The kid hasn't had the best life, but he certainly hasn't had the worst life either. He definitely hasn't had nearly enough garbage thrown at him to justify the amount of whining he's done over the 6 years that I've known him. And I do know him. We all do. He's an open book and always has been. There are no skeletons in his closet. He could never use the "what do you know about my life?!" card with me, or anyone else for that matter.
I don't keep my nightmare of a childhood secret. In fact, I have little problem mentioning it in casual conversation. Granted, that's really the only way I feel comfortable sharing that part of crap-hole of a life, but that's another matter altogether. My point is, I have seen and experienced some of the most horrific things a person could experience. I don't cry about it. I don't seek out the company of others with similarly dark memories to relive and weep about. Sometimes I just get so angry when I see people like Newbie sulking in corners or getting stupid, fleeting, pained looks on their faces for no reason, or trying to get everyone within a 2 mile radius to hug them and comfort them. What the hell does he know about pain and fear?
Not one fucking thing.
I should be glad for him…that he doesn't know about those things. And if I'm honest with myself, most of the time I am. Most of the time there is a part of me hiding beneath my rants and glares that is glad that he hasn't been irreversibly damaged. Most of the time I am glad that he isn't me and that there is still someone left in the world with no air of mystery or guile about them. He gives the damn world hope, I guess….the little pansy.
Today is not one of those days.
Today I watch him smile at me and try to call me Perry and I want to breathe fire. I watch him brush off my vicious rants as though I was kidding – which I clearly am not. Today, I am feeling far more sensitive than I would admit to anyone. Maybe it's because of the story I heard on the news last night when I got home from a long, hard day at the hospital. It was a domestic abuse story…how typical. Maybe it's because I drank too much scotch in reaction to it and yelled at Jordan and Jack. Maybe it's because I felt like my father when I saw the fear in their eyes (even Jordan), and that scared me more than anything else in the world. Whatever it is, today I need someone who is not my "wife" and kids to yell at and be a total jerk to.
I watch Sunshine as he comes out of a new patient's room. He looks mopey. Perfect. I crack my neck and move in for the kill. He looks mopey and that makes me hate him. He annoys me when he's far too happy, but he angers me when he gets all misty eyes for no good reason. Oh, there might be reasons. But none of them are half as good as mine. Hi, I'm Perry Cox. My dad was an abusive drunk and my mom was a useless hag who let it all happen. I fucking win.
I quickly catch up to him as he ducks in the nearest bathroom. I curl my lip, grind my teeth, and say something scathing and bitter. I want him to feel ashamed for daring to show any kind of dark emotion in my presence today. I want him to feel stupid and thoughtless for thinking even for one second that his delicate emotions and puny girl problems can ever begin to look valid next to mine. I drew that short straw, Missy, and I have earned my right to be damaged and broody when I want to be. You don't get that right. You don't get to feel bad. Not today you don't.
I don't even know exactly what I say…it barely matters, really. I would imagine that this particular speech would have gone something like this:
"I see the droop in your shoulders and pout on your lips - and I know (because I know everything) that whatever it is that put those things there is miniscule and unimportant. You prance around here with your unicorns and rainbows attitude and at the same time you think we all need to pay attention to those amusing hormonal days you have once a month. You want hugs and platitudes and willing shoulders to cry on. But kid, I gotta tell ya – and you better put on those listening ears because I am so not in the mood to repeat myself – but you-have-no-idea. You have never come close to a really, truly bad day. You can cry and throw as many temper tantrums as you want on your own time – but in here you have to suck it up and put on a professional face and hide god damn it. You make me so mad I could rip out every urinal in this bathroom. I don't want to see that little sad look on your annoying, chinless face until you have seen the real darkness and evil in this world. So man-up."
That may have been all or mostly in my head, but some sentiment there actually came out of my mouth. I felt smug and productive. I felt good. I almost smiled and melted with relief into the floor tiles - the release was so palpable. It didn't matter that it was fair or not. This is Newbie we're talking about and somewhere in me I chose to lose it on him because he would take it like a champ. One swipe to the nose and a roll of the shoulders and I'm ready to face the rest of my day. Thank you, Newbie. But before I can make my victorious exit with another successful rant under my belt, the twerp actually responds.
He's leaning on the porcelain sink in front of him, shoulders hunched, head down – a proper humbled stance if you ask me. He slowly lifts his head so he's facing the mirror, but his eyes are closed. I wish they stayed that way. When he turns, still at that steady, slow pace to look at me – those eyes are open. I don't bother to try and stick labels onto the emotions swirling around in there, it's not worth the effort. And then he speaks.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen."
His voice is deep, and thick with conviction and meaning.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen."
Those eyes are leveled on me and I don't recognize them. I don't recognize him. He moves past me, lightly brushing my shoulder on his way out of the bathroom.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen."
The emotional void that was created when my anger and pain was begins to fill with confusion and doubt. I guess there's more to that kid than any of us gave him credit for. I saw a dark mystery there that has left me speechless and amazed. John Dorian has secrets...who knew? Our resident "open and shut case" is not what he seems.
"You can't imagine the things I've seen."
Perhaps he has earned his sorrow after all.