Heart pounding, sweat covered body, hands and toes clenched so tight I am sure they will be set like stone. This is what I hate about being sober. Dealing with the dreams. They aren't dreams, they are the loop of my life, they are the memories. They are the mess my life became. Tonight I should have known.
He actually spoke to me today in more the curt work talk. He said I was doing well, he didn't exactly look at me we were in the elevator together. His hand were in his pocket and his eyes were trained down. It was in that awkward moment that he said it.
"You're doing really well."
I was shocked for a minute but took the opening to actually talk to him.
"I'm sorry you know." it was rushed out as I saw the floor he had rung up approaching. I counted the breaths in the silence. Nothing. The doors open and he steps forward but over his shoulder I hear him speak softly.
"I know I got the letter." his voice was low and soft but I could hear the pain and distain in it.
Here I lay now. Doing my counting and deep breathing and playing again my dreams.
Thirteen, that was when I was in my humiliation phase. He was always with the head in his books and note books. Scribbling away, so the stupid punk I was I thought lets see what nancy boy is always going on about. So in front of my friends and the whole seventh grade lunch room I yank his notebook from him. I start to read making up the dear diary part. But I scan it and see what I was reading. Even I couldn't stoop low enough to read it out loud. I couldn't even, so I opted for the typical asshole move. Throwing his book back at him and declaring him a faggot.
That was fate in motion, and I am so fucking sorry.