Notes: I'm trying a new style on this story. The first part of this story came to me in these broken-up words and phrases…so that's how I wrote it. I would appreciate some constructive criticism. I'd like to know if it works or not.
Strike. Match. Fire. Burn. Past, future, present, there, here, now and then going up in flames. Love, joy, peace, excitement, exhilaration disappearing into smoke clouds above their imagined dreams. One simple explanation turned into a million questions.
How? When? Where? Who? Why? Millions of questions that went unanswered. Thousands with no answer to be seen.
One, two, three…control your temper. It won't do you any good to lash out at them…not now.
"It's not that easy to explain," I say, vague questions and answers will get them nowhere. That's exactly where I want them.
Depression, hatred, fear, fury, and death shooting to the surface. Memories long meant to be forgotten, but were never so. Placed in the back of the mind, avoiding the issue, wishing that the horrible thoughts would be blocked for him.
It wasn't that easy to put the past behind you. Whether or not you acknowledged it, it still existed in the Earth's unwritten record of occurrences. Nobody could run forever.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years go by without a single event to remind you. But eventually someone asks. You knew it would happen. He wanted to know. He was curious. It was in his nature.
His patient gaze. His welcoming smile. You want to tell him but you can't. He didn't mean to pry, he was just curious.
I open my mouth to reply, but find myself choking on the sudden staleness of the air. I gasp, trying to breathe, coughing on my own viral words that would surely infect all who heard the words I meant to say.
My coughs subside and I slowly shake my head. Not today. Not now. Maybe not ever.
His patient gaze fades, making way for disappointment. His smile falls into oblivion, one corner trying to lift, but faltering quick. He gives you a small, closed-mouth smile and stands to his feet.
I stand as well, falter, misstep, tell him I'm sorry. I just can't say. I'm not ready. He gives an understanding nod and I know he's not angry, just curious. He'll wait for me to be ready. I smile, relax and sit back down. He's not angry. Only curious.
Days later…
I sigh, lay back on the thin mattress, stare at the wooden support beams that hold the mattress above mine, the weight of another person on top of that. The boards never broke, never creaked directly above me in the middle of the night. Never sighed with the anticipation of a hundred pounds of weight shifting across it.
I smile and nod to myself. That was what I needed. A support group. A group of people or a person, willing to listen, to catch the words I say and not give out under me. They wouldn't laugh at my ridiculous paranoia or try to spray salt on the wounds I've long hidden inside of me. But they wouldn't allow me to jump all over them, to step on them with the heels on my feet. A friend who let you boss them around wasn't a friend but a lackey. I didn't need a lackey.
Where was he? I glance around the room, looking for his familiar silhouette against the background. My eyes find him. He's lying on his bunk, a good few feet above the ground, head propped up by his hands. His attention is directed to the poker game taking place below him, a smirk playing across his features as he knows who's bluffing or not. Who really has a Queen or Jack or Ace? Only he and the player really know.
Approaching, knees not wanting to bend, to make it easier for me to walk to him. I want to tell him and this time I will. Bend, turn, step, heel off the ground, and repeat. Repeat until I reach my destination.
Hand up, tap on shoulder, pull myself onto the mattress, head almost touching the ceiling. He turns to me, eyes meeting mine, waiting patiently for whatever I want to say.
"I want to tell you," I say, betraying the thoughts going through my head. And I tell him.
I tell him about my father, the man who walked away so many years ago. The man that I can barely remember. I tell about my mother, the sweet woman who cared for me, but never enough for herself. The woman who died from disease because she took care of so many others. She didn't take any time for herself. An irony almost too much to handle, too cruel for the perfect words of grief.
I tell of my relatives, the ones who passed me around like an old gift that nobody ever really wanted, but pretended to love. The hand-me-down that was tossed out and given to somebody new every year.
I tell of my family, the ones who actually cared for me. The ones I now know as my family. They took me in, taught me how to take care of myself, and told me how to stand up for myself. I told of the newsies, my real family.
Then I told him about the one regret that I always relived. I told of the one woman who actually did care for me and how I had betrayed her. I wasn't used to someone loving me, not since my mother, and I panicked.
How one night I had taken off, took part of the money that was profit from the shop she ran and just left. She probably thought poorly of me, that I was using her to trick her and get what little money she made. She would make it all back eventually, but it would take longer than before. That was long behind me, in another state even, but it still haunted me as the worst mistake that I ever made. She surely hated me.
And he just sat there, absorbing my every word, not saying anything. He sat, ears fully listening to what I had to say. His eyes never left mine, his head never turned away to see the cause of an unexplained door opening or footsteps walking passed. His hands remained folded in his lap.
When I was done, his hands unfolded, reached forward, and clasped mine. His hands pulled me gently forward, his mouth stopping beside my ear.
"You never betrayed me," he whispered, a warm sincerity in his voice. A tone I had never heard directed at me before. Four words that made me feel better immediately, though he had nothing to do with my past. He had no need to say it out loud, to betray the trust I had placed in him. Nobody else needed to know.
Here was the one person I had never betrayed. His was my best friend, the man I had always trusted, even when my head said otherwise. Nobody else could have made me open up so completely.
"Thanks Snitch," I said, just as sincerely as he had uttered those four words.
"No problem Skitts," Snitch replied, a friendly smile on his face.
Then I knew for sure. He had never meant to pry and he hadn't. I had willingly given him the story of my past. He had just been curious. Just curious. And I'm glad he was.