Ezzy

I jotted down a list of things I hated about myself. My hair was too curly; eyes were too gray; lips too thin; wrists too big; skin too rough; smile too forced; stupid; ugly; ignorant; mean; intimidating; rude. But at the top of it was that I was gay. Why would God curse me with something like this? Why would He put me in the one town that spits at me every day?

I turned my feelings into food, eating my family out of house and home. I can't say I regret it. The four powdered donuts, half a bag of popcorn, the rich, chocolate brownies and a hearty glass of chocolate milk seemed to sooth the pain. When upset, I usually devoured everything in my kitchen, inhaling every last crumb until the room was licked clean of everything edible. It wasn't an addiction, a problem, a condition or anything, my weight was average, maybe a little bit under average. I just thought if maybe my mom's grocery bill went up a tad, she might pay some attention to me.

'Pretty in Pink' with Molly Ringwald blasted from my laptop with the shitty connection, as I watched Ringwald waltz into the dance with the classic 80's dress she modified herself. I shuddered at how hideous the dress was, although she could make it look nice.

The blueberry muffin I put closely up to my mouth, as it silently pleaded for me to spare its life. Into my mouth and down to my stomach, slid the fluffy pastry. Mom walked in interrupting my movie session with the beautiful red headed woman on the screen, carrying a wicker laundry basket full of graphic Ts and old, torn jeans with permanently stained grass marks on the shins. “Here's your clothes,” she said placing the basket next to my feet. “What are you watching?” she inquired.

“A movie.”

“Don't be a smart ass,” she snapped, getting up from the bed to exit my room. “Your dinner is on the table.”

“Whatever,” I smirked, annoyed with her. Sometimes I think I want her attention, and once I get it, I discard it without any further thoughts. If she wasn't my mom, we wouldn't act so friendly.

I heard a rock pelt my window. Afraid that it had been slightly cracked, I stumbled over to investigate any damage. Tracing my fingers lightly over a small, microscopic scratch, I looked down to see who had tossed the rock without much thought on the well-being of my property. Jack. I drew my curtains closed, and angrily retreated back to my bed.

“C'mon!” I heard a muffled cry from the outside world.

Frustrated I stomped with rage back to the window and slammed it open. “Go to Hell Jack Uden!” I screamed at him through the open window.

“I've already been there,” he called up to me. “Just let me in.”

“I thought we weren't friends. You realize this makes you even a bigger douche.”

“Look, I need your help okay Ez?” He sounded serious. Pretty soon he scaled up the side of the building, climbing on the old oak tree which stood stationary next to my window. He sat idly on a branch, waiting for me to help assist him into my hormone-infested room. He held out a hand for me to take, but instead I shafted my window shut, locking it. I stood there with a smug smile as I saw his facial expression morph into irritation. He held up a flask, waiting for me to let him inside. “Please?” he mouthed, using the flask as a token for free shelter. I saw his black hoodie sleeve fall loosely to his elbow while holding up the container, revealing a long line of deep cuts and scratches, all arrayed horizontally along his wrist midway to the elbow. I immediately invited him into my warm escape, grabbing his hand and aiding him along the small steps he had to take to step into the room. “Thanks,” he mumbled handing over the whiskey which I took a solemn swig of.

I put my hand on the top of his, pulling up his sleeve and drawing an imaginary line over his cuts. “Was that on purpose?” I asked him. “Or was that accidental?” I wanted him to lie to me and tell me that was unintended, but I knew the amount of straight red-black abrasions were most definitely designed by Jack Uden. He had cut himself multiple times throughout the seventh grade year, until I begged him to stop.

He wavered a breath before he said, “I don't know.”

“When will you know?” I faltered, cold air releasing from my chapped lips. “Why are you here, Jack? You JUST told me it wasn't going to work out. You're giving me some serious mixed signals, you're confusing me-”

“If I knew what I was doing, I'd tell you Ez!” he screamed, getting irrational. His arms flailed limply in the air, as he pounded his fists down on his thighs. “How can I not be confused?”

I embraced him in a hug, my hands running along his skinny back, tracing his visible spinal cord over his shirt. It wasn't because he may have been suffering from starvation, Jack was just built in that thin, weak manner. He hunched over me, his hands traveling on the back of my shoulders. He cried into my neck, whimpering small, sad words into my skin. “I want to go home,” he said.

“This will just be your home for a while,” I said.

He tensed up a tad, and then straightened, backing away. “What if he sees me here, Ez? What if he finds out?” His eyes were full of impish fear, as mine narrowed, becoming more and more concerned. “He's going to get drunk and then he's-” He couldn't finish his sentence as his hands engulfed his face, covering his flowing tears.

“He's not going to get anywhere near you, Jack. You're safe here.”

I didn't intrude with questions; asking whether or not he has told anyone. He casually sat on my bed tossing a small green tennis ball into the air, and into his hand. Into the air, into his hand. He did it again, repeating the process over and over. But he wouldn't stop crying.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I'm scared. Scared of being beaten.”

I wasn't going to nag him about it, or how much it hurt. He had so much on his plate, and I was just happy he was here with me. Although the distressed, morbid Jack lying on my bed wasn't the same happy, rebellious Jack that I used to see at school. I simply nodded. This was the second time I saw Jack cry. “I've only ever seen you cry once,” I mentioned. “When I told you I was gay, and you hit me. Then you repented and cried.”

“I remember,” he said sadly, “although I wish I didn't.”

“I just wanted to remind you, how that felt. Maybe your dad feels the same way after hitting you, Jack.”

“Ah, f*ck no,” he stammered, getting enraged. “That douche doesn't care about me, I cried because I love you Ez and I felt terrible for doing that. He just hits me to hit, relieve stress and anger. He thinks I'm a gay little bitch, so that's a good excuse to get away with it all. But no, he doesn't regret it, or he'd never do it again. So don't try and give me no pattern shit, that my feelings are the same as his, vice versa. That man and I have nothing in common. I hate him.”