Hey, guys! I really do have more time on my hands since changing my schedule and managed to write and edit a chapter for you guys! Just as a warning, the boys talk about cutting in this chapter so just look out for that if it makes you uncomfortable. So, in about a month from now, it'll be the 1 year anniversary of me uploading the first chapter on here! I'll do my absolute best to update on that day so look out for that! I might have something else in between, too, so keep on the look out for updates. It's strange having updates after months of not but it feels good to write again. Anyway, I don't have anything else to say so enjoy and I'll see you next time!
Dr. Hughes doesn't host the group during winter break. He says he wants us to just "enjoy" our winter break and group might hinder our ability to do so. I guess I get where he's coming from. Group hasn't been exactly a treat for me and Al recently. All it's done is stress us out and make us relive the absolute worst parts of our lives. That's a good thing, though. At least, I think it's a good thing. I feel like I've gotten better since I've started telling my story, but that could all be in my head. I could really be getting worse and worse and I wouldn't have a clue. Of course, all this shit is in my head during pancake breakfast day. It's Monday. I shouldn't even be worrying about Wednesday or the lack of group or anything like that. All I should be doing is eating my pancakes and listen to Dad complain about how the day after Christmas is slowly becoming exactly like Black Friday and God – he hates Black Friday. Granny and Dada always go shopping together the day after Christmas 'cause everything is marked down. Me and Al just hung out with Winry and the rest of the weekend was pretty boring. I mean, we didn't have therapy this week since Christmas was on a Friday and Saturday was the day after Christmas so really it was just Sunday that was boring.
We didn't do much after breakfast this morning. I both love and hate winter break 'cause there's freaking nothing to do. I mean, that's nice for a couple of days but when it's the second week of nothing, it kinda gets old. If it snowed or something, at least we'd have something to do. But we haven't been that lucky, yet. It sucks 'cause all I do is sit on the couch, usually in my pajamas, and stare at the TV. I don't even put on Netflix or anything anymore. Al doesn't seem too bothered by nothing, but he always finds a way to entertain himself where I just can't seem to. I sleep mostly. God, I hate winter break. Anyway, it's the afternoon so we're on our way to see Dr. Hughes. I really don't know what I'm gonna talk about today, honestly. I mean, Christmas went really well and I did like meeting Papa so what should I talk about? Maybe since there's no group this week, I could talk about the abuse. I shudder. Never mind. Don't wanna do that. I don't wanna be anxious and upset. I'd rather be bored and in my underwear at home than anxious. Being anxious is the worst. We walk into the building and Dada signs us in. The kids rush over as always and Dad joins in on the "mom talk". I don't get why he calls it that when he's not a mom. I guess it's 'cause moms usually do most of the parenting and, well, we really haven't had someone like that since Mom died. So he does the parent talk that moms usually do. I wonder what the topic is today. Not that I care, but you know. I just need to know he's not talking about me or any of my issues. But I really don't care. Really, I don't.
We only wait for about ten minutes. I was tempted to listen in on Dada's "mom talk", but I never did 'cause I don't care what he says. I really don't. Dr. Hughes comes to get us and Al and me go back with him. I still don't know what I'm gonna talk about. Maybe Al has something on his mind. He's been kinda weird since Christmas. Not like super weird, but just kinda quiet and withdrawn. I figure he's just tired. He hasn't really been sleeping well. And I don't just mean nightmares, either. He's been lying awake at night, just staring at the ceiling. So that's why Al's been so weird – he's exhausted. We make it to Dr. Hughes' office and Al flops down in a chair. Dr. Hughes chuckles lightly and sits down in front of Al and I sit next to my brother. Al yawns loudly and Dr. Hughes asks,
"Tired?" Al nods sleepily.
"Yeah," he replies. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."
"Nightmares?" Dr. Hughes asks. Al shakes his head.
"Insomnia, mostly," Al answers. "I mean, I have nightmares, but I can't seem to fall asleep at night to begin with."
"Does sleeping make you anxious?" Dr. Hughes asks and I scoff softly. Of course it does. It always does. At least, it makes me anxious. I'm so terrified of having nightmares or pissing myself or even sleep walking (not that I do that very much anymore, but still) that I don't even wanna sleep. But usually I'm so tired since I don't sleep that I fall asleep anyway. It sucks. Al nods quietly beside me.
"Yeah," he admits. "I get so scared that if I have an accident or I have a bad dream, Dada will get mad at me or Ed will get mad and…. I don't know. I mean, I've always been anxious about sleeping but for some reason it's really bad right now."
"Al, you know your family would never get angry at you for anything that happens at night," Dr. Hughes assures him. "That stuff is beyond your control. You don't do it on purpose."
"I know," Al sighs. "It's just… a couple weeks ago Dad was really frustrated with me when I couldn't fall asleep after I had a bad dream. I guess it stuck with me and I haven't really been sleeping well since." Huh. Al's never told me that. I remember blowing up at Dada for being frustrated and he apologized but I guess it hurt Al's feelings and Al didn't tell anyone. Typical Al, I guess.
"Getting frustrated is natural," Dr. Hughes tells him. "Don't you get frustrated with yourself when those issues arise?" Al nods and Dr. Hughes says, "How have you been dealing with those feelings?" Al shudders and my heart starts to beat funny.
"Not well," Al admits quietly, his chin quivering. He shakes his head and I lean forward in my seat.
"Al," I breathe, "What did you do?" Al starts heaving.
"I'm s-sorry," he struggles.
"Breathe, Al," Dr. Hughes instructs. "Calm down before you say anything." Al struggles to breathe and I shake my head.
"You didn't," I say, my voice shaking. "Please tell me you didn't. Please tell me you didn't hurt yourself." Al's still heaving, gasping loudly as he tries to breathe.
"I…. I tr-tried not t-to," Al pants. "R-Really!"
"Show me," I demand, forgetting Dr. Hughes is sitting there. Al shakes his head, tears forming in his eyes and I shout, "Show me!"
"Ed, calm down," Dr. Hughes says calmly. "Yelling won't help."
"Don't tell me what to do!" I yell. "Al's hurting himself! He's cutting! He needs to show me!"
"Please, try to breathe, Ed," Dr. Hughes tries again. "Getting angry won't help your brother." Al takes a haggard breath and rolls his sleeves up. My eyes widen as I examine Al's arms. Oh, my God, it's bad. It's like me when I was thirteen bad. His forearms have a shit-ton of cuts, some long, some short. Some are scabbed over and healing, others are pink and raw. He's got some Band-Aids on his skin, probably hiding the most recent ones. I shake my head, my tongue running across my lips.
"Oh, Al," I manage to say, my throat feeling like rubber. "Al, why?" Al rubs desperately at his eyes, smearing tears all over his face.
"I-I'm s s-s-sorry!" Al wails pathetically. "I w-w-wanna st-stop! I d-don't w-wanna c-cut!"
"Is that why you've kept it hidden, Al?" Dr. Hughes asks as I stare at Al's arms. My little brother feels so badly about himself that he thinks hurting himself is the only solution. I know from experience that only time really heals that, but God do I wish I could heal it for him.
It kills me that Al feels this way. Like, I feel like there's a weight on my chest. I'm still kinda in disbelief, even though I can see his arms with my own eyes. You know, I had noticed that Al stopped getting dressed in our room after showers. I noticed that he was always wearing long sleeves. Always. Granted, it's winter, but still. He sometimes wears a short sleeved t-shirt to bed but hasn't for a while. I've noticed him scratching at his arms, but figured he just had dry skin. I had no idea that he was scratching at healing scabs. And you know what? I should have. He's told me how shitty he feels. He's told me that he's in the low place – that after all the progress he's made recently he still wishes he was dead. I know that right now he hates himself. I should have recognized the signs. I've seen them in myself and I've failed Al by not realizing what was going on. Or maybe I was in denial. Maybe I didn't want to believe that Al was really feeling that badly about himself. Either way, I failed to protect him.
"Yeah," Al whimpers, wiping his face. "I d-didn't w-want to w-w-worry Br-Brother or D-Dada with it. I m-mean, it's only m-me." It's only me. Is that really how Al feels? I shake my head, unwilling to accept that my little brother actually feels that badly about himself.
"Al, you are worth worrying about," Dr. Hughes says gently. "You know that I have to tell your dad you're cutting, right?" Al nods, his lip trembling pathetically.
"Yeah, b-but I d-d-don't w-want you to," Al cries softly. "He'll g-get m-m-mad."
"He won't," I butt in. I gently take Al's hand in mine, my thumb rubbing the back of it and I say, "He'll worry and he might freak out a bit, but he won't get mad. He never got mad at me when I was cutting. He just worried. Promise." Al nods, tears rolling down his face.
"I'm so sorry," he whimpers.
"It's okay," I comfort. "It's okay. We have to work harder so you don't hurt yourself anymore. I don't want you to go through this. It's hell." Al nods.
"Al, you should try some of the alternatives Ed uses when he wants to cut," Dr. Hughes tells him. "He rubs ice on his skin or uses a pen to mark all over his arms when he feels like he wants to cut."
"I also like to rip up paper or color," I add. "It sounds stupid, but it really helps." Al nods again.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"Al, it's alright," Dr. Hughes says. "You did a good thing by admitting to us you've been hurting yourself. That takes a lot of courage. I'm proud of you."
"I'm proud of you, too," I tell him. "It took me forever to admit I was cutting. It looks like you've only been doing it for a couple of weeks. You're so brave, Al."
"I am?" Al asks miserably.
"You are," I say, smiling gently at him. Dr. Hughes stands and puts a hand on Al's shoulder.
"I need to go tell your dad," Dr. Hughes says. Al nods.
"Okay but…. But could I do it instead of you?" Al says. Dr. Hughes smiles – that dad smile that makes me feel safe – and nods.
"Of course you can," Dr. Hughes replies. "I'll go get him." Al nods and Dr. Hughes leaves. Al's still heaving slightly, trying desperately to get his breathing under control.
"How long have you been cutting?" I ask softly. Al shrugs, still breathing erratically.
"I-I don't kn-know," Al stutters. He lowers his head and says very quietly, "S-Since Th-Thanks…. Thanksgiving." He cringes and says, "P-Please don't be m-mad." I shake my head and start rubbing his back.
"I'm not mad, Brother," I assure him. "I'm sad that you think this is the only way to deal with all the shit you're going through. I'm sad I never caught on or recognized the signs even though I've been there. I'm so sorry, Al, that you're going through this." Al nods, his eyes glued to the floor. The door opens, Dr. Hughes and a very worried looking Dada walking in. Dr. Hughes shuts the door and they both sit down, Dad looking anxiously at Al.
"Okay, Al," Dr. Hughes says, "I didn't tell your dad anything. You have the floor, buddy." Al swallows nervously, an anxious whimper escaping his lips. Dad leans forward in his seat as I grab Al's hand.
"Go ahead, Al," I encourage. "It's okay. You're not in trouble."
"What's going on, Al?" Dad asks worriedly. "Are you okay? You're beginning to scare me." Al shake his head, tears beginning to roll down his face.
"I'm s-sorry, D-Dada," Al whimpers pathetically. "I…. I've b-been c-c-cutting s-since Th-Thanksgiving." Dad straightens his back, his eyes wide.
"What?" He breaths, Al breaking down. He starts sobbing and I squeeze his hand as Al wails,
"I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry, Dada! I'm s-s-so s-sorry!" Dad shakes his head and engulfs Al in a hug.
"Oh, honey," Dad says softly, petting Al's hair as Al cries into Dada's shoulder. "Honey, why? Why would you hurt yourself? I don't understand, sweetie." Al just cries and Dr. Hughes sighs softly.
"Victor, you know that people being to self-harm when they feel like there's no other way to deal with their negative feelings," Dr. Hughes explains. "Al has a lot of pent-up feelings that considering his age and long list of traumas that he can't deal with. He's only fourteen, Victor. Dealing with what he has to deal with at fourteen is overwhelming." Dad nods, kissing Al's hair.
"I know," Dad replies. Of course Dad knows. Dad got the same talk when I admitted to cutting when I was thirteen. I'm, like, 90% sure it's the same exact talk, actually. I shake my head. Whatever – that doesn't matter. What matters is Al.
"It's going to be okay, Victor," Dr. Hughes assures him. "You'll get through this just like you did when Ed was cutting. You'll do it as a family. You'll do it as a unit and help Al get passed this problem."
"D-Daddy," Al whimpers, "Dad, I d-don't w-w-wanna d-do it an-anymore! I d-d-don't w-wanna h-h-hurt myself!"
"Oh, baby, I know," Dad comforts gently, "I know you don't. We'll get through it, honey. We will. It'll be okay."
"P-Please d-d-don't b-be mad, D-Dada," Al begs pathetically.
"I'm not mad at you," Dad promises, still gently petting Al's hair. "I'm not mad. It's just a roadblock, Al, that's all. If I got mad, I wouldn't be able to help you get passed it properly." I grin – Dad's really getting good at helping us. I mean, he's always been good, but at first he didn't know how to react to shit like this. I know 'cause I didn't get this reaction when I told him I was cutting.
When I first told him about me cutting, Dad lost it. He wasn't really mad, but he didn't know how to handle it and kinda forgot that I really didn't know how to deal with it, either. That was kinda why I was cutting to begin with. I remember crying 'cause I felt so dirty and guilty that I was using razors to hurt myself on purpose and all Dad could do was yell and ask me why I would do something like that. Didn't I know it hurt the family? Didn't I know how that affected everyone around me? Didn't I know better? Of course I knew all that. I was thirteen – I wasn't stupid. I knew what I was doing affected more than just me. I knew it was hurting everyone around me when I hurt myself or when I set fires. I knew all that. Dad has apologized to me for reacting that way but I'll never forget how angry he got. But I'll also never forget how he came along side me and encouraged me to stop. I'll never forget the many times I locked myself in the bathroom, a blade hovering over my skin, and Dada talking to me gently outside the door to calm me down. I'll never forget how special Dad treated me when I was cutting, how special he made me feel. How loved he made me feel. I'll never forget any of that. And I know Dad's gonna do all that for Al. He has to or Al will never get better.
"I'm sorry," Al cries, Dad petting his hair and rubbing his back. "I'm sorry."
"Shh, it's okay, baby," Dada coos gently in Al's ear. "It's okay."
"See, Al?" I ask, Al glancing over at me. He blinks and I grin toothily at him. "I told ya Dada wouldn't be mad." Al smiles weakly, a laugh escaping him and for the first time since Al admitted to hurting himself, I remember that Al's gonna be okay.
Dad sits in for the rest of therapy 'cause Al's being kinda clingy. Just like when I was cutting, Dr. Hughes as the whole family come up with a plan of action to stop Al from cutting. It's pretty basic. It basically outlines alternatives to self-harm, what to do when Al does it, and how to reward him when he goes for a long time without doing it. It also talks about putting locks on the drawers where we keep knives and hiding razors and scissors and shit like that. We all sign it, Al declaring that he wants to be clean by the time his birthday comes around. Dr. Hughes praised him, saying that setting goals is a good way to stick by the plan. Dad decided that little presents and one-on-one time with him would be Al's reward for not cutting, just like me. Those were my rewards and I gotta admit – it worked. I liked it when I hadn't cut for a week and Dada bought me that book I was looking at in Wal-Mart. I liked when I had been clean for a month so Dada took me – just me – to the movies or out to dinner. That really worked for me so I know it'll work for Al. Dad also had to promise to not punish Al when he cut. Dr. Hughes says that's a mistake lots of parents make. They punish their kid for doing it instead of trying to help their kid through the problem that's causing the cutting to begin with. Considering Dad never punished me when I did it (he mostly just looked like he was gonna cry every time I told him I cut after being clean), I figured that he wasn't gonna punish Al, either. Al got to help write the plan 'cause Dr. Hughes believes in letting kids have input in their treatment. He knows how important feeling like you have control is so he let Al help. I could see it in Al's face that he really liked helping write it and I could also tell how determined Al was to stop. It's not like anyone enjoys cutting so he's going to do his very best to stop before it gets out of control like mine did.
After therapy we grabbed some dinner and went home. Since there's no school, Al and me don't have homework and Dada doesn't have grading. That's what's so boring about winter break. Those days in between Christmas and New Year's are so damn boring. There's nothing to do. Go to the mall? What's the point – the mall's the same as it was the last time. Once you've gone once, you've seen it all. Go to the movies? It's boring after you've gone once and honestly, there's nothing good out right now anyways. Sleep? Don't even get me started on sleep. What we usually do is put on Netflix and talk until one of us decides to get ready for bed. Half the time we don't even watch whatever we put on. We just ignore it to talk to one another. When school's happening, Dada works a lot so Al and I never get to really just talk to him. I guess that's one good thing about winter break – we get to spend some quality time with Dad. After about an hour of watching Netflix, our home phone rings. I groan, Dad going to answer it.
"Hello?" Dad says, a smile creeping across his face. "Oh, alright. One moment." He lowers the receiver and looking at me. I stare pointedly at him.
"What?" I demand.
"It's Ling," Dada tells me. "He wants to talk to you." I groan again – I know what this is about. I stand up and take the phone from Dad and exhale forcefully before putting the phone to my ear and saying,
"What's up, Ling?" I ask like I don't already know.
"This is yours and Al's official invitation to my annual New Year's sleepover," Ling announces like he's on a game show. I grimace; Ling always has a sleepover on New Year's Eve to bring in the New Year. I've been invited to it every year since I was, oh, I don't know…. Ten? I guess that's right. Anyway, I've always turned him down 'cause for some of that time I was being abused and wasn't allowed to go and now me and Al have so many sleeping issues that we turn him down so the sleepover doesn't turn into a "make fun of Ed and Al" fest.
"Ling," I begin, Ling beginning to talk instantly and cutting me off,
"Before you say anything I'm downgrading." My brow furrows.
"Huh?" I ask, Al watching me from the couch as I sit down on a chair, "What do you mean?"
"I'm only inviting a couple people besides you and Al," Ling tells me.
"Who?" I ask curiously.
"Winry, Lan Fan, Rose, and Paninya," Ling answers. "I thought maybe if it was a smaller crowd, you and Al would actually wanna come." I feel bad. Every year I turn him down and I figured eventually Ling would think it's 'cause I don't like hanging out with him which isn't the case at all. I mean, yeah, Ling can get on my nerves but he is my friend. He's been my friend since about third grade, even when I was smelly or acted weird. He and Rose were my friends even when no one else but Winry wanted to be and I feel so freaking guilty that I constantly turn them down when they invite me to do stuff. I know that soon, they're both gonna get sick of me saying no and stop inviting me and that's the last thing I want. I'm finally getting better now. If they stopped inviting me, it'd be right at a time in my life where I'm almost ready to say yes. That would be devastating for both me and Al. I gnaw on my lip anxiously, Ling saying,
"Look, dude, I don't know why you've always said no but this is gonna be fun, I promise. It'll just be the seven of us, maybe Mei if she wants to hang out, too, and there won't be any beer or shit like that. We'll just hang out and drink soda and play video games, I promise." I look over at Dada who seems like he kinda wants me to go but also knows the risks of us going.
"I, uh, maybe," I stammer anxiously. "Let me, um, ask Dad, hold on." I quickly lower the phone, all color probably gone from my face.
"What's the matter?" Al asks worriedly.
"Ling invited us to his New Year's sleepover," I explain, Al's face falling.
"Oh," he sighs. He flops on the couch and says, "Figures." I turn to Dada, pleading with my eyes for him to just tell me what to do and say so I don't have to actually do it.
"What should we do, Dada?" I ask miserably. "I do wanna go but…." Dad nods so I don't have to finish talking.
"Look, Ed," Dad begins, "I know how humiliating it would be for something to happen while sleeping over at Ling's house, but if he's really your friend he won't tease you. I have a feeling he is considering how long he's stuck around. I mean, he was your friend when Vanes… she was around and never left your side, even when no one else wanted to play with you. He's been a good friend to you all these years and I think you should go. There's ways we can avoid complications." I lower my eyes. Yeah, annoying and stupid as he is, Ling has been a good friend. When we were in middle school, there was a day after gym where I just snapped. I cried and cried in the locker room and instead of teasing me or just leaving me there, Ling got a tardy just like I did and sat with me. He didn't say anything and he didn't even ask why I was crying. He just stayed. I've never thanked him for that. I've never thanked him for all the birthday cards, all the silly things he's done for me, or all the party invites. Maybe going to this sleepover, despite everything that could go wrong, could be my way of thanking him.
"Ed," Al pipes up, "I think maybe you should go but I should stay home." Instantly I shake my head.
"No way," I tell him. "It's both of us or none of us. That's the way it's always been. Al, I have just as much to lose by going. I could have the same exact problems you'd have if you slept over so we either both go or I don't go at all." Al smiles weakly at me.
"Thanks," he says. "I kinda had a feeling you'd say that and I'm glad you did. I wanna go, too." I nod and bring the phone back up to my face.
"You still there?" I ask.
"Yep," Ling replies. I take a deep breath and say,
"We'll be there."
I can't believe I told Ling yes. I mean, I wanna go, but at the same time it's like playing Russian roulette or something. Our sleeping issues can be sporadic or they can be constant. There's no in between really. I mean, we always have nightmares, but some weeks we have way more than other weeks. Some weeks we have night terrors and some weeks we don't. Some weeks I only wet the bed one day or not at all and other weeks it's every flipping night. Lately, it's been a way more constant. Al and me have had a terrible couple of weeks sleeping wise and I know it won't take a break for Ling's sleepover. I roll over on my side and sigh. What's gonna happen on Thursday when the inevitable happens? I know Ling and Rose and all those guys are good people and they are my friends. But that doesn't mean that when something happens to me or Al (or, God forbid, both of us) they won't laugh. That they won't pity us. That they won't think we're disgusting or loud. That they won't start treating us differently than they do right now. One of the best things about having friends who don't know I was abused is that they treat me like I'm normal. They don't treat me like I'm fragile or weak or like I'm a time bomb that's gonna go off any second. When (not if, when) something happens at Ling's house, that all will change. I mean, they won't know I was abused, but they'll know a piece of me that I never wanted them to and everything will change.
I sit up suddenly, my stomach turning and my heart pounding. I could cancel. I could back out. I could call tomorrow and say no. Or, I could call the day of and fake being sick. Yeah, the fake sick thing works. I shake my head and groan, falling back onto my pillow. God, I can't do that. Not to my friends. That would be an awful thing to do to them. I mean, they only wanna spend time with me. I shouldn't take that away from them 'cause I'm a big baby who can't sleep at night. But, will we be friends when something happens at the sleepover and they learn one of my deepest secrets? I groan, rolling over forcefully and hugging Lamby tight. Okay, maybe I just stay up all night. But what about Al? Al'll probably get tired around midnight and if he drinks too much soda with the thought it'll keep him up all night…. So, Al has to sleep then. Okay, so he just doesn't have anything to drink two hours before bedtime and pees beforehand. Okay, but what if he just crashes? Or what if he just wakes up screaming? We might be able to lower the chance he'll have an accident but we can't really do anything about the nightmares. I roll over again. God, this shouldn't be so complicated. We should just be able to go to Ling's sleepover and not have to worry about this shit. But we do 'cause life sucks.
"Ed?" I sit up quickly and turn the light on next to my bed. Al's sitting up, too, and he looks over at me.
"What?" I ask. Al shrugs.
"Guess I just wanted to see if you were still awake," he tells me. I chuckle weakly.
"Can't sleep, huh?" I ask. Al nods.
"Yeah," he replies. "There's a lot on my mind." I pat my bed, encouraging Al to come over and sit by me.
"Same," I say, Al getting out of his bed and sitting down next to me. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Well, I…." Al trails off, his tongue sliding over his lips. "I must be the most selfish person for even thinking this way, but I sorta want to back out of the sleepover." I sigh.
"You, too, huh?" I ask, Al nodding.
"Uh-huh," Al answers.
"It's not selfish," I defend quickly.
"It's not?" Al questions.
"No," I reply confidently. "It's completely understandable considering what we go through at nighttime. We don't want anyone to think differently about us or laugh or anything like that."
"Yeah, but we never do anything with anyone except Winry 'cause of what we go through and our anxiety and a whole laundry list of things that sometimes feel like excuses," Al points out. He sighs deeply and shakes his head. "I don't know. It just feels selfish since we don't invite them to do anything and I wanna back out again."
"I understand," I tell him. "I guess it does feel kinda selfish but it's not like they understand. And sure, we could tell them everything but it's not like they would understand then, either. They might empathize but they can never understand. You can't unless you've lived it and I am so glad none of our friends ever have."
"But what if they have and, like us, never told anyone 'cause they're scared of everything we are," Al suggests. I shake my head.
"Then…. God, I don't know. I guess they would understand but the chances of that are slim to none." I reply. Al chuckles darkly.
"Yeah, I know," Al says. "So, what do you think, Brother? Do we still go even with the cold feet?" I swallow nervously and nod.
"We should go," I answer. "It'll be fun 'til the sleeping part happens and even then, we might, you know, get lucky and have nothing happen."
"Yeah, right," Al scoffs. "Like that'll happen."
"Hey," I say, "Try to be positive. You're good at that."
"I guess so," Al sighs. "It's just hard to be positive when you know the odds."
"Yeah, it sucks balls, but hey, at least we'll have some fun," I joke darkly. Al lies down so I do, too. He hugs me, lowering his head into my shoulder. His tremor gets worse so I anxiously ask, "You okay?"
"What if they laugh at me?" Al asks pathetically. I sigh and start to pet his hair.
"Then they laugh," I answer. Al whimpers so I say, "And I beat them up." Al giggles and I smirk. That's right, Al. Laugh. Don't think about our friends laughing at you because of shit you can't control. Laugh and relax and finally go to sleep. C'mon, kiddo – fall asleep. Al's shaking slows down and he snuggles closer to me.
"You'd really beat them up?" Al asks with a yawn.
"Yup," I reply. "I'd beat them up and make 'em cry instead of laugh."
"That's mean, Brother," Al yawns.
"It's mean to laugh in the first place, Al," I point out. Al giggles again.
"Mmm, I guess," he says sleepily. I shake my head, Al's breathing deepening as he finally goes to sleep. I sigh and stare at the ceiling. If anyone laughs, I really will beat them up. Unless, of course, they're laughing at me and then, well, I don't have a clue what I'll do.