A single salty stream ran down Gordo's sallow cheeck as he vehemently pulled a pillow tightly over his ears in an attempt to block out his parents screaming downstairs. He couldn't make out what they were saying, nor did he try to anymore. This had gone on for so long. Waking up, a five year old child, walking downstairs for breakfast and stepping on a broken piece of glass from some plate or figurine broken the night before. Gordo could still remember the anger he felt, while he sat on the floor of his closet, up in his room, the lights turned out, his knees pulled tightly against his chest. Just a child. Now that he was older- a freshman in highschool- the fighting still continued. First he felt saddness. He felt upset that his parents were so unhappy that a simple thing like "Who misplaced the remote control" could sent them off into a rage, throwing plates across the room, smashing everything of value into bits and pieces that would be left for him to clean up in the morning. The screaming and crying and hysterical mania all made him feel this deep saddness in the pit of his stomach. A yearning to make everything all right. Next, came shame. He felt ashamed that his friend's parents didn't fight like this. And even if they did, at least they did it in secrecy, in privacy, not while their children were having friends over. Not during his birthday parties. Not out at resturaunts while everyone was watching. From these thoughts, came the anger. This was the stage where Gordo would get up and throw something around in his room. Never anything breakable, no, he was too scared to do that. Usually a pillow or something silly like that. This was always followed by screaming into his bed, pulling the sheets up around his mat of black curls. Then came the breakdown. The angry screaming turned into sobs. Thick, heaving sobs that his parents were angry and sad, and all he could do is hate them for it. But they loved him. Why did he have to be so inconsiderate? This brought on the guilt. A deep throbbing guilt. Completely irrational, but no less painful then the guilt of killing a kitten or betraying your best friend. Gordo thought about this, and wondered where he got those two ideas from. Of course they weren't as bad as his normal thoughts. Often, in normal conversation with a friend or aquaintance, Gordo would have these strange visions, thoughts, feelings or urges. For instance, sometimes he'd picture a long needle stretching out and piercing someone through the temple as the blood trickled mockingly down their face. They would usually smile, or just not react. Then sometimes he'd have urges. For example, he'd be talking to his teacher and get an urge to throw a stapler at their head. For no reason, mind. Just because he felt he had to do it. Once, when he was five, he followed one of these urges and pushed a little three year old girl off a table. The cherry Cool-Aid she'd been drinking ran down her little white jean shirt and shorts as her hair filled with mulch and dirt. Gordo had been grounded for this baffling act, but it felt satisfying, worth it. Still, usually he suppressed these urges and just replaced them with guilt, hatred and saddness. Right now, Gordo was attempting to ignore these stages and just pretend they weren't fighting. That they were actually having a "discussion" as they told him so many times as a child. Denial was such a problem for some people but Gordo figured it was only a problem because they couldn't realize how good they had it. He wished he could forget, or at least just block out the pain. It was bad enough that Gordo had some sort of chemical imbalance. No doctor had said this, because Gordo never told his family about his thoughts of suicide and his deep depressions, but he'd researched enough online to do a self diagnosis. Aside from his many books and movies, the depression was all he had. Of course, he also had his friends, Lizzie and Miranda, but they were no help. Too superficial to realize they were superficial and besides, Gordo had a facade of happiness that he intended to keep. By being sarcastic and "not caring" what other people thought, Gordo could fend off any inqueries or suspicious minds. Besides, Gordo had this strange obsession with Lizzie, which put an invisible strain on the friendship, that no one but Gordo saw. Was it love? He couldn't tell.

With final images of Lizzie McGuire circling his mind, Gordo had fallen asleep, somewhat happy and was now waking up to a stream of milky yellow light peering through his vertical blinds and gently kissing his eyelids. It was Saturday. Gordo could tell because he had not been jolted out of bed by the din of his flashing digital alarm clock. It's blinding red numbers read that it was already 11:30. Gordo lazily flung himself out of bed, resting one foot on the floor for about a minute before finally convincing the rest of his body to follow suit. His plaid pajama bottoms dragged slightly under his bare feet as he lifted a hand to scratch the pale, skinny torso that rested under his mismatched blue shirt. Pausing in front of the bathroom door, he rubbed his eyes and stretched, giving out a great yawn that sounded almost painful. His parent's bedroom door was closed. His mother was asleep. She always slept late after a fight and would probably sleep the rest of the day, waking once or twice to use the restroom or make some coffee. His father was at work. Opening the bathroom door, Gordo followed through with the menial morning tasks of teeth brushing and showering, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans (that had only been sitting on his floor for a week) and a comb through his hair. Now, for the rest of the day he would just sit around watching tv, movies, reading and snacking. A gentle sigh escaped his lips as he attempted to block out teasing memories of the night before. He felt he needed to clear his head, so without thinking he ran outside, slamming the door behind him. Immeadiately, the thick summer air pennetrated his skin, sinking into his bones and transforming into sweat. Still, he ran. He ran until it hurt and his blood pumped battery acid. Something about it though, the pain . . . felt good.

Gordo stopped when he saw something glistening on the dry concrete desert, about five feet in front of him. Walking slowly up to it, panting as his body switched gears, he was soon able to make out the shape and give the object a name. Razor blade. Gently, he bent down, his knees still above the ground and reached for the object. Watching the light bounce off it's metallic exterior, Gordo smiled in awe. Almost mechanically, he pocketed the razor blade and walked on, this time very slowly, very meticulously. Small shadows, hanging off the trees graced his cheeks and arms softly, ineffectively sheilding him from the blinding summer sunlight. The sky seemed to be almost white, shining with heat, angry heat. Gordo, very suddenly, turned to walk home.