enjoy myself. They helped me to find myself, to understand what I want with my life and get on with it – not an easy task, I assure you. But they succeeded. I found out that I want to work with literature, that I want to do research and help others use the information that has been collected; that I like boys as well as girls and that I can be just me, no matter what that means, even if I'm really freaky strange and have this teeny weeny self-esteem problem daddy never cared to address after mom passed on.
Water, water, flow straight down, the bridge is just in view.
It's so crazy. I never knew how to be true to myself, not after mom died. I ... I couldn't bear to look or act like her, didn't want to hurt my dad. It was strange, I mean, I am boy. I know that. I shouldn't want to act like my mother, at least that's what my subconscious interpreted from my fathers actions. That it was unnatural. Unwanted. But the truth is that the one I hurt with that denial the most was myself.
I was always the one who had to repress himself.
It wasn't … good … okay … but it happened. Today, it won't. Today, I've learned that it's okay to be selfish from time to time.
Now... well, now even I like what I see in the mirror. I've learned to indulge myself. To let myself be. I actually really like it. There's no shame in it.
What made me ashamed were preconceptions that I should have never been exposed to.
Today, I like how my skinny body filled out and miraculously gained curves, how it is often difficult for other people to tell if I am man or woman. My waist stayed kind of small while my hips became wider, gained soft layers that added to the confusion. The feeling of sliding my long fingers down my sensitive body, feeling the soft flesh give gently beneath my touch, the silky feeling of my pale skin ... it's nice. I mean, I know that I'm not fat, I take care of my body, I'm not even chubby, just … shapely in a very sensual way. Every lover I ever had loved it, so I see no reason to change. So what if my thighs are temptingly soft, when it only gives shape to my firm behind? Does it matter if my hips are seductively ample, if my lovers can grip and sink they fingers into them? I don't care. It allows me to reinvent myself as I like, to express myself in ways I couldn't before. And if I happen to indulge around exams - sue me if you like. I like my body - my soft curves, my pale skin, every dark mole and delicate vein. I like my high cheek bones and dark red lips, the bow of my brow and the golden-brown of my eyes. I even like the slight curls in my honey-brown shoulder-length hair and the way the fringe shadows my eyes way more than I could have ever liked my former buzz-cut.
I'm happy and contend.
God, it still feels strange to use this words.
Happy. Contend. Satisfied.
Fucking strange.
What do I do now? I have achieved what I wanted to when I first run away - I survived, found myself, found true friends and created a family I love and can rely on. I have an excellent education, support system and not only one but two crazy cool jobs.
... where does this lead me to?
... ph, I don't really have to decide that now. The answers to this questions can come way later. For now, well ...
For now there's this hot girl waiting at my apartment door to go on a date with me, and that's abso-fucking-lutely exactly what I will do.
Five years is a long time.
A few days delay won't matter in the grand scheme of things.
Hot sex – that is a matter that can't wait.
' Well, hello dear ~ '
~ The End ~