Louie.

Rockwell is strange.

Or my polite etiquette and social skills have seriously diminished over the course of the last three months. Because apparently it's okay to just limp into someone's room and move their computer desk chair to the center of the room and spin yourself around in it with out even checking if it's okay with the stranger who currently resides in said room. And even spew out several cuss words when your cast hits one of the legs of the chair.

Because you know, that's exactly what he does.

And for a moment I think about commenting his actions, but then I remember that this is the same Rockwell who asked which 'fucker' I was and decide against it.

I allow him to continue messing with the fluid in his ears and throw off his won balance.

Rockwell acts like a six year-old while I try desperately to suppress the whirlwind of emotions inside of me. I struggle to keep my bottom lip from trembling and I blink away the tears brimming my eyes, even the little whimpers that want to form/

I try shoving all the feelings inside of me into a corner but they still fight my tireless efforts. I don't give in and desperately try to grab anything that will anchor my emotions and calm them.

But of course it doesn't work.

So I try to find some sort of distraction by looking out my window. I take a deep breathe and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans.

But when nothing beyond the glass catches my interest I instead just settle on examining the actual window pane itself. And slowly my thoughts are consumed with it.

How are they even made?

Do they use a special type of paint?

Is there some guy who's job it is to just sit down in front of a sketch pad and design window panes?

Does he hate his life as much as I have been hating mine?

"Ben?" Rockwell brings me out of my train of thought and I look at him. And I mean really look at him.

I look at the freckles that spread across his cheeks and nose. I take notice of the nose ring he has. I look at those weird, white gauge/ plug type things that have stretched his ears lobes. I look at his fucking perfect brown eyebrows that are shaped neatly and trimmed, most likely the courtesy of my oldest step-sibling. I stare at his dry, medium sized lips.

I stare at Rockwell.

At his fucking perfectly straight hair that manages to not look as lifeless as mine and stays in it's place. I look the Rockwell who is vulgar with no filter. The Rockwell that doesn't care what others think of him and butts into conversations. I stare at the obnoxious homosexual boy who's wearing an ugly brown and white hipster sweater. I look at the Rockwell with looks far more interesting and appealing than mine.

I stare at him.

I stare into the rich green eyes of Rockwell and I'm caught off guard.

And I know that if he is starring as intently as me as I am at him, that he might see the hidden emotions I have.

But even if he does see what lies deep inside, he gives no indication and continues with what he was going to say.

"Do you like it here?"

I don't even know.I close my eyes and all these answers swirl around in my head and the small feeble anchor I had lets go and these emotions start spiraling out of control again.

"It's alright" I some how manage to get out.

I open my eyes up again and Rockwell looks like he wants to say more. He furrows his eye brows and opens his mouth, but before he gets the chance, Beth walks in and announces it's time to cut the cake.

And I am thankful that I don't have to worry about talking, and answering questions I myself don't even know the answer to.

I am thankful that I have another distraction.

A break from my tireless mind wandering.

A break from facing the truth.