Speak
Speak
Me: Let me tell you about it.
And I did.
The words bubbled up through my throat and erupted out of my scarred lips. My mind was an active volcano and those ugly sentences that had so desperately wanted to escape and be heard spewed forth and assaulted Mr. Freeman’s unsuspecting ears. It was obvious that he was shocked about what had happened that one night in those few short hours. I couldn’t stop telling my story even though the look of surprise in his eyes made me falter in the beginning. Once I began speaking it was like there was no end in sight.
I told the man whose class had helped change me, everything. Eventually the volcano slowed and was just a calm river. I was still speaking, still letting him know everything that had happened with IT, but I was also giving him more of the story that had shaped my freshman year.
Mr. Freeman stared at me with his wide, watery eyes. His innocent look, hair pulled back, clothes covered in paint and marker stains, didn’t seem to fit with what I was saying. What surprised me the most in the near hour that I spoke was that Mr. Freeman, the man who was never afraid to express himself or let himself be heard, never once made a sound. There were no interruptions from him. The only sign of emotion that touched his face, except for the initial shock, was the mix of pure hatred when I spoke about IT and the consequences that I had suffered for trying to help myself. Once I had moved on, though, his face had gone back to cool and collected, a police and attentive listener.
Nearly an hour after I had started my story, it was finished. I had told everything to this man whom I had known for only nine months. When I shut my mouth and stood there silently, Mr. Freeman stared me in the eye for a moment. Neither of us moved, everything that stood between the two of us was enough that we didn’t have to speak.
Mr. Freeman finally stood. I waited for the onslaught of worry, for him to cry out that we had to go to the police or, at least, my parents, anything like that. But instead he wrapped his arms around me in a fatherly hug. That gesture, so foreign yet comforting to me, was all I needed at that moment. I didn’t break down and cry, even though I wanted to. Instead I just thought about the past ten months and how they had changed everything.
And I did.
The words bubbled up through my throat and erupted out of my scarred lips. My mind was an active volcano and those ugly sentences that had so desperately wanted to escape and be heard spewed forth and assaulted Mr. Freeman’s unsuspecting ears. It was obvious that he was shocked about what had happened that one night in those few short hours. I couldn’t stop telling my story even though the look of surprise in his eyes made me falter in the beginning. Once I began speaking it was like there was no end in sight.
I told the man whose class had helped change me, everything. Eventually the volcano slowed and was just a calm river. I was still speaking, still letting him know everything that had happened with IT, but I was also giving him more of the story that had shaped my freshman year.
Mr. Freeman stared at me with his wide, watery eyes. His innocent look, hair pulled back, clothes covered in paint and marker stains, didn’t seem to fit with what I was saying. What surprised me the most in the near hour that I spoke was that Mr. Freeman, the man who was never afraid to express himself or let himself be heard, never once made a sound. There were no interruptions from him. The only sign of emotion that touched his face, except for the initial shock, was the mix of pure hatred when I spoke about IT and the consequences that I had suffered for trying to help myself. Once I had moved on, though, his face had gone back to cool and collected, a police and attentive listener.
Nearly an hour after I had started my story, it was finished. I had told everything to this man whom I had known for only nine months. When I shut my mouth and stood there silently, Mr. Freeman stared me in the eye for a moment. Neither of us moved, everything that stood between the two of us was enough that we didn’t have to speak.
Mr. Freeman finally stood. I waited for the onslaught of worry, for him to cry out that we had to go to the police or, at least, my parents, anything like that. But instead he wrapped his arms around me in a fatherly hug. That gesture, so foreign yet comforting to me, was all I needed at that moment. I didn’t break down and cry, even though I wanted to. Instead I just thought about the past ten months and how they had changed everything.