Big Girls Don't Cry
Chapter Four
Feliks didn't look at the animals, his beloved animals. Today, the horses reminded him of things he would rather not remember. Even if they would never reject him he couldn't handle remembering. The pain inside was churning and boiling. It was like something that lived.
He wasn't a confident man. He wasn't a bold man. He wasn't large or intimidating or even mildly charismatic. He wished he was. He was so afraid of social situations he tried his very hardest to avoid them all. Even the ones he shouldn't.
He sighed sadly. He picked at the hem of his pink cardigan. He brought his knees to his chest. He set his chin on his knees. He stretched out on the bench. He turned his back to the world. He closed his eyes tight. He pressed his face into the wood. Nothing stopped the hurt and the fear. And the anger. Nothing stopped the anger, rising like bile in his throat and gripping at his lungs.
He sat up. He tended the horses. He rode the horses. He fed the horses. He went inside. He wandered about. He baked cookies. He changed his clothes. He cleaned the bathroom. He cleaned the living room. He cleaned the kitchen. He ate the cookies. He stood in front of the phone. He stared at it. He wondered if he could call. He wondered if the other would answer. Nothing stopped the hurt and the fear.
He sighed and eventually settled in his bedroom. He shucked his shirt and pulled on a soft, pink robe. He settled into a ball on his bed. He wondered if they knew that he heard what they said. He wondered if they would stop if they knew. He doubted it.
He sighed again. He knew that the words of people he didn't really like very much in the first place shouldn't hurt as much as they did. He knew what they said of him. He had said them all of himself once. 'Flamboyant' by the nice ones, far worse by the others.
It had been a long time since he had questioned his grip on his sexuality. He had embraced it. He had killed himself inside over and over until he came to the conclusion acceptance was the only way because honestly he had more important things to do than sit around hating himself. And now the others said the same things he had. The few people he knew that didn't care didn't stand up for him, they didn't care about him or his taste in colours. The ones that cared were too few to make a difference in their defence of him. They had all been tentative friends once. When did that change? And even more so he wondered something else.
"When did they come to this?"