"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood." ― George Orwell

Just tell him.

Tell him, the voice inside pleaded.

And for the first time in his life, he listened, because this time around he understood that what ifs and maybes are just another way to say hope.

"My dad," Shawn began, but before he could get another word out he felt his breath hitch, as his mind and body became engulfed in doubt. He stared at Turner with a crazed look in his eyes, and for a split second he wished he would have kept his act going, he wished he would have just lied like he lied to Cory that same morning, as he has lied a million times before. When someone asks how you are, you are meant to say FINE. You are not meant to say that you cried yourself to sleep last night because your father beat you. You are not meant to go into detail about how each morning after you wake up you carefully inspect your body for any new welts or bruises. At the end of the day, FINE is what you say. FINE is what you emulate. FINE is what is expected of you. FINE is what you expect of others. And so, you breathe and live FINE, until that is all you are. Until that is all you know how to be. I mean, that's what everyone does right? Lie. From the very moment we learn how to speak, we already know how to lie. Shawn understood that. He understood that everyone left bits and pieces out of their life's story, because everyone has bits and pieces they don't want others knowing about. His father was his bits and pieces. So, like everyone else, he created his own version of the truth, he twisted and bent it, he made it into a bowtie, a beautiful bow, one you use for presents, and he convinced others that that version was the only correct one. He convinced himself.

But that was the problem. He convinced himself. He learned all of his lines by heart, he played his part so well that he found it impossible to step out of his role even after the cameras stopped rolling. He's worn this mask for so long that now, it seems almost impossible to remove it without removing his face. Occasionally Shawn wondered if people could see through his mask. If they could see beyond the persona he's been playing for most of his life. He wondered if they knew he wasn't as happy as he pretended to. He wondered if they understood that it is all just a front. He wondered if they pitied him for it. Because you pity people like that, you pity the happy ones, the people that lie to themselves because they are unable to face their own suffering.

So how exactly was he supposed to go about doing this? How was he supposed to even begin dismantling every single lie he has ever told? How would he begin explaining that there are scars on his heart, bruises, just as big, and as disfiguring as those on his face? How does he explain that every morning he wakes up numb and void of emotion, and remains in a state of suspended animation for what seems like an eternity, so far away from himself that he can't even remember who he is?

Where am I? He asks, and then desperately, Who am I? Who am I?

How does he explain that he has never felt as alone as he does now? That loneliness creeps up on him, unexpectedly, like a cancer: a shameful and embarrassing thing, brought upon him in obscure ways. A fearful, incurable thing, so horrifying that he dares not to mention it, for others don't want to hear the word spoken aloud out of fear that they might become too afflicted, or that it will bring upon the same horrors upon them, like some terrible curse. How does he go about explaining that there have been times when he felt that he might just die from loneliness?

People sometimes say they might die from boredom, that they're dying for a cup of coffee, that they're dying to take a nap, but for Shawn, dying of loneliness is not a hyperbole. In the dead of night, his head drops, his shoulder slumps, and he aches, physically aches for any human contact that isn't a slap or punch to the face. On those nights he feels as though he is moments away from tumbling to the ground and passing away if someone doesn't hold him, touch him. And no, he doesn't mean a lover. He isn't talking about some random girl he met at Chubbie's, or some boy he finds himself occasionally lusting for, it's not any of that. It's simply genuine human contact. The scalp massage at the barber, the flu jab he got last winter, it's everything and anything. Anything at all.

But no matter how much Shawn yearned for a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a gentle tousle of his hair, all he ever received was the unforgiving fury of his father. At times he didn't even get that, and in all honesty, he didn't know which was worse. His father, a man who at best treated him like an incompetent guest in his own home. And at worst? Like his own personal punching bag. After each beating, his pure and inarticulate fury would fill the house for days, even weeks at a time, making the air heavy, hard to breathe in. He would sulk around with his lower jaw jutted out, giving him the look of a wounded, vengeful boxer, grinding his teeth so loud that Shawn could hear it from across the room. Shawn was sure his father told himself: "Others do much worse." And because of this technicality he never saw himself as an abuser, but the truth is he had turned their relationship into an endless road trip, with no directions, guided by a drunk and rage-filled driver. A never ending game of tug of war, one that Shawn knew he would never win. But despite this, it was the silence that destroyed him, why? Because nobody has ever killed themselves over a broken arm, but every day thousands of people kill themselves because of broken hearts. And how could he ever put that into words? He couldn't.

He knew he could never explain that, not in actuality, not without sounding insane, not without running around in circles trying to find the right words just to end up crashing into a brick wall, because that's the thing about abuse, it is an art that dupes its victims into accepting, even demanding, their own silence. Their own enslavement.

The fact is, that the man who had begotten him didn't want him. In his father's eyes, Shawn should have never been born. And at times he found himself wondering if perhaps that would've been for the best. After all, his existence had proven to be nothing more than a nuisance for everyone, even himself. He angered his father, encaged his mother, irritated his teachers, disappointed his friends, and hurt everyone he ever cared for. All by simply being. He wasn't loved, that was the truth he told himself. And when you aren't loved, you are not real. If you are not loved, you cannot be remembered, and if you are not remembered, then you might as well not exist. Without love, life is cold, like a stone against your palm after the first snow of the year. And Shawn? He was nothing more than a stone.

How was he supposed to explain that? How was he supposed to explain that there are days that he feels so disconnected from life, that the threads that tether him to planet Earth become grossly thin, almost like spun sugar? That on those days, a gust of wind becomes fully capable of dislodging him entirely from his reality, plunging him into the unknown like a dandelion seed. How was he supposed to explain that he has been waiting for the release of death all his life? How does he explain that though he does not want to die, he feels unprepared to live?

That's the one thing no one ever understood about Shawn, he was an optimistic pessimist for lack of better phrasing. Every month, every week, every day, he chooses to open his eyes, to live another day in the world. He does it even when he feels so awful that the pain seems to transport him to another state, one in which all things, tangible and intangible, even the memories he has worked so hard to forget, fade into a gray watercolor wash. He chooses to open his eyes, even when his memories crowd out all other thoughts. On the days it takes herculean effort and concentration to tether himself to his present, to keep himself from raging in pure agony and despair, the days in which his mere existence seems nothing more than a figment of his own imagination. He chooses to open his eyes on the days in which he finds himself exhausted from trying, when staying awake demands so much energy from him that he has to think of reasons to get up and do it all over again. That's the one thing no one ever seemed to understand about Shawn, and one of the many things he had yet to understand about himself. So how could he ever put it into words?

You can't.

You can't explain something that you don't understand, that was the true dichotomy. He may silently cry "I hurt" in the dead of night, but for as long as that cry remains misunderstood, it is prophesied to remain unheard, and unheeded.

And even if he could, explain it that is, who's to say others will understand? Who's to say that Turner will be one of those who miraculously do? At the end of the day, the mind and heart of another will always remain a dark and unknown forest, no matter how close it has been to one's own. Shawn knew that understanding was another extravagance he could not afford. Understanding, true understanding, was for happy people. Assumptions and deceits, however, were for people like him, the unhappy, the scarred, the forgotten. The people who lived behind the facades of those who were truly happy, the people who did not understand suffering, and would rather blindly accept it and embrace it as their own, then ever try to explain it.

Turner looked at Shawn, and felt a sensation he hoped he would never have to experience in his career as an educator, horror. He would even dare to call it a sadness, not one emulating pity, but rather, it was a sadness encompassed by complete awe at how hard the boy in front of him tried to live, even when his days were unimaginably difficult, even when his circumstances were wretched beyond human comprehension.

His life is so sad, that's all Turner seemed capable of thinking of, it's so sad, and yet he still clings on to it.

The silence were almost pressing down around him, crushing him, carving through him like ice. He needed Shawn to speak, to say something, anything, if only for proof of life.

'My dad.'

Two words that seemed to fully verify Turner's fears. That's the thing Shawn wasn't aware of, he wasn't the only one terrified. In that room two equally petrified souls sit in silence, both of them uncertain, both of them trying as much as they could, both of them doubting themselves, both of them fighting the urge to run and never look back, both progressing and receding, seemingly at the same exact time. But Turner knew he couldn't run, he had to keep trying. Because the kid sitting in front of him was worth the hardships and difficulties, he was worth the horror and uncertainty, and he had to figure out a way to show him that.

Jon knew that Shawn's silence had begun as something protective, but over the years it had transformed into something oppressive, something that manages him, enslaves him. Something that he once believed he could control and now finds impossible to release himself from. Even when he really wanted to, and right now, he wanted to, more than ever before. Turner could see it in his eyes, he could see the internal battle Hunter was having with himself.

To speak or not to speak, perhaps Shakespeare had gotten it all wrong, he wondered in silence, perhaps that was the real question. He knew Hunter was a hider, like a small bubble of water, encased on all sides by walls and ceilings of impenetrable ice. And though there was a way out, Shawn was unequipped, he had no tools to begin his work, and right now all he's capable of doing is scrabble uselessly at the ice's slick. He also knew in that moment that he'd do anything to protect the kid. Sit with him for hours until he was alright again. At the end of the day, that's all he could really do. Watch over him until he was ready to break through the ice.

Turner breathed, "let me tell you a story Shawn."

The boy looked up to him, this time with a confused look plastered across his face.

"And you should know," he starts, clearing his throat, "this is a universal story, one that can be found in every corner of life."

"Imagine a house, Shawn, now imagine that in this house, no one is talking, and no one is listening. Some folks look like they want to say something, and some look like they want to listen, but nobody does. And the people that want to talk, well, they get discouraged, so they quit trying, and surrender to the silence," Jon continues, "now look around the house Shawn, and tell me what do you see?"

With no clue to where Turner was heading, Shawn shrugs, "I don't know Jon, I'm not really in the mood for a riddle right now."

"Well, I'll tell you," Jon smiles gently, "the very quiet people, you may have noticed, are often the sad ones as well."

Jon sighs, "kid, what I'm trying to say is that staying quiet about something that is eating you up inside will only do you harm in the long run. I know you think you're protecting yourself by choosing to hide, but I promise that nothing you could possibly say could hurt you more than staying quiet, why? Because the consequences of remaining silent are worse. While it's easier to remain silent in the moment, in the long run, that same silence becomes deadly, and to be quite frank with you bud," he continues, "I think it already has. When you have something to say, and don't, silence becomes a lie, a tyranny, and if I've taught you anything it is that you should alway push back against tyranny despite the danger. Isn't that right?"

"Right." Shawn responded in a voice resembling a gust of wind.

"So push back Shawn."

"What's gonna happen if I do?" Shawn asks, still refusing to meet Turner's gaze.

If. Turner made sure to make a mental note of that. If. Not, when.

"I don't know kid," Jon says, gently rubbing Shawn's shoulder in an awkward attempt to comfort him, "but whatever happens, I promise that you won't be alone, I promise I'll be there every step of the way." Turner meant it when he said he'd be there, he meant it, because Turner, unlike many others, didn't underestimate the power of a smile, a touch, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential of turning a life around. All of which he was willing to do if it meant helping his student, his friend.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah Hunter, I promise."

Shawn inhaled, suddenly remembering a phrase he's heard one too many times in his lifetime, "the elephant in the room," which currently serves to describe what it's like to be abused and neglected by someone who claims to love you. People outside such relationships often ask, "how could you let it go on for so long? Didn't you see the elephant in the room?" And the truth is that they hadn't, not really. Shawn definitely hadn't. The elephant was already there when Shawn moved in, in fact, he didn't know it was an elephant, he thought it was just another piece of furniture. Betrayal would be too kind of a word to describe a situation like this one. A situation in which a father says he loves his son, but claims that he must teach him about the horrors of the world in order to make him a stronger person, a situation in which he consistently makes him feel like he is going to die. During his father's "lessons," Shawn often experienced pain so intense that he could not think. His head would spin so fast that he could no longer remember who he was and how he landed himself there in the first place.

All he knew was pain, all he felt was desperation. He often tried to cry, but soon he learned that no one would hear him. And if they did, they would not come to his rescue. No matter how loud he cried, he could not stop or change what was happening, no matter what he tried, the pain never seemed to end. His father beat him, telling him that it is for his own good. He tells him that he needs discipline, that he asked for it because of his misbehavior. Alas, betrayal is too simple of a word to describe the overwhelming pain Shawn felt, the overwhelming loneliness and desperation he experienced.

Soon the pain became too great, so great that he learned to not feel at all. He learned to give up the senses that allow all people to feel alive, and so he began to feel dead. And then, there came a point in which he did wish he was dead, because he understands, that for him there is no way out. For him, there is no understanding. For him, he learns, there is no hope. And so, that boy learns to become strong, he forgets everything he ever wanted, everything he ever yearned for, and lived only with the hope of surviving another day. But the pain still lurked, and soon it began to boil, it got worse, and the loneliness finally set in as he is overcome by panic and desperation. Only then did he realize that something was gravely wrong. Only then did he realize that he cannot do it on his own. Only then did he realize that he needs help.

Then, Shawn realizes, is now.

"I don't know where to start, Mr. Turner," Shawn said, with a look in his eyes that made him appear to be a small child, a small child in need of rescue. Jon immediately felt the urge to scoop him up in his arms, to hold him, and never let him go. He also felt like standing him up, and shaking him violently while screaming, "you are worth a lot more than you know," to his face. But he kew he could not do either, not without scaring the kid off.

"Just talk," Jon started, "pretend I'm not here, you don't even have to look at me, just talk as if you were talking to yourself."

And so, he did.

"I am living in hell from one day to the next," Shawn let out in a shuddering breath, still not completely sure about his decision to tell Turner about everything , "I feel like I'm drowning, Jon, you get me?"

Turner swallowed the knot in his throat, "yeah kid, I get you."

"My dad," he started again, as the silence in the room absorbed his words like blood, "he sometimes-" his sentence was fragmented as he struggled to find a way to explain that his father was a drunk, as he struggled to explain what that drunk did to him in the least amount of words possible.

"He hits me sometimes, you know?"

You know? No, Jon did not know, but before he even got a chance to speak, Shawn continued, this time nearly speaking at the speed of light.

"But, it's my fault, you know?" He rambled, desperately trying to find a way to excuse his father's behavior and bare the blame, "I get in his way sometimes, I do things I shouldn't, you know?"

You know?

"Woah, hey, don't say that," Jon started, "I don't know Shawn, I am sorry, but I do not know what you are going through, but I'll tell you what I do know. I know that whatever happened to you, is not your fault. And that's something you should know as well. Okay?"

Shawn nodded slowly, wanting to believe his teacher's words, and continued with a wavering voice that threatened to give up on him any second. "He gets angry, when he drinks, and sometimes he just doesn't know how to control it."

"Is that what happened last night?" Turner asked, pointing at the bruise on Shawn's face.

Another nod.

"I came home late," Shawn said in shame, "I was with Cory, and we just lost track of time, it was my fault really."

"What did he do Shawn?" Turner knew he would have to address the it was my fault eventually, but right now, he needed to get this out of the kid. "What did he do to you kid?"

Shawn could feel his throat get heavy as his vision began to blur with tears. "I was late to do the dishes. I was hoping that by the time I got home he would be passed out on the couch, but he wasn't. I went to the sink, but before I could start he just came up behind me, and slapped me." The last three words were said in a quieter tone, Turner noticed.

"It caught me off guard, and I fell backwards," he continued, wiping the tears starting to freely fall from his eyes, "I tried to explain, I did, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept yelling Jon."

Turner did not know what to do, he did not know what to say, but luckily for him, Shawn filled in his silence with more harrowing stories that no child should have to tell.

"I wanted to cry, but I couldn't, I knew he would just hit me harder. I thought that if I just pretended like it wasn't happening he would stop. But continued. He hit me again, this time he pushed my head onto the counter, and held me there for what seemed like hours." Shawn shuddered remembering the words fo his father the previous night, "he told me he would beat me black and blue, Jon."

At this point Shawn was openly sobbing, and hunched over his own knees, not caring whether the entire school could hear him or not. He felt like an old porcelain doll, filled with cracks and missing pieces, just barely glued back together. He had managed to stay together all of his life, but today, those cracks revealed themselves, and the glue seemed to finally give out, and it was disgusting and liberating all at the same time. Turner wanted to tell Shawn that he was brave, perhaps the bravest kid, the bravest person he had ever met. He wanted to tell him that he was strong and worthwhile. He wanted to tell him that he was proud of him, he wanted to say that he loved him. But in that moment, there were no words, and perhaps no need for them either.

And so, Turner scooted forward, tugging Shawn's shaking frame towards him, pulling him into his chest, and tightly wrapping his arms around him, as if he were trying to keep the broken pieces from shattering further. Part of him expected Shawn to push him away, to scowl, to run away from the sudden embrace. But to Jon's surprise, he didn't, in fact, he did quite the opposite, he pulled him closer. Almost as if to beg, "please don't let go," as if to say, "if you do, I'll break."

Shawn could not remember the last time he had been hugged, a part of him even wondered whether he had ever been hugged at all to begin with. And it was astonishing in every way, how a single hug, a smile, seemed like an act of revolution to the young boy. That's when Turner realized, perhaps the strongest people to ever walk the earth, are all just waiting to curl up in the right pair of arms and let out the sigh they've been holding in all their lives, and so he did the on thing he knew he could do, he held on to him, and whispered uncertainties as the boy cried for all the times he had never cried before.

"You're safe kid," he said, gently rubbing circles across Shawn's back, "I've got you. Nobody can hurt you. I won't hurt you. It's okay." He repeated those words for some time, holding him tightly in hopes of offering some kind of comfort.

And in that moment, a shaking mess, with tears and snot running down his face, Shawn felt the physical ache for human contact dissipate, and he understood, that a hug was truly hope in disguise.