Warnings: memory blocking, underage sex, homosexual rape, minor cussing
Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders
I once read that if something real bad happens to you, a natural defense is for your brain to stow it away where you can't remember it, a coping mechanism that happened when all else failed. All things considered, I'm surprised I didn't forget that whole hellish week of my life rather than one crude detail I left out of my theme for Mr. Syme for obvious reasons.
If anyone knew what happened, it would be chaos. Nobody would dare talk to or even come near me in fear of catching what I had supposedly been infected with. Soda would be the only one who might understand, but even that seemed farfetched. I've heard what they do to people like me, people like him, and I couldn't let that happen. Not only would it wreak havoc and open up a can of worms I'm not willing to deal with, but it would also threaten my entire future.
You're probably wondering what it is that I'm going on about, but I can't tell anyone, not even you. I can't write it on a sheet of notebook paper or whisper it to myself in the empty house because there's always that possibility that someone might find out. I keep all forms of its existence hidden in a corner deep in my mind where only forgotten memories rest. Another reason that I can't tell, write, or claim it in any other way, is that it's not even complete.
I remember looking back as Johnny and I walked up Jay Mountain, and I got that feeling like someone was watching me. Two or three times, I even saw a flash of blue jean and heard a rustle, but when I told Johnny, he just ignored me or dismissed it nonchalantly, probably thinking that I was half-asleep or delirious which wasn't exactly wrong.
After the walk, things resumed as normally as they could, considering the situation. We got to the church, laid down on the floor and fell asleep quickly. But something had come lurking in the early hours of the morning after Johnny had already left to get supplies. I wasn't awake enough to notice the note he left in the dirt. All I can recollect is a heavy weight on me, making it hard to breathe. I was hot and cold at the same time. I felt like I could have cooked an egg on my body, yet the air was cool and crisp, making me shiver in spite of myself.
A splitting pain that shot through my entire body and a tight hold was on my mouth. I don't remember anything else, not any visuals, not any auditory clues, just pain that's not even half as excruciating as it really was. At first, I couldn't tell what he had been doing or who it had been, but after small pieces reappeared and I filled the spaces in between with logic, it was plain to see.
A long, dead blank is drawn before I'm back in the empty church on the hard, cold ground, alone this time. Somehow, my pants had been pulled down to right above my knees, so I pulled them up, my mind numb, and dragged Johnny's jacket that he had forgotten on the floor over me for warmth and coverage. Staring detachedly at the wall across from me, I eventually dropped off.
I woke up later to the note and Johnny. Despite being agonizingly sore in every fiber of my being, I shrugged it off as having to sleep on the hard, concrete floor. I had lost my appetite after only a few bites, but hunger set in eventually, and I was forced to eat which is when I realized the scratchy, raw feeling that stained my throat as if I had screamed too loud, too long. I smoked through the pain even though it hurt because I just needed the relief to my nerves so badly. I didn't think much of these signs then, but as time is passing they are slowly being handed back to me as if my brain didn't want me to forget altogether. It just wanted to break it to me slowly.
I don't know much, as you've heard, but I have no doubt in my mind that I can't tell anyone, not now, not ever, what happened in that church in Windrixville. I've been condemned to a life of silence, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
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