7 Deadly Sins

The guys are always hungry after any form of self-display. And a luxurious SUV is always waiting for us outside. We all walked out towards the car, but Pete stopped me midway.

“I wanna talk to you,” he told me seriously, his shiny hair gleaming in the sunlight.

“Later,” I said, but he grabbed my arm before I could leave.

“Now.”

The graveness in his eyes betrayed his feelings; some deep emotion, that I could only translate as sorrow. It was always there. And I could always see it, when no one else could. It seemed like Pete did a good job transforming into happy-go-lucky Pete when needed, and sometimes the sullen and stuck-up super star he’s supposed to be.

I stood there, gazing at his eyes and trying to read what was about to come, but it was impossible. It was obvious that it was something important, and I was about to find out soon, but it was killing me to see him like that.

He told the guys that we would find them later, pulled me towards a tree, and sat down on the lawn beneath it. I did the same, hesitantly, keeping a good distance. All kinds of scenarios started to form in my head; would he tell me off because I was always late? Would he tell me not to come again? Would he be angry?

And just before I was about to apologize, he spoke the words I never expected to hear from him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but it sounded clear and honest.

The silence that followed was weird; I could almost hear the sounds my brain made while attempting to comprehend.

“Wha...”

“For being mean to you. You don’t deserve it.” He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes were stuck on a cat that licked her fur 2 feet away.

But I didn’t know what to say. That it’s okay? It was never okay. And he knew it. That’s why he didn’t expect me to say anything. And as the silence surrounded us again, a question popped up in my head and I couldn’t help but ask him.

“Why do you do it?”

“Which one? I’m just apologising for...”

“No, I mean, why are you mean to me? Did I do something bad?”

It was when he turned to look at me, and his eyes seemed hollow with this awful emotion that was now overcastting his face. Then I realised what he did: he apologized. It settled in my mind like the snow settling after the snowstorm. It was heroic what he did, and it was living proof that Pete was still there. Pete, my Pete.

He stared at me for a good amount of time, searching for something, thinking of something, and his face softened slightly, but then he moved his gaze back to the cat.

“I thought you might understand, but...” he trailed off.

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don't. But I think it’s time you explain yourself, Pete. I’m sick of this ambiguity shadowing all of us. I’m sick of it.” I mumbled the last sentence to myself, and I heard a deep, shaky breath leaving his nostrils.

“Don’t think this is easy for me. I never meant for it to happen. And I don’t think I can do anything to change it now. This is how it’s going to be.”

There used to be a time when he had not felt this powerless, when, had he perceived his own worth, he might have escaped; but he had been so eager to fix himself up with something, that he was swept along by this yearning for something, and he had followed the first course which presented itself as if it was ordained that he should do so.

He had tried, of course, to formulate some plan for his own betterment, but it hadn’t really surprised him to find, when he searched himself for ambition, merely the desire unobtrusively to survive. He latched himself wearily onto his future and jogged behind as everyone else rushed towards him, unable to imagine that he might be put to some use which would manufacture as its by-product his own happiness.

Or that’s what it looked like, at least.

Because at the moment, watching him so fragile and helpless and assaulted, I could do nothing but feel the same way, as if I was his extension, another broken part of his.

We stayed there for what seemed like an eternity –-even the cat had finished cleaning herself–- just looking at the fleecy clouds dappled in the sky, longing to be one of those careless cotton bags.

I even stupidly expected Pete to start talking to me; tell me everything that barged into his heart, but his lips never moved. And I felt so bad. I felt like he didn’t trust me. I felt like I was just a dreary obstacle that he had to apologize and talk to.

I felt unwanted.

On our way to the restaurant I found out the silence had turned into a cloistered annexe of ourselves, a milieu into which the stuffy chambers of our hearts and heads had gradually overspilled their contents.

And in it, we were almost the same, and words couldn’t bother us.

The uproar of the small but busy eating place seemed to wake me up from my nirvana; when our orders arrived I could do nothing but gobble up a load of french fries and cheeseburger, and it looked like it was all I could do now, keep myself busy with a full mouth, not having to speak or think, just eat until my stomach takes no more. And I knew I would throw it all up later, because I never ate too much, but I mistook my conversation need for hunger.
Knowing this wasn’t healthy or sane, I kept on eating and no one told me not to.
Even if their worry-filled eyes lingered on me the whole time.

What the hell is up with them not talking? Do they think they will blurt out shit I don’t want to know?

And I ate. I ate. I ate.
And he stared. He stared. He stared.

And we were both dying inside.