Troubles

The red numbers on Gerard's dash keeps appearing when I close my eyes to sleep. He dropped me off a few hours ago, holding my hand for a few minutes as we just randomly talked about this and that. During the whole drive from the Ways' house to Brian's store, I kept contemplating putting my hand on his whenever he changed gears. It would only have been for a second, but it would've been nice. But I didn't do it.

I wish I could just be comfortable enough around him to do things like that. I feel as if I need permission to do things, but I know I don't – I just can't seem to convince myself of that. Gerard just seems so open and relaxed with everything he does. He still doesn't kiss me in public, though, and I'm more than fine with that, because two men kissing on any Jersey street won't be kissing long before they're both dead.

I just wish I could open up to him. I wish I could just let go of the brick wall that seems to be around me, keeping him – or anyone, really – from really getting to me. It's just as if the past has scarred me, so now, I'm afraid to let anyone in, in fear of losing them. It's a ridiculous thought. I may have lost my dad, grandma and mom, but not because I let them in. They didn't leave because I loved them. They... were just taken away from me.

I guess that's what I fear: that whoever I care for will be taken away from me.

The digits on Gerard's dash switches to the next minute. I'm imagining this, because for the five minutes Gerard and I just sat in his car and talked quietly, I didn't look at his dash – I only looked at him.

And yet, I can't see his eyes when I close mine. I can see the digits and I can see our linked hands, but I can't form the look of his smiling eyes, or even his lips. I remember the lights of a passing car cutting at my eyes and the sight of a knife leaving my throat.

I open my eyes and sit up straight. My pulse is pounding in my throat and my clammy hands are gripping the sheets. My eyes dart around the room.

I'm not at the shelter.

I'm not being mugged.

I'm not being touched.

I'm safe. I know that. I'm at Brian's. I'm safe. I'm okay.

Please, let me be okay.

My stomach stays tense, making me curl up into a ball. I push myself back on the bed to lean my back against the corner. My shoulders are aching, but I can't relax them.

I pull the sheets that I'm still holding tightly over me and tug my hands under my skin, protecting my throat.

I'm safe.

I close my eyes briefly to see the digits on Gerard's dash, before I quickly look into the dark again to avoid any other flashes of memories.

I'm not scared. I'm safe.

-----

I tiredly push around the cereal in the bowl in front of me. My head hurts from the lack of sleep and the tension in my shoulders that still hasn't gone away. The fear of remembering the knife against my throat is almost greater than actually remembering it, but the last thing I want to do is remember it. I never want to feel that cold steel against my skin again.

I squeeze my eyes shut and fight a shiver. Luckily, it's all black as I do so – no flashes.

“Lunch money,” Brian says, and when I open my eyes, two 5's are lying on the table next to my free hand. I feel a kick of guilt in my stomach and quickly stuff the money away in my pocket to avoid looking at them.

I keep my head down to avoid any questions.

Brian pours himself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of me, picking up a newspaper and halfway disappearing behind it. The coffee smells intoxicating and alluring, but I don't wanna ask for any. I don't think it's gonna help my headache.

I have to say, I'm relieved he hasn't noticed my mood or have tried to talk to me, but at the same time, I can't help but to feel ignored. I know he cares, but right now, I can't help but fear that I might be a bother. He isn't a parent, and certainly not mine, so dealing with a moody teenager must be a pain. He didn't sign up for that. He didn't chose to be a caretaker – he just felt he had to.

Without a word, I get out of my seat, rinse my bowl and go to the bathroom to get ready for school – and to leave Brian to get a peaceful moment for himself. He's probably used to reading his paper in silence, so me sitting across from him, chewing on crunchy cornflakes and cleaning the bowl was probably annoying to him.

I try to run the water as little as possible as I get ready and place my feet softly and quietly on the floor as I walk to my room and get dressed.

I pull a price tag off a t-shirt and put it on. I like it. It's dark-green with a yellow print on it. I can't really tell what it says, but I like the writing.

The pants I put on are my own. Brian bought me some new ones, but I don't wanna put them on yet. If I don't get around to wearing them, he can always take them back. After all, it can't be long before social services find me.

-----

That dream freaked me out. It still is. It was just so real. Mainly because is has happened to me in other than a dream. The guy who robbed me at the shelter a couple of weeks ago, he could've killed me. He actually cut my throat. I bled.

I wonder how many times I've actually come close to dying. There was that guy at the shelter. Then the guy who beat me up and took Brian's money.

Twice?

Then I was almost hit by a car.

Three.

I guess the couple of fights at the shelter could've – if they had escalated – killed me, but they never got out of hand because the staff interfered, so I guess not.

Then there are the times I've starved; the times I've gone to bed or school hungry. There was once where I didn't get a solid meal for 72 hours. I ate three pieces of jerkey and 5-6 crackers during those three days. I could've starved, had I not had that.

So, four?

I guess. Four times, I've been in risk of dying. Four times, I've been saved. Four times, my life should've flashed before my eyes, but it didn't. Maybe my life isn't worth reviewing. Maybe it's been too short. Maybe it didn't flash before me, because there's nothing worth flasing.

“Frank Iero!” the teacher yells. I snap my head up, staring straight into Ms. Jensen's eyes. She looks pissed.
“Pay attention in my class!” she yells, her eyes wide and wild. I flinch.
“Detention!”