It was all jumbled up. Scattered. All I knew for sure was that my guitar was missing. No. Not missing. Stolen. Damn that Skinny.
I rubbed my jaw and it ached. Now what in the hell was that from? My dad, maybe? He was always hurting me, just like I hurt Joey. Always hitting me and yelling at me. But then I remembered, he was dead. He'd been dead for like two years. Jesus. What was wrong with me?
I remembered dumping all the pills into the wastebasket in the bathroom at Joey's. All those stupid pills. Because it was all anyone ever talked about now. Joey, all the time, 'Craig, did you take your medication? Did you remember to take the pills?' And Ashley, looking at me all worried, especially if I got a little mad about something. Like Spinner and Jay being at Degrassi for the Kevin Smith movie, catering it or whatever. Spinner and Jay got Jimmy shot, or didn't she remember that? She pulls me aside and asks if I was on my meds. God. How embarrassing.
See, I couldn't have normal emotions like everyone else. Everything I did was scrutinized, especially by Ashley and Joey. Did I take my meds? I fucking hate that question.
Rocking back and forth on this bench at this soup kitchen. I had been laying on the ground near that gas station after Skinny kicked the shit out of me. That had been great, just great. I sort of thought that I would never get beaten again, once dad died. But I was wrong. It had been just about how it was with dad, the kicks, the can't get my breath, the crying like a fucking baby. But it reminded me of my dad beating the shit out of me. It brought up memories. And it hurt like hell.
So I'd been laying on the ground with no thought of getting up when some cop came over and nudged me with his toe.
"Hey, kid, you alright?" he said, and I saw the blue uniform and the close cropped hair and the black leather belt and the black leather boots. I rolled away a little and groaned. I didn't think I was alright.
"Kid, c'mon, get up," he said, and it was like I was the criminal. But I was pretty dusty and dirty from sleeping on the streets and playing music by the side of the road. I guess I just looked like some street kid, and things were always their fault. It was okay. It fit in with my concept of the world.
I stood up slowly, coughing, aching. Fuck. I hated beatings. How many fucking times had it happened? Too many to count. The cop grabbed my arm and I jerked away from him. What the hell? I didn't trust him. I didn't trust anybody.
"C'mon," he said gruffly, and grabbed my arm again. This time I didn't pull away. I sort of worried he was going to handcuff me and bring me to jail or something. Boy, would that piss me off. But he pulled me along to his car, the blue light on top spinning lazily. I was sort of getting scared. Maybe he was going to bring me to jail, even though I didn't do anything. But cause and effect wasn't so black and white or fair.
I was sitting in the back of the car, and that thick glass with the mesh in between the panes separated me from the cop. At least I wasn't handcuffed. That was something. But he didn't bring me to jail. He brought me to the soup kitchen. He stopped the car alongside it and pulled me out of the backseat. I cringed while he was touching my arm. Right then I couldn't stand for anyone to touch me for any reason.
"There you go, kid. Get something to eat," he said, and kind of shoved me lightly in the direction of the door. I went, because now that he mentioned it I was pretty hungry.
Rocking on the bench, the soup goulash gruel stuff in front of me, and I was so hungry anything would have smelled good. I spooned it into my mouth and hummed and sang my song for the Kevin Smith movie. It was pretty good, I thought. It was real good. It was conceptual. That whole breaking up with your teen years thing, that was good. It was, you know, symbolic. And Ash was gone. I had to kind of face that. And it only made sense. Of course she was gone. My mom left. My dad left. Now Ashley left. She left because I loved her, and people I loved always deserted me. So yeah. It wasn't like I shouldn't have seen it coming.
I couldn't stop rocking. It was comforting. Spinner told me once that retards rock like that. Well, I was crazy, and that was close enough. Mental defectives rock. It felt good. It was comforting. The movement, the same movement over and over, it just…I don't know. Made me feel better.
But my guitar. Where in the hell was it? I wanted it, I wanted it back. It had meant a lot to me. And it was so much damn money. You know. Joey needed that money. He was going under. At least Caitlin bought the house. At least we didn't lose the house. So things were okay that way, because if you have the money from the sale of a house and you still have the house, that's doing pretty good, right?
I missed Ashley. I'd wanted to spend the summer with her, and it had seemed perfect. Go to England. Simple. Caitlin thought it was a good idea. A summer away, time off. Hanging out with Ash. Kevin Smith thought it was a good idea. It was his idea, in fact. But not Joey. God forbid I go anywhere when I'd been hospitalized for being crazy. God forbid I not be in his direct line of vision for two friggin' seconds. Joey was treating me like a baby, like a helpless, I don't know. I mean, I knew Joey meant well and all but couldn't he just trust me? I was better. Well, I was. Had been. I had been better.
I threw the damn pills away because it didn't matter that I was taking them. Everyone was treating me like, I don't know. Like I wasn't taking them, like I was still a mess. The thing that bothered me most was that maybe they were right. Maybe I wanted to think that I was okay but I wasn't. Why else would they be all over me like that? Asking about my moods and my medication? It was just like with my dad, when my dad was still alive and I lived with him and things were shit. I was getting hit with belts, getting thrown against walls and kicked and punched. Yet I walked around like everything was fine, like everything was okay. Like I was okay. How could I be okay when I was getting so hurt all the time? I obviously wasn't okay. I mean, I ended up running away and trying to kill myself. That's not okay. And I wasn't okay now. So they were right.
But the guitar. I wanted it. Where was it?
"My guitar, he took, he took my guitar…Joey," Joey was suddenly there, standing near the table and he came over and sat next to me. Something was wrong because Joey looked all sad and worried. Something was wrong.
"Joey can help me find my guitar, right Joey?" I said.