Sink or Swim
You stop eating. He's desperately trying to get you back to your old self - to help you get better. But still, it all eventually falls apart. /Or/ how everything you knew and everyone you loved either disappears or falls to pieces around you, and you're completely powerless to stop everything you care about in your entire life from falling apart instantaneously. — Gordie/Chris.
Full summary: "It was almost that time of year again, where it would be another depressing anniversary since Denny's death. I was fifteen years old at the time when I became depressed, and decided to stop eating. That trip to find Ray Brower's dead body that was near those train tracks when I was an awkward, naïve twelve but going-on-thirteen year old kid felt like a billion lifetimes ago. Depression suddenly washed over me, and I found that I wanted to kill myself as slowly as I possibly could for some reason. I wasn't doing it for attention or something, I just felt totally numb, useless, unimportant, virtually invisible to almost everyone around me, and tired. I was also madly in love with my best friend, and to me that made it so much worse than it already goddamn was. I was only seventeen years old when I first made that decision to throw up my meals into the toilet late at night, when no one was around. To this day, my past still haunts me."
/Or/
"Drown them." He said suddenly.
"Drown them?" I asked, confused. "Drown what? Who?"
"Your demons."
Right. I had almost forgotten that I rambled on for quite some time about the fact that… about the fact that I felt physically, mentally, and emotionally weighed down by my feelings, my thoughts — by everything that's ever happened to me. The laundry list of things that I've been a part of, done, heard, or seen happen. Every little thing. Including all the times when I skipped meals or shoved my fingers down my throat, to listening to the police officers saying that my older brother was dead from the stairwell, to threatening to shoot Ace in the head when he tried to kill Chris.
"No, you don't understand." I said. "I can't sink or forcibly drown my demons, Chris… They-they know how to swim, how to make me feel like t-total fucking shit. They're a p-part of me." I stuttered, a lump starting to form in my throat.
"Then fight back." He said, stepping closer to me. I was pinned against the row of lockers in the dead empty school hallway. His tall frame hovered over mine. I felt like a little kid again in his taller presence. Damn his height. "Show that part of you whose really in control."
"I-I can't." I whispered, tears streaming down my face as I allowed myself to cry in front of him. "They know my every weakness. Those fucking things know that I… that I…"
"That you what, man?" He asked quietly, gently wiping away the tears from my eyes.
"That I'm not strong enough to win against them." I sniffled, wiping a few tears away from my cheeks. "They're pulling me under, Chris. I'm losing this… this fucking constant fight between my… my dark, demon side… and myself." I sobbed. "These fucking "demons"… they-they're winning. I'm losing this battle — this… this war. I'm going to drown eventually, Chris." I whispered. "And I don't want to make you drown, either. I'm not going to allow you to let yourself drown next to me. Please don't try to save me." I admitted softly, and started crying harder as I felt Chris's arms wrap tightly around my waist.
"I don't care, Gordie. I'd rather drown next to you than stop being your best friend in the entire world. I'd take drowning next to you in a heartbeat." He whispered, rubbing my back.
/Or/
The countless meals that swirl down the toilet make you forget about your love for Chris Chambers; at least for a little bit.
/Or/
It's not like you don't mean to eat. You just… forget to.
/Or/
You're not in love. Or so you say.
XXX
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Humor, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship and Crime.
Pairing(s): Main: Gordie/Chris slash, because their whole entire relationship is beautiful, and the underlying romance is clearly there/implied. Not to mention the fact that River Phoenix and Wil Wheaton had amazing chemistry together, both on screen (from the movie) and off screen (from various other miscellaneous clips that I've seen). There is also a few other ships in "Sink or Swim". Mainly Teddy/OC, Vern/OC, Fuzzy/OC, Jack/OC, Vince/OC, Eyeball/OC, Ace/OC, Charlie/OC, Billy/OC and Ace/Eyeball, with some Gordie/OC and some Chris/OC, (and not in this order) but these ships will either be secondary relationships or mentioned.
Trigger warnings: Eating disorder(s), depression, character death(s), underage drinking, cutting, implied and mentioned drug use, drug use, illegal selling of said illegal drugs, mentioned, seen and implied child abuse, bullying, neglectful parents, physical and verbal arguments, self-hatred, violence, emotional damage, swearing (along with "dirty" phrases), some torture, injuries, underage smoking, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, broken homes, cheating, mental hospitals, making jokes out of other people's insecurities/pasts/current lives/issues (etc.), internalized and externalized homophobia/biphobia, homophobic slurs (etc.), attempted assault/rape, implied mental insanity, mentions of past car accidents, and implications and mentions of suicide.
So yeah, this story'll be a total freaking bag of fun to read. Sorry in advance if I break your heart, readers! (Whoops.)
This storyline is set three years after Gordie, Chirs, Teddy and Vern went on the trip to find Ray Brower's dead body. Sink or Swim is also slightly, SLIGHTLY AU. The characters are OOC (Out Of Character) but I try to keep them in character as much as I possibly can. This is my own personal take on what happens after.
Vulgar language (because they're teenagers, obviously) and crass/dirty phrases ahead. For example: "He rolled his eyes. "I do have a fat one, thank you for noticing." He said, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "And hell yeah, I'm goddamned ready for anything you ask." He laughed."
Also, anything that looks like (this) is older Gordie's thoughts, as I believe he is the narrator of The Body by Stephen King. In the movie Stand by Me, the older Gordie is writing the trip to find Ray Brower's body through a flashback and publishing it. I don't know if this is what older Gordie LaChance does in The Body, but I assume he does. If he doesn't do this, then I am just going to do whatever I feel is right, which is him writing a book that's telling a flashback. The form of writing that I am using is a passive voice, which is defined as this: "The passive voice is a grammatical construction (specifically, a "voice"). The noun or noun phrase that would be the object of an active sentence (such as Our troops defeated the enemy) appears as the subject of a sentence with passive voice (e.g. The enemy was defeated by our troops)." Basically, this means that I am using was/had/thought/seen etc. in this story, rather than is/has/think/see etc.
Finally, I apologize in advance if there are any spelling, grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, etcetera - mistakes. I do not have a Beta reader, so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own the movie Stand By Me or any of its characters, and I do not own The Body by Stephen King. I only own my OC's and whatever else you don't recognize.
Enjoy chapter one part one of Sink or Swim.
XXX
Chapter One: The Fight (Part One)
XXX
Gordie's POV
"Gordon?"
I didn't glance up from the enthralling book I was reading. My eyes skimmed over the words on the page with perpetual quickness. "What?" I asked absently. I wasn't really focused on my mother. I was completely focused on my book.
"Are you sure you're not hungry?" My mother asked me, as quietly as a mouse would if they had the ability to speak human words. I glanced up after a minute of silence, in order to finish the final page of the sixth chapter in this book that I was on. It was a riveting book. I didn't want to put it down at all to look up, but I did it anyway. Just to humor her.
My mother stood in the doorway of my cozy but ridiculously sweltering hot bedroom, and her kinda-small and too-pale hands were clasped in front of her formally, palms down, like she was meeting some very important person, like the mayor of Castle Rock, who was coincidentally Ace Merrill's father. Or if she had to go for a meeting for her work. You know, things of that nature.
Even in the small town of Castle Rock in the great state of Oregon, where it's almost always seventy degrees or above and as hot as an oven almost all the time, my mother was as still as pale as a freshly white sheet, just like my had always grandmother said - she had always been that way; pale, I mean. She always had looked sad, broken, and confused, but in the great year of 1962, she was looking even sadder, more broken, and even more confused then she had been when those policemen showed up at the door late at night and begrudgingly announced that my older brother Denny had died in an unfortunate automobile accident. My mother's hair was once really beautiful - a rich, dark chocolate color that made her entire personality shine.
My father's hair, however, was probably where Denny got his hair from, with his thick, dark, glossy black raven's hair. My hair, on the other hand, came from my mother. Dark brown, a little bit on the thicker side, but not suffocatingly so. There's one difference between my hair and my mom's hair. Her hair is a little curly, but my hair is pin-straight.
(Sometimes I still wonder what my parents were like as kids. They never told me; didn't think it was worth the energy, but at the same time, I never asked them, even when Denny was alive. I don't think Denny ever asked them either. I can't ask my parents now, which makes me regret it a whole lot. They've been dead for years now.)
In the school year of 1962, however, my mother's dark brown hair was in a slightly sweaty, limp, haphazard and very messy bun more often than not, and there were gray hairs prominent. The gray hairs were (very obviously; desperately) combed over to the side where the most of her once pretty brown hair was in an attempt to hide those gray hairs. It was also disgustingly futile, because anyone with eyes could see that the gray hairs were still there. Her skin was ghostly pale; it had always been looking quite pale, even before Denny's death. When she was standing in my doorway, she looked like a pristine clean white sheet skin-wise, but she also had a few dusting of liver spots here and there, but nothing too drastic. Her once sparkling, warm, light brown eyes had dulled to a murky, depressing darkish wet mud color. Her eyes were like candlelight; warm, inviting. But then once Denny died, it was like the candlelight flickered out, replaced by hollowness and lifelessness that scared me sometimes. Her eyes looked glassy almost all the time. Her posture was poor and slumped, and she looked very small and very broken. The dark bags under her eyes made her already deathly pale skin look sunken. She looked a little bit scary - she looked almost… almost ghoul-like, if I'm honest with you. And depressing. Can't forget about depressing, too. Seriously. Just thinking about her physical, weighed down appearance even now makes me shiver and feel a little queasy.
I tried not to wince at the fact that she called me Gordie. I just ignored it. "Yeah, I'm not hungry, Mom," I said for the what felt like the fiftieth time in a row, when in reality it was only three times. My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. I grabbed my bookmark, which was just a piece of blank scrap paper, and set my book down on my wooden-painted-bright-white bedside table. "I ate a big breakfast earlier." And I'm not lying. I did eat a big breakfast that day. Bacon, scrambled eggs, a ton of pancakes with maple syrup, an assortment of sliced fresh fruit from the market, and to top it all off, a refreshing, cold glass of orange juice. It was good, to say the least.
"But breakfast was hours ago, Gordon." She said weakly. It was very true, breakfast *was* hours ago. I had abruptly woken up to the sound of a car honking it's annoyingly loud horn at seven in the morning without a care in the world. It went on for a long, agonizing couple of minutes and didn't stop. I didn't know who honked their car horn for an ungodly amount of time at an ungodly hour in the stupid morning, but I assumed it was those no-good Cobras.
Ah, those fuckers.
They were always pulling stupid stunts like that to get a ruse out of the people in town, especially the people in the cookie cutter suburbs or in the "slums". They didn't dare go near the richer parts of our own. They either weren't allowed to or didn't bother thinking about pissing those wealthier people off. The Cobras were held in the town jail overnight many times, according to Vern, whose older brother Billy went everywhere Ace Merrill (who was still the dickhead leader of the Cobras) went. They did whatever the hell they wanted, whenever the hell they wanted, and they got off lighter than anyone. Personally, I silently hoped they would stay in jail for the rest of their damned lives, but no good Ace's father was somehow the mayor of Castle Rock, and Charlie's father was a well respected police officer who worked at that jail, so my wish never came true, no matter how much I hoped.
As I was saying before, I threw myself out of bed, ran a comb through my messy-from-sleep brown hair, and then I stumbled downstairs and ate breakfast as quickly as I damn could, determined to fall back asleep, and wishing to get another half hour of sleep. I got my wish, and I was able to sleep for another really glorious two and a half hours.
Anyway, my mother had been trying to get me to eat something for a long time now, and I don't mean it just started this morning. It randomly started three weeks ago, without any indication or warning. I didn't know how or why it happened, it just did. I still don't know why it happened when it did. I refused to eat anything that she (or anyone for that matter) cooked for me. I turned down my favorite foods in favor for peanuts or a few crackers; something light like that. I didn't know why then, but I had a faint suspicion that it had something to do with "teenage rebellion", or something like that. I was a weird kid back then, and I was awkward too. I was especially awkward at the age of fourteen through seventeen.
"…Which isn't all that okay, not with me. Gordon, you must be hungry by now, surely." She was saying, "eat at least a sandwich or something." Her voice broke on those last word.
"No." I growled stubbornly, then crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm not hungry right now, Mom." I muttered. Well, the truth was, I was kinda starving half to death, but I absolutely refused to eat or drink anything in the past two days except for a full ham and cheese sandwich, a few glasses of cold water, and not even a quarter of my mother's homemade mac and cheese; it was more like an eighth, if that. That was all I ate in the last two days. I had lost a considerable amount of weight because of it, but I found that I didn't give a fat rats goddamned ass.
"Gordie… I… honey-" she tried to say something, but I quickly cut her off before she could say anything else.
"Shut up, Mom!" I nearly growled out, anger spiking rapidly through my veins, and before I could stop myself, I yelled: "Just get the hell out of my damned room!" The fact that I yelled at her was mostly due to all of my pent-up frustration (and I'm still not sure why I was frustrated). It bubbled over due to this goddamned stifling heat. But I was also extremely angry at my mother too, for reasons that I couldn't understand at the time, but now that I really think about it, the fact that she called me "honey" only made my sudden burst of anger that much sudden and worse. It was like adding gasoline to a rampaging fire. You see, my mother hadn't called me any kind of "pet name" in a long, long time, except for literally just my full name - Gordon; *never ever* Gordie (only my friends Teddy, Vern and Chris could call me that; and the fact that my mother called me Gordie not once, but twice really grated on my already thinning nerves) - since my older brother's Denny's death. That made me really damned angry. In my fifteen year old brain, my mother had absolutely no right to do that, and I suppose that was true in a way. How dare she.
The sudden increase of volume in my voice made my mother flinch back, rapidly nod her head (she looked like a bobble head which made me even more angry for some reason), and slink out of my room like some fucking skittish newly-born lamb.
I groaned out loud after she shut my door as gently as she could, leaning backwards on my soft but only-serving-as-even-more-of-a-heat-source bed and my head flopping into my soft pillow. I looked up at the bland white paint of my ceiling and pushed my dark, slightly sweaty brown hair up out of my face, very annoyed with it. I remember wanting to get a haircut for a while at that time, preferably one where my hair wouldn't be in my damned face all the time, especially in this kind of hot weather.
Jesus Christ, it was hot out. I'm sure if somebody wanted to, they could fry and egg on the sidewalk in two minutes, maybe even less than that. It was the kind of weather where was stifling hot outside, where everyone and everything was roasting in the damned sun, and it seemed like time was slowed down; where people of all ages had slumped postures - where working men had rolled-up sleeves and where women of all ages were rushing to get home to take a cold shower, and where little kids were hanging out in the safety and the (rather scarce) availability of shade, or something like that. Or where teenagers would go get an icy cold can of pop at some local convenience store. The summer heat wave of the year 1962 damn near slaughtered me and left me to die in a disgusting puddle of my own sweat and bones. (The whole conversation with my mother begging me to eat took place in the school year of 1962, well before summer. Yes, it was still hot as Hell during the school year too.)
Anyway, it was so stifling hot outside, which sure as hell meant that it was like the inside of a volcano inside houses, especially in ones where there was no air conditioning readily available, or if houses did have air conditioning units, they were really shitty ones that broke more often than they were used. I lived in a relatively well off and nice neighborhood, and I lived in a nice house that fortunately had better air conditioning than most of the other houses on my block. Unfortunately, our air conditioning unit broke down two and a half weeks ago, before this hotter-than-usual heat wave. My father said that it could take only three or four weeks to be repaired, if that. Which was great news. It's better than not having a nice and cool AC unit at all, if you catch my drift. (Sorry, bad pun.) Cold, refreshing air was and definitely still is a commodity everywhere. Especially in the suburban South.
I quickly grabbed the hem of my plain black shirt and yanked it off, then I set it down next to me and sighed lightly, feeling sweat run down my face. I felt really icky and gross, like I needed to have three cold showers just to get the first few layers of sweat off my stupid pale body. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, damn near ready to bitch and moan about this heat to no one. The heat was really starting to get to my head, making everything feel like it was suffocating me; like it was hard to breathe. I puffed out a long, sleepy, voice-crackly-and-slightly-choked-due-to-stifling-heat sigh. I closed my eyes, as if that would somehow block out the heat. (It didn't help at all, but it made me feel a little better about myself.)
I rolled my head to the side to look over at and out of my bedroom window, looking at the branches on my large tree that was sitting outside; the tree that was directly outside my bedroom window, I mean. It was a sturdy Californian black oak tree with sturdy branches. The branches were strong enough for a ton of people to sit on, even a couple of overweight men on one branch could stay upright without much of an issue. Teddy, Vern, Chris and myself always just used to sit outside on those branches, drinking cold cans of assorted flavored soda pop and hanging out like a bunch of idiotic kids who had nothing better to do with their time, talking about absolutely anything and everything, but at the same time nothing at all. It was nice.
(We were all weird like that. Sometimes, when I look outside my window in my bedroom in the morning time now, I wonder if there are any other people in the world who have three best friends like I did when I was twelve; kids who sit on sturdy Californian black oak trees - or any other type of tree for that matter - and just talk their minds and hearts out for hours on end. That's an enlightening, calming and nice experience.)
Anyway, I decided to roll out of bed and walk downstairs to get a glass of refreshing cold milk, and maybe a light snack or something. A chocolate chip cookie or a sandwich maybe. Something light. I quickly hopped down the stairs like I was a man on a mission, and strolled into the kitchen, humming a random song under my breath as I walked over to the wooden cabinet where all the junk food was kept. I really loved that cabinet. It was like my life when I was a teenager.
I glanced around my kitchen, noticing that my mother was nowhere to be found or heard, and my father was also missing as well. I vaguely wondered where they could be, but then pushed those thoughts out of my head. They're full grown adults, completely capable of taking care of themselves. Even though I still was a fifteen year old kid, I knew how to take care of myself.
I reached over opened up the cupboard next to the one where the junk food was kept, glancing inside and then snagging plate from it, holding it firmly in my hand, then I closed that cabinet door. I set the plate on the countertop in front of me before taking out a pack of Oreos, taking a few before starting to make a ham and cheese sandwich. I put said sandwich on my plate. I shoved the package of Oreos back where I found it and closed the cabinet door. Then I took out a glass and poured myself a nice glass of cold milk, closing the fridge door shut with my foot after I was done pouring the refreshing milk into the actual glass cup. God, I loved Oreos and milk together when I was a kid and especially a teenager. To this day, I still do.
I took my plate that held my food, walked out of the kitchen and moved towards the stairs, listening to my stomach growl. I had just walked through my bedroom door when I saw my best friend Chris Chambers climb through my bedroom window like an absolute badass, like something out of a movie.
"Chris?" I said, blinking over at the boy. I wasn't really all that surprised to see him here. Two months after we first became friends-but-not-best-friends (we were in preschool - he and I were both five years old when we became friends), he (as a five year old kid) snuck into my window, completely scaring the shit out of (a five year old) me. I almost threw my bedside lamp (the nearest thing I could reach) at him and screamed for my parents and Denny to get in my room, or call the cops, or chase him out with a goddamned wooden broom or something, but I decided to sit there shut my trap. I was curious as to why Chris had climbed up my damned tree that was outside my house and snuck into my bedroom at five o'clock in the morning, because that's something that doesn't normally happen when you and your best friend are both five years old. I remember being briefly curious as to how exactly a five year old kid could climb a tree to silently and not fall off and break something in his or her body, but I pushed that thought out of my head, deciding not to question that. Anyway, Chris climbing through my window started to become a routine habit. In the summertime I'd leave my bedroom window open all the time so he could just hop right through whenever he felt like it. It was a "thing" me and Chris (and yeah, Teddy and Vern came in through my bedroom window sometimes, but it was mainly Chris) always did. When we had school, I'd shut my bedroom window in the morning, go to school, come home from school, and open it and wait for him to climb through. He'd always come through my bedroom window at the same time every day, as he always did. It became a routine.
Said boy turned around after shutting my window as quietly as he could. He was wearing a black and red checkered flannel shirt with the first three buttons undone, so I could see his grey short sleeved shirt underneath, and the sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He was also wearing black skinny jeans, and a ratty old pair of his scuffed white All Star converse tops. Probably not the best outfit to wear in Oregon during the summertime, but I wasn't going to judge him based on his fashion choices or complain about it. He looked kind of nervous for some reason. "Hey, Gordie." He said.
Obviously, Chris had grown a lot since we were twelve, in height, physical appearance, and everything in between, that's for sure. He was fifteen years old and in tenth grade at Castle Rock High School, just like me. He was only seven months older than me. He had almost the same classes as me, which is why we stayed best friends even after that trip to find Ray Bower's body. If anything, we got much more close as friends. His physical appearance had changed quite a bit as well. For starters, he had grown in height a significant amount, so he was a little taller than I was at the time when I was fifteen. He was around 5'9", while I was around 5'6". Like the rest of the boys in the world, his voice had gotten much more deeper as a result of hitting puberty. His bright, ocean blue eyes sparkled at the edges now, which was a stark contrast to the slight emptiness that pervaded his blue eyes when he was six years old to twelve years old. Chris had "obtained" (a girl's words, not mine), a "perfectly sculpted jawline", too. Also, he was admittedly well-muscled now - but not too much or too little; he was a little bit above average, but that was okay with the rest of us, especially with me. His intimidating height, his reputation, his piercing, "protective-looking, danger-sensing, steady and calm blue eyes", and his physical body alone were all things that were totally capable of warding off and intimating bullies away from Vern, Teddy, and admittedly myself. All the girls at our high school fawned over him and fell on top of each other trying to get his attention, and all the boys at our school were jealous of how… absolutely perfect he was in high school, but not me. Even through his sudden, newfound popularity, Chris never lost his first real friends (me, Vern and Teddy), his kind, warm smile (or the infamous Chambers kids' smirk), and his charming personality, his friendliness, his laugh that made his eyes light up, and that laugh or his smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners - I could go on and on, but it'd take a while to go through that list. I enjoyed seeing him smile and laugh, and I liked a lot of other small, almost invisible-unless-you-were-paying-attention-to-him things about my best friend in the entire world, Christopher Alexander Chambers. However, the hatred for the Chambers family still lingered in most people at times (especially in some of the older adults that grew up with Chris's asshole father and the elderly who grew up with Chris's grandfather and grandmother; those goddamned elderly really grated on my nerves sometimes), but for the most part that hatred was forgotten, buried deep in the past like Vern's pennies — which Vern still had yet to find, even when we were fifteen.
Unfortunately, Vern perished in an accidental house fire at a party before he could ever find his jar of pennies. I've always thought that Vern's older brother Billy and his younger brother Marcellus stole them and never told him about it. Too bad I can't ask Vern's brothers; I think they went to jail for driving under the influence of drugs/drunk driving, and endangering the welfare of a child who was in that car at the time of the whole DUI, but I can't be sure. I can't ask Linda, Vern's youngest sister, either. The main reason why? I don't know where she is, hell I don't even know if she's alive or not. I tried contacting her multiple times through letters and the like after I learned of Vern Tessio's death, but she's never responded to anything I've sent her. It's like she's a goddamned recluse or something. Maybe she doesn't want to be found. Which is weird to me, but I'm not going to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. What she did/does with her life is none of my damn business.) Teddy wouldn't know what the heck do or say, even if he was still alive today. (Speaking of Teddy and Vern, I'm sure you're wondering where they were at this particular moment in time. Well, I'll tell you. Unfortunately, me and Chris abruptly lost connection with Teddy and Vern three years ago, a little while after that faithful trip to find Ray Brower's dead body by those train tracks. I didn't really understand why we drifted apart. But we reconnected a few weeks after Chris had visited me on this day that I'm writing about. Funny how that works, right?)
Anyway, I smiled at my best friend. "Hey, Chris."
He grinned right back at me, and he didn't look nervous anymore. His pearly white teeth were practically glowing in the brightness of my room. "Hi, Gordie." I totally ignored the way my heart did a weird flip in my chest with an emotion I could only describe as pride. He sounded much more confident about himself now, too. It was a nice change.
I walked over to my nightstand and set down my glass of milk and the plate which held my food. "What're you doing here, dude?" I asked, not unkindly. I was generally curious as to why he was here. We hadn't arranged to hang out with each other today, so this was a total surprise to me.
"Had to get away from my dad's taunting for a little bit, otherwise I would have socked him. My old man's an asshole." He mumbled, then walked over to my bed and sat down. He looked over at my book I was reading and picked it up, thumbing through the pages absently. It looked like he wanted something to do to get his mind off of his drunken asshole father.
Worry instantly spiked up in my stomach, and it sent pinpricks of concern throughout my body. It made me feel weird, like I wanted to cry or scream at the top of my lungs, or do both. "Did he yell at you?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." He mumbled again, then shifted uncomfortably. He wrung his hands together, swallowing audibly. "How's the book?" He asked. He most likely asked this to try and change the subject.
"It's good. I really like it." I said, taking a drink of milk.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You can read it after I'm done, if you want."
"Thanks." He said, setting the book down on my nightstand again. He swiped a cookie from my plate and munched on it. I didn't protest. I was fine with it.
"…Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"Did your father, um, you know…" I trailed off a bit awkwardly, wincing at how I must have sounded to him. I bit my lower lip between my teeth harshly. I felt extremely uncomfortable and awkward; I was out of my depth here. Myself - and I think about almost everyone in Castle Rock - knew that Chris's father had abused him, his five other siblings (Veronica, Brandon, Tyler, and the younger twins Julia and Carl) and his oldest brother "Eyeball" Chambers. Eyeball's real full name is Richard Matthew Chambers, but everyone called him "Eyeball" for being sharp-witted and able to stop things from a mile away; it's a pretty self-explanatory nickname, if you ask me. As the oldest Chambers kid out of five other Chambers' siblings, you'd think that Eyeball would have protected Chris from the horrors of his father's abuse, but only Veronica, Brandon, Tyler, Julia and Carl protected him. Eyeball didn't. From what I can understand now, more often than not, Eyeball even contributed to the beatings he gave Chris. Which I never understood as a kid, but that might have only been because I had a kind, down to earth, funny, respectable, smart, non-abusive brother named Denny.
I didn't dare ask Chris why his father abused him and his five other siblings - due to me having an actual Goddamned brain in my head, and the availability and convenience of a let's-think-about-what-you're-gonna-say-first-before-it-comes-out-of-your-mouth-filter - that worked most of the time - and whatnot. I'm not like how Vern was, who had virtually no filter whatsoever - and I'm kind of glad I didn't. I wasn't sure if that would drive a wedge between our friendship, but I didn't dare take the risk, because I was afraid of losing Chris as my best friend.
"Did he what, Gordie?" Chris's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I blinked twice, not realizing that I was munching on one of the cookies. "Did my stupid father abuse me again?" Chris asked in a flat voice, and for me it was like hearing about some guy who committed suicide by hanging. It was like when I found out that Vern had died by accidental house fire, or… or if Teddy was still alive, and I found out that he was admitted into a mental hospital a few counties over from Castle Rock. Extremely confusing, worrying, and painful to wrap my head around, and not something I'd want to hear because it made me physically feel like shit. I hated those words coming out of Chris's mouth with a passion. He shouldn't have had to go through anything like that. None of the Chambers sibling should have, but Chris especially.
I winced again and nodded my head, trying not to look shameful, awkward, or remorseful, or something stupid like that. "Yeah. Did he?" I cringed at how awkward my voice sounded. I ran my hand through my hair before I walked over to my bed and sat down next to him.
"I… yeah. He did." His voice dropped considerably lower, and he looked a little small and vulnerable, too. It made my chest physically ache in a way I didn't think it could even do.
"Where?" I demanded, watching as he walked over to my bed and sat down gingerly, his face twisted up in a grimace of pain. "Chris?" I asked when he didn't answer me.
"Gordie, it's fine." He muttered.
"It's not fine." I said softly.
Chris narrowed his eyes slightly at me. His ocean blue eyes looked a few shades darker. "Gordie, it's okay." His voice was stone-cold calm, and his face was calm, but I could hear an undertone of "drop the subject, man" permeating his voice. I knew that he wanted me to drop it, but I wasn't going to. I wanted to make sure that Chris was truly fine. Where his dad hit him.
"Chris, where did your asshole of a father hurt you?" I ignored the fact that my voice was getting a bit louder and shaking quite a bit. I was surprised that my parents didn't barge into my room yet and kick Chris out.
"Gordie, listen to me." He said, voice rising a bit in anger, "it doesn't matter where he hit me." He said, then shrugged off his flannel shirt, throwing it down next to him on the bed because it was so hot.
"Why?" I questioned. Then, as a quick harmless joke, I asked: "Did he spank you?" In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have said that, because kids *did* in fact get spanked (and sadly I was one of them; I was three and I got under the sink and seriously thought it was a smart idea to eat a random amount of bleach) but I was trying to lighten the mood.
Chris rolled his eyes. "No. He didn't spank me. But thanks so much for asking, Gordie." His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Annoyance and some more fear spiked through my veins. He was acting off, not like the Chris I knew and loved in a platonic way. "Then damn it, Chris, where did your damned asshole of a father hit you?" I questioned again, and my voice rose considerably. I couldn't help it. Chris was my best friend. Friends look out for each other, right?
"Gordie, it doesn't matter." He snapped, his voice dangerously low. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that I should have backed out from the conversation and let it go, but my concern for Chris's wellbeing was far greater. It was in the front of my damned head. It was like a loud red siren wailing in the front of my mind. It wouldn't go away.
"You know damn well it does matter, Chris!" I yelled again. "Your lousy jerk of a father has been abusing you and your siblings for-"
"IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW LONG IT'S BEEN GOING ON FOR!" He screamed.
I tried not to flinch at the volume of his voice. "It does matter! It matters to me! You're my best friend, Chris! And I care a whole lot about you!" I yelled.
"You shouldn't care about me!" He argued. "I'm nothing but a damned lowlife Chambers kid!"
"Don't say that." I snapped, but my anger filled voice had dropped to a soothing, quiet, comforting tone. As soon as those words left my mouth, I got a weird sense of déjà vu; I felt it spark inside of my brain like a light switch had just turned on. I was reminded of the night when Chris was on watch for "anything scary, like bears, ghosts, wild dogs, lions and tigers" - those were Vern's words - while me, Vern and Teddy were all sleeping by the fire we had somehow made, with that gun in his hand, and he admitted to me that he stole the milk money. I remember going over to Chris and sitting next to him after I had that nightmare of my brother's funeral, and my father saying that it should've been me that was dead, not Denny.
I remember that Chris started to cry when he said he was nothing but a lowlife Chambers kid who desperately "wanted to go some place where nobody knows me". I felt my heart break for him. I felt sympathetic, because even if I would never had admitted it out loud to anyone while I was a kid/teenager, I too, had often thought about leaving Castle Rock behind me too. Maybe not as much as Chris, but I still wanted to leave this town - my town - behind, in the dust. I comforted Chris throughout the night, staying by his side (even though a part of me wanted to crawl back into my sleeping bag, near the warmth of the fire, and the safety of my friends and sleep for a couple more hours).
But I stayed there with Chris instead, leaning up against that tree, hugging him and just being with him as a kind of support cushion. I let him cry into my shoulder until exhaustion from the hot day's walk and the multitude of activities - like me and Vern running across the train tracks from a train that would have killed us if we didn't stop, me and Chris getting lost together in the thick woods under the hot, Southern summer sun for an hour after we agreed that we needed to talk about something that I can't remember now (and then ultimately screwed up and got lost), and myself running for my life from a damned dog; hey, I thought that he would chomp my balls off, and a boy's gotta run away from situations like that - finally took its hold on me.
I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder and his arm slung around my back. I didn't know exactly when his arm had slung itself around my back, but I didn't really give a crap when Chris had done that. When I woke up in the morning, my head had somehow "magically" slid down onto Chris's lap, his tan hand was resting softly in my hair, gently combing through the dark brown strands with a care I didn't know he possessed. The gun that was in his hand the night before while he was on watch was next to him on the ground, with the safety on. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I woke up for a minute and laid there as still as a rock, looking out into the darkness, with the low, amber glow of the slowly dying campfire as my only source of light.
I had just opened my eyes. The bright Southern sun shined down on the both of us. I wasn't sure what time it was, but I guessed it was around six-thirty in the morning. Maybe just six, though. I wasn't too sure. Even though my brain was fuzzy and maple syrup slow from just waking up, I was pretty sure that Chris had gently guided my head to his lap sometime in the night while I was fast asleep, and he gently laid my head onto his jean-clad and a blanket-to be-used-as-a-makeshift-pillow-warmed lap, so I wouldn't get a sore neck when I woke up in the morning. There was also a blanket spread out on his legs, so they didn't get cold during the nighttime. I didn't know how Chris had managed to get the blanket, or when he had done just that, because I couldn't (and still can't) remember being awoken or jostled up from my sleep. Maybe Vern or Teddy had handed the blankets to Chris? I'm not sure.
Anyway, I had glanced up and noticed that Chris was still asleep, with his head angled down, so his face was facing me. There was a makeshift pillow made out of a blanket for his head, so he wouldn't have had to make his head stay in an uncomfortable hard place, AKA the rough bark of the tree. The position he had his head in look awkward. I remember being shocked by how much younger he looked when he slept, even when he was twelve-going-on-thirteen years old. There weren't any worry lines on Chris's face; they had virtually disappeared. In his sleep, the outside world couldn't get to him, couldn't reach him and taunt him with anything, with the memories of broken promises and the sickening feeling of "never getting out of this town". It was like he was a different person when he slept; he looked much more innocent, much more like a little boy whose innocence was still in-tact. The next thing I noticed was that there was a rough textured but really warm blanket draped on my slender body, and then I realized that Chris's other hand had slipped under my shirt and rested on my pale waist sometime during the night and stayed there. It was nice, especially because… because… well, the hand moved up and down along my back and traced down my spine and waist in a comforting, safe gesture. I'm not sure if Chris even knew he was doing it. Regardless, the gesture made me feel happy, like when Denny was still alive. Whenever I was stressed about something, Denny would notice almost immediately. He would always sit down next to me on the couch, or on my bed, or wherever type of furniture I was sitting or laying down at the time, and he used to hug me and comfort me. We'd talk about random shit until I couldn't remember why I was sad or stressed out anymore. Anyway, Chris's hand was warm and soft, and just being in such a close proximity with him had made me feel really safe. Like Chris was somehow Denny, but at the same time, he wasn't. I knew for a fact that he wasn't. He was Chris Chambers, my best friend.
When Chris started to stir awake from his sleep, I quickly closed my eyes and hoped that he wouldn't suspect that I was staring at him. When I laid still and "fell asleep" again, my breath was caught in my throat. I waited. A couple seconds later, I felt Chris's hand, the one that was tangled up in my hair, start to run through my hair again gently. After about twenty minutes of enjoying the warmth of Chris's hand running its course through my hair, I decided to shift a little bit, just to alert him, to let him know that I was "starting to wake up". I shifted my head so when I opened my eyes I'd be staring directly up at his face. Relishing in the feeling of Chris's soft fingers running through my hair and his other warm hand on my waist, I opened my eyes slowly.
"Hey." I murmured, my voice thick with sleep.
"Morning, Gordie." He greeted, smiling down at me. His eyes crinkled at the edges, which made me smile automatically. I got a warm feeling in my stomach. We talked about random things for a few minutes and stared at each other with bright, happy eyes. "How'd you sleep?" He asked eventually.
"I slept fine." I murmured, smiling when his fingers glided up and down my back gently. "You?"
"That was the first time I've slept peacefully in a long-ass time." He admitted. I knew it was true.
I smiled. We smiled at each other and talked quietly amongst ourselves until Vern and Teddy awoke and started to roll up their sleeping bags, chatting loudly and just being two motherfucking idiots together, like they always were. Chris and I walked back over to our friends, and Teddy made a joke about me "looking like a dumb baby when I slept with my head on Chris's lap." I drowned and asked him how he knew. He said that he got up in the night to take a piss, and he saw us "snuggling" together, then jokingly asked if we tried to get into (or successfully got into) each other's pants. Chris and I glared evilly him, and the two of us started shouting loudly in this really dumb yet playful way at Teddy. Vern made a comment about me and Chris, and that caused him to join in on the fun. We all started to laugh eventually, throwing jokes around harmlessly as we packed up our things and headed out along the train tracks again.
When Chris and I were alone again, walking along the endless stretch of railroad tracks for who knows how long, I didn't dare ask Chris how my head had magically made itself appear on my lap and the blanket around me, with his warm hand in my hair and the other on my back/waist, and Chris didn't say anything about it. I felt Chris's warm blue eyes stare at me almost all the time when I was walking along whatever path that was in front of us. My stomach twisted in an odd, warm way whenever we locked eyes or shared a smile, and I felt incredibly happy. I didn't know why I felt that way, but I guess a part of my brain understood why. Me and Chris… well, we never discussed what had happened that night when Chris was on watch, one on one, when we were twelve years old. Not even when we were thirteen years old. I think that both of us thought that it would've really been awkward.
Anyway, when the Cobras ambushed us at the final resting place of Ray Brower's body, and when Teddy and Vern ran off to protect themselves (those jerks), leaving me and Chris in the dust to "defend" (claim) Ray Bower's dead body alone, Ace called Chris a faggot. I saw an upset look cross his face, and that sent anger coursing through my veins. Nobody could make Chris sad and get away with it, not while I was right there. When Chris told him to "go home and fuck your mother some more", Ace's expression turned from a little annoyed to murderous. He pulled out the knife and said to Chris, "you're dead". Eyeball tried to stop him, but to no avail. That proclamation of Chris's death sent white hot fear and even more anger swirling through my bones. Everyone in Ace's rotten gang, well, they were distracted with Chris and Ace's little showdown, and so I quickly and silently grabbed the gun from Chris's pack, then silently clicked the safety off. I hadn't shot a gun in my entire life, but I knew how almost all of the parts of a gun like that worked. (My father taught Denny how to shoot a gun, and even though my father nor Denny hadn't brought me along, I snuck out of the house and followed them to a firing range, making sure to keep a safe distance away from them. I kept an eye on them while they didn't even know they were being followed by me. My father taught Denny (and me; unbeknownst to them), how to aim and fire a gun. The recoil, everything. That's how I was able to shoot the gun and not blow my own hand/foot off.)
Anyway, Ace and his gang backed off really quick when I said that I'd just shoot Ace, their leader. I was relieved. Although, my hands were shaking badly as I put the gun down. When we got back to Castle Rock, and when me and Chris had walked back to his house, with the gun (and the safety on) still carefully wrapped up in his backpack under a blanket, I had made myself a promise that I would never pick up a gun again unless it was absolutely necessary.
"It's true." He murmured, pulling me out of my thoughts. He looked extremely sad, and I felt my heart ache in my chest. "I'm fucking stupid."
"Don't. Say. That." I hissed quietly. A sense of protectiveness and even more déjà vu washed over me. I didn't know what it was, but the thought of Chris being sad or hurt made me extremely protective. Is this what Denny felt like when he was still alive? Constantly worrying about me? Is this what Chris felt like whenever I showed up at his house, crying because of bullies, my neglectful parents, my brother's death, or the fact that people told me that I would never grow up to be as important, well-known or respected as Denny? That feeling sucked ass. It still does happen sometimes with my kid.
"Gordie, I am. You know that it's-"
"Stop saying that!" I shouted.
"Why?!" He demanded instantly. "Everyone knows it's true! Hell I'm sure you know that I'm a nothing, that I'm just a goddamned pile of shit with a fucked up family history!"
"No, Chris, I don't think that. God damn it, Chris, you're not a "lowlife Chambers kid". You're not stupid, either. If anything, you've got more actual freaking brains than anyone I know. Including Goddamned Teddy Duchamp, whose had the ability to absorb any kind of information and regurgitate it back to anyone and everyone no matter what since for-fucking-ever! And I do not think for one second that you're a nothing, or a pile of shit! You're everything I could possibly like in a friend!" I ranted. "And I know for a fact that you know that we've both got a seriously fucked up family history. Damn it, Chris, listen to me: your-"
"Gordie, you don't understand!" He snapped, cutting me off. "That stupid stereotype of my family is my entire fucking past, present and future in a damned nutshell! My family's stereotype will haunt me to my goddamned grave!" He yelled again, and he sounded on the edge of tears. "I hate my fucking life, I hate my goddamned father, and my mother, and I hate my stupid siblings most of the time, and I especially hate goddamned Eyeball! I want…" his voice cracked, and a rush of emotions flew across his tanned face, "I want to kill myself, damn it!" He screamed suddenly.
"Chris! No! Don't you say that!" I yelled, white hot panic filling my bones up. No, no! There's no way — no.
"Gordie, we shouldn't be hanging out anymore, man." Panic, sadness, and anger ate were all mashed up together in his voice. He was rambling on desperately; his thoughts were a mess, I could tell. It was so bad that poor Chris couldn't even speak properly, or give out any kind of reasoning whatsoever. His blue eyes were large and as round as saucers, and the normally calm dark, ocean blue of his eyes changed completely; it was like a storm at sea, and his eyes were the center of the storm. "I'm dragging you down!" He cried out desperately as an attempt to sway me from still trying to be friends with him. But there was no way in Hell that I was gonna give up, not by a long shot.
"I don't give a shit, even if that's true! You're my best friend! Fuck my grades, I'm happier to have you as a friend, Chris! I don't give a shit if you're dragging me down!"
"You should give a shit!" He screamed. "Your father is right when he says that I'm no good for you!"
"Fuck what my father says!" I yelled furiously. How dare my father put those thoughts into his head!
"I'm no good for you!" He repeated. "Hell I should just kill myself when I get back to my house."
"If that's true, then I'm no good for you, either!" I screamed, and I tried to hold back tears that threatened to fall from my eyes. "And you wanna know something, Chris?"
"What, Gordie?!" He yelled desperately.
"If you kill yourself-" I took a deep, shaky breath then swallowed hard to keep my voice from noticeably cracking, "-you'd better save me a spot in Heaven next to you, because damn it, if you kill yourself Chris, I won't be far behind!" I cried.
Chris looked shocked at this. "W-what? Gordie, no. You can't… you can't kill yourself. Fuck, Gordie-"
I powered on. "I'll go right ahead and do it, and don't think I won't. I'll slice myself up into ribbons and die of blood loss or load up a gun, put the damn thing to my head and pull the trigger."
Chris visibly cringed at this, like he just got shot in the leg. "Gordie-"
"I'll kill myself without a second thought," my voice rose, "because if it means I get to be in freaking Heaven next to my best friend in the whole wide world, with you, I'll gladly kill my-fucking-self without hesitating for a damned second!" I snapped, on the verge of tears. I could feel a sob build in the back of my throat, but I shoved it back down, determined not to cry. Tears were about to leak out of my eyes. I could feel them, my eyes, burning. My vision was completely blurry from unshed hot, salty tears. Chris's image was distorted, and I couldn't really see all that well.
However, I could still see that Chris looked about a minute away from crying as well. And it really hurt to see that. "Gordie, man-"
I surged forward and wrapped my arms around his shoulders tightly, effectively stopping him from saying anything else. Then I did something completely out of my character, I buried my face in his shirt, then took a long, deep breath. A familiar comfort washed over me at his scent. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. I felt Chris's arms wrap around my shoulders tightly, and he rested his chin lightly on my head, rocking us back and forth a bit to calm ourselves down. One of his hands rested on my hip gently, and my heart rate increased slightly at this. I didn't know why. Friends… hold each other, right? Whenever they're upset, right? I convinced myself that it was normal for Chris's hand to be on my hip.
"Chris, Chris… oh, Chris…" I murmured thickly, and my voice was slightly muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Unfortunately, I started to really cry, like the pussy I was. The waterworks kept on coming, tears slipping down my cheeks and wetting his shirt.
Chris must have felt my tears wetting and staining his shirt, because he pulled back and he gently placed his hand that was on my hip on my cheek. "Gordie, I'm sorry for yelling."
"There's nothing to be sorry for, Chris." I murmured, hiccuping quietly, and sighed once his hand dropped from my cheek. "I was the one who k-kept pressuring you. It wasn't cool of me. Sorry, man." Panic rose up inside of me. "Please d-don't kill yourself, Chris." I sobbed. "If you die, I just… I won't - I…" I trailed off. I would have said that *I will stop eating all together and then kill myself to be with you*. But I didn't dare say that. Not in front of him.
Chris leaned forward and slipped his hand onto my cheek again, wiping away the tears that continued to spill out of my eyes. His palm was warm and soft, which made me calm down slightly. "Shh, shh, shh, Gordie, it's fine." He soothed. "Everything's fine. I won't. I won't do anything stupid. I promise." He whispered, voice thick with emotion.
I sobbed harshly, wrapping my arms around him tightly.
"Gordie, I should go." He said after a few minutes of silent, reassuring touches. "Get back home before my dad or Eyeball comes home." I felt him starting to pull back reluctantly, as if he did not want to leave my embrace. He sat up from my bed, and I quickly spurred myself into action.
"No!" I protested loudly, my mind hazy with sadness and desperation. "Stay. Stay stay stay stay stay." I chanted, trying to pull Chris back into my arms.
"Okay, okay." He murmured, sitting back down and letting me rest his head on his shoulder.
I sighed happily, my cheeks warming up slightly when he placed his hands on my lower back as a comforting gesture. I smiled, listening to Chris as he hummed a song under his breath.
"Gordie?" Chris asked suddenly, and his hands stopped their movements.
"Yeah?" I mumbled.
"Why the hell are you so goddamned thin?"
My mind exploded with pure panic. Fuck, how could I be so careless? Shit shit shit shit. Oh shit! "W-what? Chris, I-I've always been skinny." I stuttered out, my heart beating like as fast as a hummingbird's wings in my chest.
"Yeah, that is true..." Chris frowned, his pointer finger tracing the bumps of my spine. I tried to ignore how nice it felt. I knew he wasn't comforting me with the gesture, though. He was trying to figure something out. I inhaled slightly, then quietly exhaled. "But you've never been this skinny." He murmured.
"I've… I've been working out." I said weakly. Hey, it was the first thing that came to my mind other than "I've been starving myself." My voice was as dry as the Rossenberg's crops, and my tongue felt like a pound of lead or salt.
"Bullshit." He said, his eyes narrowing at me like he was some kind of cat and I was the poor, defenseless prey.
"Bull-true, Chris." I replied, but my shaking voice betrayed me.
"Gordie-" he tried to say something, but I wasn't having any of his shit right now.
"Drop it, asshat." I snapped suddenly, more defensive than anything else. "It's none of your motherfucking concern." I huffed. "And your concern, while flattering, isn't needed. I'm fine."
Chris glared at me, and his hands fell away from my back. I instantly missed the warmth. His eyes were no longer warm and comforting like they were a minute ago, they were icy cold. "Gordie-"
"I'm fine." I said, biting my lower lip harshly between my teeth.
"Fucking hell Gordie, you're not fine!" He exploded suddenly. "Not at all, man! This-" he motioned me in a vague gesture, but I knew that he was talking about my skinniness, "-isn't fine! Why the hell are you skinny?!"
I didn't answer. I physically couldn't, because of the lump that had formed in my throat. Besides, if I did I felt that I would have started crying. I shifted my eyes to the floor, my heart hammering away in my chest. My tongue felt like lead rolled up in hard-grained sandpaper. My whole body felt numb. My mind was dizzy with panic.
Chris let out a broken sound in the back of his throat before he dug his tan hands into his hair, and the expression on his face was desperate and heartbroken. "Please, Gordie." He murmured.
"I'm not talking about it!" I yelled defensively.
"Gordie." His voice cracked. "Please. I want to help you. You need to-"
"Fuck you, Chris!" I screamed, punching his chest with my pale, bony fist. "You don't get to tell me what to do! You're not my fucking father!"
"You mean I'm not your goddamned deadbeat father!" He shouted, and all of the sadness and desperation was gone from his voice in an instant. "I wish to hell I was your dad, because I know for a fact that I wouldn't neglect you like your own damn father does! I wouldn't ignore you or make shitty, overused excuses as to why I can't do this or that with you, I'd actually do the things you'd ask me to do. If I was your father, I'd actually make sure I'm putting your own damn happiness before my own goddamned happiness!"
"Shut up!" I screamed at him, anger exploding through my veins. "Shut up, you fucking asshole! You don't get to talk about my father like that!" (In all honesty, I was kind of glad that he said that.)
"Why don't you fucking make me stop?" He snapped.
"Shut up! And that's rich, coming from you! At least my father doesn't fucking abuse me every night!"
I saw Chris cringe. I had hit a nerve, crossed a dangerous line. "Shut you damned mouth, asshole!" He snapped, his hands curling up into fists.
"Why?! Everyone knows it's true that you dad abuses you and your other siblings! It's not a secret!"
"Fuck you, corpse breath!" He shouted.
I rolled my eyes but kept quiet. The silence was thick and heavy around us. We sat in tense silence, looking away from each other. I looked out my window and Chris looked at my bedroom wall behind me. He's pissed, I'm pissed, it all sucked.
"Your father emotionally abuses you. That's worse, isn't it?"
"No." I gritted out.
We lapsed into angry, awkward silence again. Chris broke the silence after a long while of it. "Damn it, Gordie, just LISTEN to me-" he shouted.
"No!" I yelled again, unwanted tears suddenly burning in my eyes yet again. I didn't even know why I had those tears in the first place. I just wanted them gone and Chris's concerned looks out of my house. "Get out!" I shouted suddenly, the anger swirling in my body getting worse, harder to control.
He blinked, looking shocked, confused. "What?"
"You heard me, you idiot! Get out of my damned house!" I punched his chest with my pale, bony hand again, hot salty tears finally slipping down my cheeks.
Chris's angry expression fell, replaced with a worried, upset, guilt ridden one. He sighed, and he leaned over and cupped my cheeks carefully, wiping away the tears that dripped down my cheeks. Sobs racked my whole body, making me feel weak. I was angry, but I wasn't angry at him, for something he'd said. It was because I didn't want to feel his kind, reassuring touches. They made me feel like I was a wounded animal who he had to mercy kill. I felt weak under his reassuring touches, and I wanted them goddamned gone, even if I never wanted them to move away from my back. God, what was going on with me? I was — I was confused. Yeah, yeah, I was just confused, and… and suddenly craving human touch. But then I said: "I want you out, Chris. Now." Which was counterproductive to the fact that I was craving human touch, and the fact that he would leave on my broken command would be taking human interaction away from me. I ignored it.
I hiccuped, glaring at him through the tears pooling in my eyes. Now, suddenly I was repulsed by the thought of human interaction. I wanted him gone as soon as freaking possible. "N-now, damn it." My voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"Gordie…" he breathed. His voice was scratchy and thick (yet somehow still so soft) with emotion.
"I hate you." I blurted out, the tears replaced by anger again. God, I was acting like a hormonal teenage girl. "I hate your guts so fucking much, Chris!" I screamed.
Chris looked close to tears. "Y-y-you don't… you don't mean that, right?" His breathing stuttered harshly, which was completely unnatural of him. I didn't understand why at the time, but I know now the fact that his best friend of eight years said that he hated him did some damage to him. Words can do a lot of damage when used to cause pain, I should know. I was on the receiving end of so many hateful comments, I'd be able to write a seven paged essay on them. I know for a fact that it wouldn't even be a full proper essay, it'd just start with a mean word on one page and then it'd turn into a single word-for-word, a-period-after-each-word-only essay.
"I do!" I screamed again. "I hate you, Chris! And I want you out of my house! Go before I make you, you shit-head!" My screaming turned into another round of pathetic loud sobbing. The anger disappearing from my body, I curled up into a ball on my bed, balancing my chin on my shins, trying desperately to stop the waterworks, but I couldn't. I whimpered, pulling at my hair harshly to have something to ground myself to reality to. "I hate you I hate you I hate you." I chanted quietly, like it was a prayer.
Suddenly I felt my bed dip, and then I felt warm hands rubbing my back. "Shh… shh… shh…" Chris murmured. I moaned like a badly wounded animal, (hopefully) subtly leaning into his embrace.
"Chris…" I sniffled, "I… God… I… I'm sorry." (How the hell did I go from yelling at him to apologizing to him that quickly? Even today, I still don't know that answer. My behavior back then baffles me.)
"I know, Gordie. I know. Do you still want me to leave?"
I nodded. "Y-yeah." My voice cracked again. "Leave."
Chris nodded, and I felt my bed groan a bit as his weight left it. "Okay." He said softly. "Um, goodbye, Gordie." He shrugged on his flannel again, then played with the ends of his shirt, avoiding my eyes.
I sniffled quietly, wiping the tears from my cheeks. "Goodbye, Christopher." I said shortly, swallowing hard to get past the lump in my throat.
Without another word, Chris walked over to my window, opened it, and hopped over to my tree. He balanced himself on the sturdy branch, and then, turning back to the open window, his tan hands gripped the edges of my white painted bedroom window, he pulled it down. It hit my windowsill with a soft, almost completely silent thump.
(After our fight, we didn't talk to each other for eleven whole weeks. In that extremely lonely time, I thought about a lot of things. I thought about how I wished that I could stopped myself from saying those things to him.
I didn't try to contact Chris in that time. I busied myself with other things, like reading, homework, and reconnecting with some of my other old friends.
…I starved myself even more. I was in agony, but refused to admit it.)