Seeking Solace

Later that day, behind the school, just yards from where I had escaped to earlier today, I am shoved against a wall and a fist hits my face for the second time in two days. I take the fists and the words. I refuse to answer questions. I refuse to listen. Partially healed wounds are opened again.

I skip the last two classes of the day and drift off to the park, my sleeve now covered with the blood I wiped from my face. I wonder how long I can keep lying for. I wonder if I will be able to give Gerard up to save my face.

I already know the answer to that.

But the thing is, I’ve never been selfless. Even when my mother hits my brother for stupid shit, like sniffing constantly instead of blowing his nose like a normal person, wetting the bed, when he doesn’t hear when he’s being called, when he won’t talk because he doesn’t feel well….I just stand in the background and do nothing, because it’s easier to just not care. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t hurt me, doesn’t remind me of the times when she hit me for not hearing when I was called, for crying when she hit me, for not listening when she dumped so many of her problems on me.

It’s easier to pretend.

And how am I supposed to live with that? I keep waiting for an answer somewhere, courage from somewhere to be able to stand up for my brother without being afraid of the slap that could come, the hours of lectures that break me to the point of tears…I want to know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix myself. I can’t fix anyone else.

How can I fix Gerard if that’s what he wants?

I avoid the benches in full view of the public and head for a spot under a tree, where I can just about see the path, but no one can see me. Looking around, I remember that I’m not too far from where Luke beat me up yesterday, and I wonder how Gerard found me. It’s not a place easily found, especially in the dark. I think about it for a minute, and then shrug it off. What’s done is done now. I got beaten up. I was left to freeze and bleed, but he found me. I was lucky.

So maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised when, just about an hour and a half later, I hear the shuffle of feet behind me, and it’s him.

I look up at him, and he stares back, and I wait for him to say something. He opens his mouth a few times and then closes it, finding nothing better to say than a feeble ‘hi,’.

I don’t say anything back. He bites his lip and looks awkward. I sigh and pat the ground beside me. Relieved that I’m not going to leave him standing awkwardly in front of me, trying to explain why he’s here, he drops his bag and plops down beside me.

I hug my knees to my chest and rest my chin on my knees. He can sense I don’t want to say much right now, so he takes out a pencil and continues with another drawing in his sketch pad. I watch him for a while, just enjoying his presence here, how I feel so much better having someone to share my pain with, even though I haven’t told him anything yet. The motions he makes while he draws are enough to distract me from thoughts I don’t want to have for a while, but sooner than I’d like, they come back, and I’m shivering just thinking about how much I can’t take my life any more.

I wish I was exaggerating about it. I wish. All the time.

“Frank,” he says softly, gently pulling my hand away from my mouth. I didn’t even know I was doing it.

He doesn’t let go of my hand after he takes it. I rest my palm on his, comparing my shade of pale to his. Somehow, I like how similar they are, how white and destroyed they are. And then I realize that’s really creepy and weird so I stop.

“Frank,” he says again, still as soft as before, “Did they beat you up again?”

I nod. His hand curls slightly under mine. I know I should say something to stop him from blaming himself. But I can’t. I’m just so tired. Tired of faking. Besides, it’s easier when I tell the truth. For once I have someone to tell the truth to.

He looks at me, his hazel eyes so concerned for me, I can’t stand it anymore.

“Don’t!” I say suddenly, as my hand suddenly tightens around his, “Don’t…it’s not your fault. Don’t feel like that. But…but don’t feel sorry for me either. You...shouldn’t.” I shake my head, still selfishly holding on to his hand, “You shouldn’t…” I’m begging him to leave. I’m telling him to leave for his own good (for my own good?) but I still hold onto his hand.

He has nothing to say. He waits.

Soon my head is on his shoulder, and his other hand is on my back, and his precious sketch book has slipped off his lap and he doesn’t care. I don’t cry. I don’t have the energy left in me to. But he holds on to the broken pieces of me that are left, and I wish I could give him more than this broken shell. I wish I could give him someone who could help him, because there is no other way to pay him back. I am not enough. I will never be enough.

But I my head remains his shoulder and my hand stays cupped in his, and we sit in perfect silence until I’ve fallen asleep to the sound of his breathing, his art-room smell, and the music of my suicidal thoughts.