I Have Only Myself to Give, Nothing More

My morning consists of concealer. Lots and lots of concealer. There are bruises to cover. Welts to hide. Scars to camouflage. There are doodles—circles, stars, loops—to disguise. And words—oh god, why did I ever do that?—to conceal.

I feel like I’m caked with the tan liquid by the time I’m done. The only thing I left untouched under my clothes was the DAMN FAGGOT across my shoulder, and the angry words are burning me. Branding me.

The searing sensation won’t leave me all day.

It’s DAMN FAGGOT when Gabe talks my ear off on the bus. DAMN FAGGOT when Pete slides up behind me and not-so-surreptitiously grabs my ass. And it’s DAMN FAGGOT when Brendon leans over to rest his chin on my shoulder during lunch.

“You okay, Ryan? You’ve seemed a little … out of it all day.” His breath is warm on my ear.

“Yeah,” I say and depending on your definition of okay, I’m not really lying.

Brendon presses his cheek to mine and purposefully blinks, his eyelashes tickling my skin, and I know it’s his way of telling me that he’s looking out for me.

“Thanks,” I whisper, biting my lip to keep the tears from spilling out.

DAMN FAGGOT

And then it’s Gym and shit I forget about Gym because I’m standing the locker room now, clutching my shoulder and unwilling to take my shirt off.

“What’s wrong?” William asks, hazel eyes glinting in the dim locker room light.

I shake my head and Patrick gives William a look that clearly says Back off, dude. “I, uh,” I begin tentatively, wrapping my arms around myself and wishing that Brendon was in my Gym class and yet relieved that he wasn’t at the same time, “have this awkward bruise on my shoulder because I fell over the other day.” Which, I rationalize, isn’t a lie if since I did fall over after my father pushed me and I guess you could considered the ink some sort of artistic bruising.

“Why don’t you go change in the bathroom in one of the stalls?” Patrick suggests and I blink gratefully at him, cradling my gym clothes in my arms and dashing for the bathroom, where I quickly change, trying to ignore the brand on my shoulder.

DAMN FAGGOT

And I’m laughing hysterically under my breath as I jog five laps around the gym because if I didn’t, I’m sure I would be flat out crying.

Patrick and William are running beside me and I see them exchange worried glances.

“Should we—?” William begins, alarm evident in his voice, but Patrick shakes his head.

“I don’t think we’d be able to get anything out of him.”

And a knowing look enters William’s eyes. “Ah, yes,” he muses. “Only Brendon can do that.”

I’m not sure if I like what he’s implying but I’m not sure if I want to say anything about it, so I don’t.

And then school’s over and Gabe and I are on the bus and he’s looking at me with concern in his eyes.

My shoulder is killing me.

“What’s wrong with you, novato?” he demands. “You’ve been off all day.”

And suddenly I’m sick of everybody’s pity.

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m not happy enough for you!” I hiss, eyes narrowed to slits as I glare at him. “Sorry that I don’t live up to your standards!”

Gabe’s eyes widen in shock and I turn away from him so I don’t have to see the hurt I’ve inflicted upon him with my harsh and reckless words.

Why am I so hell-bent on self-destruction?

“I just want to help make it better …” he says in a small voice and there’s something in his tone which sounds so lost and so very much like Brendon.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper and before I know it, his hands on my shoulders, messaging them to calm me down, but all I can feel is the pricking of my branded shoulder.

DAMN FAGGOT

I don’t say anything for the rest of the bus ride and I’m more or less in tears by the time I get home. Congratulations, Dad, I think as I collapse on the couch. You’ve won.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn faggot!” I screech at myself, dragging my fingernails down my face and feeing the concealer coming off my skin in flakes.

And then I’m like a three-year-old again, throwing a temper tantrum and stamping my feet and screaming at the top of my lungs. “Damn, damn, damn, damn faggot! You faggot!” Until I can’t form intelligible words anymore and I’m just shrieking nonsensically at an empty house.

My throat is raw and ragged and I’m an absolute mess and this seems like the perfect time to start my homework. So I do, and spend the next couple of hours tearing through my studies like I never have before.

Distraction, I’m chanting in my head. I need a distraction.

And sometime around seven o’clock and I probably should’ve eaten dinner by now but I’m not hungry and Dad still isn’t home, I turn to my cell phone, itching to communicate with someone but unsure who.

I scroll through my contacts and his name catches my eye.

Hey, sorry for snapping at you today. Thanks for back rub. It really helped.

There. Send.

It doesn’t take long for Gabe to reply.

Haha no problem, novato. Just lookin out for my buddy.

And before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve pressed the little green button with the image of a phone on it and I can hear electronic ringing rippling through the speakers.

“Hello?” His voice is steady and soothing, just as always, and I have no idea what I was planning on saying.

And I’m choking on tears again as I beg: “Just speak to me. I want to hear your voice.”

His voice is flowing into ears—words that I cannot understand, but words that calm me nevertheless. “Oh, novato, no tienes idea de cuánto me duele verte triste. Por favor, cariño, ánimo y una sonrisa para mí. Eres mi amigo, novato, y me preocupo por ti. Así que por favor no estés triste,” he murmurs. “Sonríe, Ryan, sonreír y ponerse de pie orgulloso.”

“That was beautiful,” I whisper, clutching my phone to my ear. “Thank you.”

“No problemo, novato,” he says and I hang up feeling more empty before.

But at least I’m not angry anymore.