Sometimes, when he thinks everyone else is asleep, he cries.
Softly, little mewing sounds that make me shift nervously in my bed. I can never get to sleep- it's why I'm always so grumpy in the morning. But I never say anything, because I don't want him to know. I don't want to help. I have enough trouble watching out for myself- I don't need to add another problem to my load.
I wonder why he cries. As he bites his arm, trying to keep his sobs under control, I stare upwards at the ceiling, though the room is so dark all I see is black. Occasionally he speaks while he sniffles, murmuring roughly. I wish he had a handkerchief. Sometimes he blows his nose on his sheets, the very thought of which makes me flinch. Disgusting. His blatant displays of emotional weakness make me so uneasy that I can't even force myself to close my eyes.
"Alone," He'll sob. I can imagine his sheets wet with tears, his face slick. I hate it. I hate listening to it. Why can't I sleep, like everyone else around me? Why do I have to stay awake at night, listening to his lamenting? Why don't I pick up a shoe and aim blindly at him, hoping he'll get the hint and shut the hell up?
Tonight is no different. The sounds of sleep are all around me, slow and steady breathing. A boy shifts in the bunk above me. Not now, I silently beg. Please, not now.
The wailing begins, softly at first. As it reaches a hushed crescendo, it sounds as though he is stuffing the corner of his pillowcase in his mouth to keep himself from being heard. Too late. His bed creaks slightly as he draws his arms over his head. "...gone..." I catch his mutter, quiet and desperate as a butterfly whose heavy painted wings have just brushed the surface of a large puddle.
I need a cigarette. I need a hard, bitter cigarette between my teeth so that I can inhale sharply and scorch my lungs. I don't want to silence him, because then he would know that each night I hear, and things would become awkward between us.
I can't help him, I just can't. I don't care to.
'Cause I got to look out for myself, and only myself.
This is New York. I can't go around tucking every sniffling orphan under my arms. He's older than me, you know that? Older, and still he cries.
He needs something that I can't give to him.
Something that no one can give.
Something special.
And I can't. Because I'm too busy looking after myself.
It's a rough life, but if you can't handle it, then get out.
I only look after myself.
Even though he cries at night.
Even though I have to stuff my fists in my ears to block out the sound.
Even though I know how it feels to be left alone with nothing, beaten and left in an alley for dead. Even though I was the one who first found him, lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood.
Because I don't want to help. I can't. I don't help anyone but me.
That's why I don't let him know. I don't want to get involved.
I have to look after myself.
I'm not a fucking babysitter. I need to be alone, unlike the way he feels the need to be pressed in at all sides by people. He's afraid of the night, like me.
That's why I stay awake. I don't sleep at night, because that is when my old demons come to haunt me. I think he would understand.
But I can't let him know.
...I'm afraid to.
Only I can know.
Me.
Only me.
Sometimes, when I think everyone is asleep, I cry. Along with him. He brings back memories that hurt me deeply.
His tears are salty, like mine. But I can't let him know.
I am alone when I cry.
But not really.