South Park © Matt & Trey.
I feel like my Kyle/Stan angst always has a different flavour than my Kenny/Craig angst even tho much of it deals with the same stuff LOL.
This story is a little choppy and there's a lot going on, but it's because Stan is trying to help everyone in the world since he doesn't know how to cope with his own struggles.
Warnings: blackmail, mentions of sex work & hate crimes/assault, eating disorder, abortion
I pray when I feel helpless.
It happens a lot – far more than I'd like it to and far more than I'd ever admit aloud.
I don't know if God is real, but I like to believe he/she/they are . I like to believe there is some reason for all the fucked up suffering going on in the world. I mean, there has to be… right? It can't all just be meaningless. I refuse to believe that such awful events serve no purpose.
There's no going back to the simpler times. I'd give anything to get those years back. I always took advantage, thinking things would always be so simple. I was wrong. I never really believed my parents when they told me things would get hard when I got older. I get it now.
I feel like everything has gotten so fucked up over the past few years. Not just for me, but for everyone.
Maybe this shit-hole town is cursed.
Craig still hasn't recovered from his shroom trip of 2014. Kyle tried to off himself. Butters succeeded in offing himself and his suicide note landed his abusive parents in prison after a long trial and a lot of digging. Kenny is a prostitute. Tweek dropped out and now works for his parents at their café (which is named after him). Wendy started dating a college dude and he ran off when he realized she was pregnant.
And me? I guess I have PTSD. Well, I'm not guessing. I was diagnosed with it some years after my depression really hit.
I was sixteen and towards the end of summer, I was the victim of a hate crime. I just came out. My parents knew and they advised me not to make it known, but I didn't listen. I should have, but I didn't want to keep pretending. I thought it would be for the best. I thought I could handle whatever stupid bullying I'd face, but I was wrong because this wasn't bullying. This was something on an entirely different and crueller level.
I made national headlines. I even made Canadian news. Luckily, since I was a minor they didn't use my name. Still, most of the people around here know it was me. That's how it goes in small towns. If one person knows it, eventually everyone does.
COLORADO TEEN LEFT FOR DEAD IN HATE-FUELED CRIME
The articles were painful to read. They threw around terms like gang rape and homophobia and attempted murder. I don't know why I insisted on reading them. My parents took away the newspapers, so I just took to the internet. The comment section was bad. Some people just said I deserved it for being a faggot, but I don't think I deserved it. I'm a good person. I've never hurt anyone before.
I was found by a Carl Denkins – the old dairy farmer who lives on the outskirts of town. It happened on his property and he eventually heard screaming, though he was too late. He came out with a gun but all he found was me – naked and only half-conscious lying near the edge of his hay field. I was covered in blood, cum, my own piss. That's what happens when you're truly terrified – you lose control of your bladder. People tend to forget that or they just gloss over it.
I wanted to fucking die, but Denkins gave me his coat and said I'd be all right. Crock of shit. He probably didn't know what else to say. No one ever does.
He didn't ask me any questions. I think he knew what happened. There wasn't much to piece together. So, he drove me to the hospital and he stayed even after I was awake. Sometimes I see him around and he always looks so damn sad when he sees me. He says hi. I say hi. I know he wants to say more than that, but I'm quick to exit because I can't fucking bear to talk about it on most days.
But someday I'll thank him for saving my life. Maybe when I begin to actually value my life again.
It's thanks to him I'm alive. For a while, I spited him for it. I just wanted to fucking die. But I didn't and I had to learn to live with myself. They didn't expect me to live. Perhaps they would have gotten away with it if I died.
They were all seniors, so they ended up in prison.
The trial was probably about as bad as the crime itself. I had to relive it in front of a room full of people – my friends, my parents, a bunch of cranky looking old people who didn't look at all sympathetic to my plight.
I hated that. I fucking hated it and it made me so angry that I just sounded numb while I talked about how they fucked me into the ground, broke my bones and beat me senseless.
Fortunately it got people thinking. It's been two years since then. Now I'm a senior. I was home schooled for a while after the accident, but I came back for my final year. Now it's almost over. People don't give me shit anymore. People tend to leave me alone. It sucks knowing everyone knows what happened to me, but I've learned to get out of bed. I still do therapy. I became so desensitized after it happened. When the shock and misery of it all wore off I just grew numb, hardly reacting to anything. It was the only way I could cope with something so fucked up happening to me.
I think I'm a little bit better now, but I still have a lot of hard days. My good days are few and far between, so I just try to keep myself distracted.
My friends try to treat me the same way, but sometimes I think they falter. My sister is the worst, though. She's too nice and too cautious and too protective. I almost miss the days when she'd make my life a living hell. At least then I knew things were normal. Now nothing is quite normal.
I still drink too much, but I avoid parties. I just like to stay safe in the confines of my own bedroom. I'm trying to sober up, but I keep relapsing
I always overdo it. I threw up last night and when I throw up I cry and when I cry my parents force me to spend family time with them. It's because they're scared I'm going to kill myself. I'm not. I wouldn't. I've never tried and I'm never going to. I don't really want to die. I just want to be happy again.
Now it's morning and I have a hangover just in time for school.
Great.
I don't bother changing out of my pyjamas. I roll out of bed, grab my things, put on my boots and coat and then leave. I don't bother announcing it since no one is home. By now, my parents are at work and Shelly is probably still asleep. She works nights at Skeeter's Bar and Cocktails. My dad is a geologist and my mom is a receptionist at Tom's Rhinoplasty (yep, the plastic surgery place).
Everyone has jobs.
Kyle does computer programming, even though he's still only eighteen. Cartman works in a call center. Craig works at the animal shelter. Wendy works in a daycare. Kenny works at the supermarket as a cashier. At night, he does other things. I try not to think about it because I don't understand it and it just makes me feel kind of sad for him… but I know it's not my place to say anything.
I don't work. I don't think I can at this point in my life, even if I wanted to. I have no focus and I don't work well with others. The littlest things set me off and I can't handle being around people I'm not a hundred percent compatible with.
After a brief walk, I spot Kyle. He starts smiling when he spots me. I don't know how he does it. Nonetheless, I smile back. "Hey," I greet once I'm standing in front of him.
Truthfully, I like Kyle a lot. He knows it and maybe he feels the same way, but neither of us is ready to make the transition from best friends to boyfriends. Still, he treats me like I'm the most important thing in his life even when he has so much going for him. He plays basketball and he plays football and he runs. He's taking advanced math, advanced chemistry, physics. His schedule is full and he manages to keep a 4.0 grade average. The SATs were last year. He got the highest score in South Park. All of this and he still finds time for me. I don't know how he does it. I can barely manage to roll out of bed most mornings.
Kyle sleeps around a lot. It's easy for him since he's popular and attractive. He grew into his looks, particularly the features he used to be insecure about – like his nose and his hair. I like those things about him. I like everything about him. He's slender, but not in a scrawny way. He's strong, with hidden muscle. I can't count the amount of times he's effortlessly carried me home in the past after a night of drinking. He has a nice jaw. Is that a weird thing to notice about someone? Well, I like his jaw. I like his entire face. I like his bushy eyebrows, his lips, his boyish smile, his green eyes. Everyone else seems to notice these things, too. Kyle has probably slept with more people than Kenny has and certainly more than Cartman. Cartman, while he's not a virgin, he gets nowhere near as much action as guys like Kenny and Kyle and Clyde. It's because they're all athletic and popular and attractive. Technically, I've never slept with anyone before – not consensually, at least. Me and Wendy never got that far in our relationship…
Kyle mainly sticks to girls, but I know he's done it with some guys, too. No one I know, just strangers from parties in Cherry Creek. It makes me jealous, but I'm nowhere near ready to give him that part of myself.
"How are you?" I ask him as we wait.
"I'm all right," he says. "How are you?"
"All right," I echo him.
Sometimes I think Kyle would try to kill himself again if it weren't for me. If I wasn't so fucked up, then maybe he wouldn't feel the need to stick around. To him, I can do no wrong. The sun shines out of my ass. I'm a saint who deserves no harm.
Soon enough, Kenny and Cartman arrive at the bus stop.
"Jew," Cartman taunts. He tosses an arm around Kyle, who shakes it off a split second later and sneers before shifting away.
"Yes, Cartman, I AM a Jew!" he spits, seething. "And you know what? I'm proud of that, so stop saying it like it's a bad thing, you anti-Semitic piece of shit!"
They still don't get along. It gets tiring. I wish Cartman would just leave Kyle alone. At least their fights are no longer violent. Kyle is pretty tall and pretty strong, but Cartman is still taller and stronger. Plus, he's really wide. He's a linebacker.
Cartman rips Kyle's hat off his head and crams a snowball into his hair.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm not really in the mood for Kyle to start shrieking at the top of his lungs. His vocal cords are already messed up enough thanks to Cartman. When we were kids, Sheila made Kyle go to a speech therapist. It didn't do much. Now Kyle's voice is permanently hoarse and raspy. It gets worse when he screams. Sometimes he loses his voice completely.
"Fucking hell!" Kyle hisses, bending over and brushing the snow away.
"The Jew's got a head of hair made for pulling," Cartman says perversely.
Kyle looks ashamed by the lewd comment, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he just grabs his hat back and puts it on.
Cartman is still obsessed with humiliating Kyle. It's something he hasn't quite gotten his fill of – even after the ball-sucking ordeal. Yes, contrary to popular belief, it actually did happen. Cartman loves telling the story to everyone who will listen since Kyle didn't let him make a public spectacle of it.
I let myself zone out and when I zone back in, Cartman is on yet another anti-Semitic tirade.
"Your people are the reason there's war in the Middle East!"
Kyle is rubbing his temples. "Cartman, I'm Ashkenazi, for fuck's sake. My family is from Germany, not Israel."
"There's literally no difference."
"YES, THERE IS! THEY ARE TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT COUNTRIES WITH COMPLETELY DIFFERENT HISTORIES!"
Soon enough, the bus pulls up. Me and Kyle grab the first empty seat while Kenny pushes Cartman to the back – far away from us.
First and second period go by typically. I have English first. Everyone takes English. My second class is Art, though. I took it because I wanted a bird course to fill my election slot. Guys like Kenny and Craig and Jason take art – slacker jocks and stoners. I'm not really either, but I can fit in.
When the bell rings, I meet Kyle at our lockers and we head to the cafeteria.
"What's good?" I ask as we find our usual spot.
"Craig got reading glasses," Kenny says out of the blue.
"HAH!" Cartman cackles. "He's turning into such a fucking nerd! First the braces and now this? I won't be surprised if he starts wearing sweater vests next."
"I wear glasses and sometimes I even wear sweater vests," Kyle points out tartly, sitting next to me. "What are you trying to say?"
"You're a fucking nerd, Kahl. At least you don't have braces."
Frankly I can't imagine Craig in a sweater vest. He always comes to school wearing pajamas or sweatpants tucked into his heavy duty snow boots. With that, he'll usually sport a t-shirt or a baggy sweater riddled with holes under his coat. His family doesn't have much money, but they do better than Kenny's. Kenny has been wearing Kevin's hand-me-downs his entire life. Craig just frequents the thrift store.
I guess I can't really talk, though. My sense of style sucks, too.
"Kyle isn't a nerd," I add my own two cents.
It's true. He doesn't look like one. He just dresses like he goes to private school most of the time.
"Yeah!" Kenny agrees. "Plus, they don't let nerds on the football team."
Speak of the devil. Craig saunters into the cafeteria a minute later. He looks out of it as he sits with his usual crew – Bebe, Token, Nicole, Kevin, Red and Jason. His wire-rimmed glasses are sitting low on his nose (kind of like an old man) and it doesn't take a genius to realize he'd rather not be wearing them.
"He's cute," Kenny says offhandedly before glancing at us. "Isn't Craig cute?" he asks, searching for our opinions.
"I guess so," I say while Kyle just shrugs.
"Fag," Cartman mutters.
Kenny sighs. "He's, like, really cute and it makes me want to know what he'd look like giving a blowjob."
I press my palm over my face. "Dude… that's an awful thing to say."
Cartman smirks at that, digging out his phone. "I can show you, if you want."
I raise an eyebrow at that before swiftly changing the subject. "Any other news?" I ask, grabbing Cartman's phone from him and turning it off before handing it back.
"My boss keeps smacking my ass," Kenny says suddenly.
I raise an eyebrow. "Um… why?"
"I dunno," Kenny sighs. "I guess I'm just that irresistible."
"Dude, that's not okay, though…" I remind him.
"Maybe he knows I'm a hooker by night and that cashier is just my day job." He shrugs, not seeming to care all that much. He probably doesn't. Kenny is like that. It takes a lot to really bring a reaction out of him. I guess he's been desensitized throughout the years by all the fucked up shit that seems to keep happening to him. I can kind of relate.
I wince at that. "Maybe…"
"Aw, don't look so upset," he says, reaching over and patting my shoulder. "A job is a job. My night job just pays a little more."
Cartman doesn't say anything. He just eats his sandwich. I think he's bored of teasing Kenny about it because he never gets the reaction he wants.
"You better be playing safe," is all Kyle adds. "This is a small town, but STDs still exist."
"Don't worry, I'm careful," Kenny says with a wink.
"You have other talents," I point out.
Kenny is very artistic. He can sing and dance and draw and paint and write. He can do it all, but he chooses to do this instead. I don't really get it. I wonder if it makes him happy.
"Nothing I can make money with," he argues. "Hustling is quick money."
"Is it worth all the risks?" I wonder.
Without hesitance he just shrugs, not bothering to contemplate it.
After lunch is math. Yuck. I take remedial math with Kenny and the other slackers. Kyle takes advanced math, naturally. He has people like Wendy and Nichole and Token in his class. Even fucking Craig Tucker takes advanced math. I think he's secretly probably very smart but just doesn't want people to figure it out or they'll start pushing him to do better.
My last class of the day is my free period. Usually I go to the library and read with Kyle, but I can't find him. So, instead, I decide to go look for him.
There are a few places I know I'll likely find him. First, there's the pit. The pit is a large ditch on the side of the school where kids go to smoke. Second, there's the cement stairway behind the school. It's another place kids go to smoke. Third, the third floor bathroom. If it's a particularly cold day, Kyle will take the risk and smoke inside. He hasn't been caught yet.
So, I begin to look and I end up finding Kyle in the back of the school smoking with Craig. It's always weird to see them together. I wouldn't call them close friends, but they get along. This is the only reason I know about Craig's shroom trip last summer. Apparently they really fucked with his head and he hasn't quite recovered from it. He's been stuck in a constant state of dissociation and anxiety and existential grief since then. Now he hardly goes to class because he can't focus and things don't feel the way they should. Kyle says that Craig was probably prone to mental issues before it happened and the drugs probably made them explode in his face. I thought that sounded pretty fucking depressing.
Before that, he was pretty normal. Emotionally stifled, but normal. Well, maybe a little bit small. He's always been very thin, but I remember when we were fifteen he just looked sick. He never smiles, either.
Craig has a ring through his septum, which I find kinda unique, but apart from that he looks exceedingly normal with the way he dresses. He always has on sweatpants or pyjama pants and they're always tucked into his boots. Rarely jeans. Never khakis. He wears shirts with holes and oversized sweaters. He's probably above average in his appearance, style aside. At least, everyone seems to think so. He has thick, black hair that he keeps combed. He's fair skinned and has a nice complexion, completely unblemished apart from a little mole below his eye. His eyes are big and blue. Sounds nice, right? I guess I can't disagree, though he is far from my type. I like guys who are bigger than me and Craig is about my height.
Whenever I think about Craig, one memory in particular always springs to mind. It was when some redneck shot his cat. He was pretty upset about it. He even cried. It was weird to see. It was the first time I saw him cry, even though I've known him since grade one. He's not a crier and that made seeing it that much worse.
It happened two years ago in the start of summer. We were all hanging out on the street in the afternoon playing street hockey. The puck landed in a ditch in front of the Tucker house and that's when Clyde went to fetch it. He immediately started freaking out. In the ditch, he found more than the puck. He found Craig's little cat, who didn't come home the night before. He called Craig over and Craig clasped his hands over his mouth and it looked like his heart snapped in half. He just said, "Oh, no!" and then started bawling. After that we all gathered around to see what they were staring at.
I guess there's no proof, but Craig says he knows it was the redneck that lives across the street from him. Apparently he was arrested for animal abuse before, so it isn't entirely surprising. It's still sad, though. All the kids crowded to see the little dead cat with a bullet in its side and Craig just kept crying until his mom heard and stepped out. Clyde went into the ditch and picked up the cat. Craig buried it in his backyard and his mom took him to get a new cat a few weeks later when he wasn't so sad about the old one.
He took the bad mushrooms one year later and now he's like a total zombie. Apparently these bad trips can take years to come out of. I don't really know when he'll come out of his.
I call, "Hey!" and descend the stairs. Kyle holds up a hand and waves at me while Craig simply stares. He doesn't really talk to people unless they are speaking directly to him… and sometimes, not even then.
When I get close enough, I nod my head at him.
"Marsh," he murmurs in that deep, nasally baritone. Most people think his voice doesn't suit him since he's got a soft look about him. His voice is hard, deep and cold.
"Tucker," I respond, mimicking his aloof tone. He doesn't seem to catch it.
After a few more puffs of the joint, he hands it over to Kyle and then goes inside without another word.
"Want?" Kyle offers it to me.
I shake my head, declining. I don't want to get into drugs. I know that if I do, then I'd probably create a mess and never get out of it. It's bad enough that I drink. I don't need to worsen my bad habits by adding to them.
Kyle is the opposite of me. He doesn't drink much, but he smokes a lot of weed and sometimes he does harder stuff like coke. I sometimes think that's far worse than alcohol. If he got caught with coke, his future would probably go down the drain. Then again, maybe that's what he wants.
For a while, we're both quiet. I watch Kyle smoke. He tries to blow away from me, but the wind keeps sweeping back and forth and it gets in my face anyway. I close my eyes, never minding the smell because it always reminds me of Kyle. There are scents that I can't help but associate with Kyle. Spearmint, like his breath before bed. Strawberry, like his shampoo. Marijuana and cigarettes, like the things he smokes. Then he also has a very distinct scent that I can't quite describe, but it's unequivocally and completely Kyle. It's just the way he smells. It's the scent he carries with him. I feel like I could get lost in that alone.
"What are you thinking about?" Kyle asks me out of the blue.
I shrug my shoulders. "Just stuff."
"You never talk about it," Kyle mentions.
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly what he's referring to. "Everyone knows all the details. The papers were kind enough to highlight it all… A bunch of seniors took me out into a field and they beat me and took turns raping me."
Kyle winces at the harsh word and I swear he's more sensitive about it than I am sometimes. "But none of that came from you…" he says quietly. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen."
"There's not much else to say," I tell him.
"You can talk about how you feel," he offers.
I force a laugh and it comes out sounding particularly dull and dead. "My feelings…" I murmur thoughtfully. "Well, I feel like shit all the time and I wanna fucking die, but not really. I don't like talking about it…"
Kyle nods his head, listening. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell me I have so much to live for and that my death would make people sad. He just listens. That's what I like the most about talking to Kyle. He doesn't say all the stupid, pointless things that most other people would say. He doesn't try so hard to help because he understands that I'm not looking for advice. If I was, I'd ask.
"I'm depressed as shit," I add bitterly, "but at least I'm not out trying to make it all worse. The pills help, as much as I hate to credit them. I'm on a high dose. How does someone truly move on from something that bad? Some people would argue that it's just not possible and it'll follow me around 'til the day I die."
The worst part was the things they were saying to me as they did it. I think it would have been easier if they were just… quiet… but they weren't and they laughed and the things they said hurt as much as the things they were doing to me. When I look at myself, sometimes I can't help but think about the things they said.
One of my eyes was swollen shut, one of my arms was broken as well as a handful of fingers, my lip was split, my entire body was bruised, I was covered in lacerations and I had internal tearing. Carl Denkins drove me to the hospital while I bled and cried all over his car seat.
My parents were out of town because my dad was presenting research at a conference in New York. They were called back early. My dad never got to do his presentation. I felt bad, but he kept telling me not to think about it and that I was far more important.
I had a lot of visitors. Too many. My mom was crying a lot. So was I, but after the first few days passed I stopped. I haven't really cried about it since, though I still find plenty of time to cry about other things.
Two years later and I still have scars. I'm not just speaking metaphorically – I literally have scars all over my body. Looking at them depresses me even more. I can't really look at my body or look in a mirror without it being a constant reminder. There are some on my arms and legs and back and a few on my face, too. They're faint, but they're there.
I wish I could be stronger about it. I wish I didn't have to cope by distancing myself. I wish I could face it and cope properly instead of avoiding everything that reminds me of it. Then maybe I could open up to Kyle. I could be with him and it'd be normal. We'd just be yet another couple.
"Maybe," Kyle relents, not bothering to sugar-coat things for my benefit. "I think it's up to you and I don't think that either possibility makes you weak. Your experiences are entirely your own and no one else has the right to tell you how you should feel and how you should cope now or as the time goes by."
I smile at that, though it probably looks bitter as hell. "Yeah, I think so."
When Kyle finally does talk, he always says the right thing.
"Hey, how'd yah get so wise?" I ask him.
He chuckles. "I don't know," he admits. "Experience, I guess? Or maybe I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what the hell he's talking about half the time. Maybe I just like to pretend I do."
"Either way, you always make me feel better," I say.
"Then my job is done," he responds, smiling.
When he's finished the joint, he throws it in a snow bank and we decide to leave school early.
We head to my house since it's closest. Kyle lives in Cherry Creek. His parents wanted an upgrade. They do pretty well financially. Gerald is a big time lawyer. Sheila is always busy with fundraising and charity work. They kind of neglect Kyle and Ike, though they don't mean to.
When we get home, we're alone. Everyone is probably at work. So, we head kick off our boots and hang up our coats.
"Want a drink?" I ask Kyle.
"You mean non-alcoholic, right?" he responds.
I give him a dull look. "Yes, ass."
His lips quirk upward. "Water is fine."
I nod my head and he sits in the living room while I move into the kitchen. I fetch two glasses of water and then I sit down beside him. He's scrolling through Netflix.
He finally settles on Pulp Fiction.
"Tarantino is overrated," I tell him.
He snickers, finally grabbing his glass of water out of my hand. "A little. I've never seen this movie, though."
"Me neither," I confess.
We're always bad at watching movies. Usually we both talk too much to understand what's going on, but now is different. We're both quiet. Maybe he's just in a mood.
He raises the glass to his lips and his shirt sleeve rides up, exposing his wrist. I stare at the thick scars before glancing away.
"Kyle?" I say his name in a questioning tone.
"Hm?" he mumbles offhandedly, looking like he's paying very little attention to me.
"Would you ever try to kill yourself again?"
He turns his head to look at me. "Probably not. It didn't work the first time and I felt stupid enough after I woke up in the hospital and realized it was a failed attempt. Razors just don't do the trick. Lesson learned."
I frown at how nonchalant he's speaking about something so fucking saddening. "You should go to a doctor."
He lets out a sigh. "I never told you, but I did. My parents made me see a therapist after the accident."
That's what his parents call it. An accident. Why? Because they can't face the possibility that their son actually wanted to die. It is so fucking stupid, though. How could Kyle have accidentally pressed down deep enough to lose that much blood? Ha.
"What did the doctor say?" I pry.
"He said it's dysthymia," he starts, "or… neurotic depression."
"What's that?" I ask. I never even heard the term before.
"Chronic low moods," he explains simply, though I'm sure it's anything but. "The doctor said it's likely because of my perfectionism… which is likely because of my parents. Cliché, huh?" He smiles faintly, shrugging his shoulders.
"There's nothing cliché about struggling," I tell him, empathizing.
"If I'm unable to reach my goal and achieve what I perceive as perfection, then my mood goes downhill," he adds. "I'm really hard on myself and almost never satisfied with my work."
I frown. "Why didn't you tell me all of this sooner?"
"Well, you were struggling… and I didn't really think that my problem compared to yours. Mine seems… so small."
I let out a long sigh. "That's fucked up, dude," I tell him. "You're not supposed to compare problems. That's like comparing oppression. I'm gay and you're a Jew. We've both been shit on for it, but who has it worse? No. It's not something you compare. It's stupid and pointless. There's literally no comparison when it comes to this shit because all experiences are different, historically and personally."
He smiles faintly. "Yeah, I guess not.
We fall into another silence, just in time for a fucked up on-screen rape scene.
"Shit!" Kyle dives for the remote, turning the television. For a few seconds, he remains perfectly still. When he moves, he glances at me and lets out a breath. "I'm sorry…"
I force a laugh, wishing away the knot in my chest. "S'fine, Kyle… You didn't know."
He's frowning and his eyebrows are drawn together.
"Really, dude, it's fine," I tell him again. "I can handle it."
He smiles at me meekly and says, "You're strong. I don't know how I'd handle going through what you went through. How do you do it?"
I shrug my shoulders. "I just try to think about other things. I try to think about things that make me happy… but sometimes it doesn't work and none of my usual hobbies are stimulating enough."
"Then what do you do?" he pries.
"Sleep," I admit.
"You sleep a lot," he points out.
"Exactly," I murmur. "I guess I'm having a rough go of it lately."
"Come to me when you feel bad," he says.
I force a smile and tell him, "Deal… and you do that, too, okay?"
He smiles back. "Okay."
Later on when Kyle is gone I get ready to take a shower. I always take long showers, which is why my parents make me take them at night. If I take them in the morning, I waste the hot water and everyone needs to take cold showers before work. Then I feel guilty.
After an hour goes by, I step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist before running across the hall. I lock my door and drop the towel in my laundry basket. I stand naked in front of the mirror and I feel fucking sick to my stomach.
I turn around and stare at the reflection of my back. That's where the worst scars are. They're still clear as day. Shaking it off, I turn back around.
I push the damp hair out of my face, staring critically at my features. I'm very conventional looking. I'm white as hell, though my skin is less peachy and more tanned, kinda like Kenny. I've got blue eyes, black hair, a small nose. I'm slim and kind of short for a guy. I think I'm cute enough and I used to be so confident in the way I looked, but that changed. Now I can hardly stand to look at myself, especially not like this. I just start to shake. I feel too shameful.
I don't want it to be like his. I want to be able to connect with someone – with Kyle. Someday. It just seems impossible at this point. I don't really know how to make it better.
I wish I was a virgin. Kyle told me that virginity is a social construct and it's whatever you make it out to be. So, if I wanted, I could decide that I'm still a virgin… but I can't do that. I can't do it because everyone already knows I've been fucked. Multiple times. Everyone thinks virginity is some form of experience where you're penetrating or being penetrated and technically I've already been through that, even though it was against my will. Kyle says that rape isn't sex. Wendy has told me the very same thing. While I'd like to agree, it's hard. I couldn't really pretend otherwise when I was literally getting penetrated by a bunch of dicks. I can't really make up a new definition for myself. If someone was to ask me about how I lost my virginity, I could just hand them a news article. Maybe it'd be easier to pretend if no one knew, or if it only happened once… but it didn't. People would probably understand why I wanted to say I'm a virgin, but they'd also probably have questions. "But weren't you that kid who got fucked a bunch of times?" Yeah, that's me.
I move towards my dresser, opening the first drawer and pulling out sleep pants and an old t-shirt that used to belong to Kyle. Me and Kenny get most of his hand-me-downs because him and Ike were too far apart. By the time Kyle outgrew something, Ike would still be too small for it and by the time he wasn't, they were the same height.
Kyle says he likes seeing us wear his old things because it makes him feel closer to us. I like wearing his clothes for that same reason. I feel closer to him and it's a comfort when he isn't around.
At school the following morning, I spot a weird exchange between Craig and Jason. They argue a lot. I'm not entirely sure why because they used to be really close. I guess something happened to change that, though.
Craig reaches for a textbook on the top shelf of his locker and it grabs the attention of Jason whose locker is just a few down from Craig's. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaims as Craig's shirt rides up. He grabs the edge, pulling it up even further to expose his jutting hip bones. "Eat a fucking burger, Craig," he says.
"I'm naturally thin, asshole," Craig retorts, slapping Jason's hand away from him before walking off. He heads my way and I pretend to mind my own business.
"Dude, don't say shit like that to him," I hear Clyde murmur to Jason. "You know he used to have eating problems." After that, he chases after Craig, putting a hand on his shoulder when he catches up with him. "Are you okay?"
"No," he bites out as they walk past me. "I hate people who say shit like that!"
The two of them continue walking off and I feel like I overheard something I shouldn't have.
This is what happens when you're quiet – you learn things, you see things. I know lots of secrets about lots of people. Somehow, I think it's fair. Everyone knows my secret, after all. Besides, I'm not about to start sharing the things I learn to the world. I don't judge, either.
But sometimes I have a hard time minding my own business.
During free period, I see Craig in the hallway putting his things back in his locker. He's alone, so I decide to approach him.
"Hey," I greet him.
He glances at me and nods before closing his locker door.
"I heard what Jason said to you earlier," I point out. "Then I heard what Clyde responded with. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, I was just nearby."
He stares at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Do you-" I cut myself off, unsure how to word it sensitively. I press my lips together for a moment, contemplating what to say and how to say it.
He lets out a sigh. "Just say it, Marsh."
"Do you have an eating disorder?" I ask, whispering it.
Craig wrinkles his nose and glances to the side. "You know, you shouldn't go around asking people shit like that."
"Sorry," I apologize. "I didn't really know how else to ask it."
"Then maybe you shouldn't."
"I'm nosy," I admit. "Besides, you told me to."
He lets out another sigh. "Well, yeah, I had an eating disorder. It's not really a secret, but people tend to forget it happens to guys, too… and sometimes it's not about compulsively working out. For me… I just wouldn't eat much at all… but I'm better now. Well, better is the wrong word… I guess I'm recovering. Recovering is a better word for it."
I frown, nodding my head. "Are you okay?"
"Usually," he says with a shrug. "Are you okay?"
"Sometimes," I respond with a bitter laugh.
"Everyone worries I'll relapse," he murmurs offhandedly. "Sometimes I think I will when I'm no longer experiencing the after effects of my bad trip. I mean, it can't last forever… Honestly, I can feel myself coming out of it slowly and that scares me."
"Are you okay right this second?" I ask him.
"I am now," he murmurs. "I mean, as okay as I can be. It'll always be in my head, though… whether it's in the back or the front. Still, as weird as it sounds, it got a little easier after my drug trip. 'Cause now I don't feel much of anything. I'm so numb… and I prefer it. I still struggle with certain things, but it makes things easier. I know that's fucked up, but it's true. Everything is easier like this."
"I'm sorry," I sympathize.
He just shrugs, trying to look like he doesn't care. I don't want to assume, but he probably does care at least a little bit. After a second, he pulls out a package of cigarettes. "Anyway," he starts, taking one out and holding it up. "I'm gonna head out."
I smile and nod at him as he walks away.
I really need to learn to mind my own business.
