Blanketed Opinions

I watch him, sitting back and just focusing my gaze. It's funny how they think I'm the weak one, how they think I'm the whiny little bastard when in reality, he is. I was the one to pull him through every problem. I was the one to help him out, to make him realize how he was harming himself. It wasn't the other way around; it was never the other way around. But I'm the younger one, the shorter one: the adorable little pigeon-shit girl in the entire situation. I'm not the one so terrified of needles; he can't face them. I'm not the one that sank under the pressure of drugs and tried to commit suicide.

I just watch him and I ponder why it is that I come across as being so weak. I wonder why I'm always supposed to be the submissive one, to be the fucking child in an adult body. I wonder why no matter what I do, no matter how many tattoos I can ink on my skin, how long I can let the stubble grow on my jaw and upper lip, I'm still viewed as the kid. I'm not a kid. I am as far from being a kid as I can possibly be but I'm still the child; I'm still the submissive, annoying, hyper brat. I'm still the one begging, the one drowning, the one needing to be saved. I absolutely despise it.

It really shouldn't bother me so much; I shouldn't be seething, watching him the way I currently am. It shouldn't make my chest constrict and make my insides writhe in anger and frustration. It shouldn't but it still does. It's because I'm not a child, damn it. I'm not a flamingly gay fucking girl. I'm a man but no one seems to be able to get it through their thick skulls. I'm the strong one; I'm the one who can hold down his alcohol, the one who can hold their own. I'm not the one left sobbing quietly in his bunk; I'm not the one who can barely take a few hits before he's drunk off his ass.

I'm fuming as I watch him, as I watch him stumble over a discarded object on the floor. I'm so angry, I simply want to punch someone; I just want to vent my frustrations. I tell myself over and over again that I shouldn't feel this way but it's so incredibly difficult. So I watch him, cursing him and just plain everyone I can think of over and over again in my head until I grow tired of it. With a growl, I force myself to go away, figuring I should go and just release my anger before it gets the best of me. But then he's right in front of me and there's no way I can just get around him so I stare at him, wondering what the fuck he could possibly want. He's asking me for help and as much as I want to tell him to go find someone else, I sigh and let him drag me off to somewhere a little more private so he can talk.

I'm looking at him as he talks and I wish I could be really paying attention to him but my inner rage is giving me a headache and I can't concentrate too much. He notices and he asks what's wrong and I'm this close to just blowing up. Still, I just shake my head and smile reassuringly and prod him to continue talking. Letting him talk is so much easier than admitting I'm so angry, I'm about to punch the next person that just so happens to do anything to set me off, anything at all. He continues babbling on, telling me about what's been going on, what he's been feeling and I'm trying so hard to hold onto my rage because really, it's the only thing I've got left.

He hugs me afterwards, thanking me for listening to him, burying his face in the crook of my neck, not even caring that I'm somewhat awkward as I hug him back. Sure, I do admit to liking to touch people, to feel hugs and that sort of thing but the initial contact is always a little awkward and I'm just so mad that I can't think of much. He pulls away and smiles, displaying all of his small teeth and for a second, I just want to hurt him. I don't do anything at all though, smiling half-heartedly at him and making to walk away. His arm is on my elbow, though, and he's pulling me back and he's questioning me and it's making me a hell of a lot angrier than I already am. My glare doesn't deter him; if anything, it seems to fill him with more determination.

He continues wheedling and he's just so damned annoying that I can't stop myself from pushing him away and shouting at him to leave me the fuck alone. And suddenly, I'm unloading all my fury on him, just yelling at him and throwing everything he had told me back into his face. He just gapes and he's confused and hurt and I stop in the middle of everything because I really shouldn't be screaming at my best fucking friend like that. He mutters that he understands and I can still see how hurt he is at my outburst so I pull him back, muttering apologies. He assures me that he understands but he doesn't; he really doesn't and that if anything, just makes me angry again.

I refrain from yelling at him this time, gritting my teeth as I stalk back into the bus, wanting nothing more than to curl up under my sheets and just sleep all this fucking anger away. It's not long until I'm joined and he's mumbling incoherent apologies and he looks so frightened at what my reaction will be that I can't help but just fucking pull him towards me in a fucking hug. As much as I hate the entire situation, I do have a fucking conscience and it's currently eating me up inside. He loses control in the embrace and he's sobbing and I'm just trying to comfort him because this is so cliché, it's actually even more maddening.

At least I'm not the submissive fag. His eyelashes are stuck in star points and it's making it so difficult to be angry when his eyes are bloodshot and he's sucking in air greedily and tears are marking tracks down his cheeks. I can't stop myself from reaching out and gingerly wiping at his tears, making him smile softly and mutter about what a pussy he's being and I can't help but laugh and crack a joke and agree. He's pulling away, muttering his thanks for helping him yet again and I just smile and shrug and figure my rage's pretty much all used up; it's difficult to remain angry when your friend's been crying on your shoulder and wetting your t-shirt.

He pulls away, heads off to immerse himself in his art or his words somewhere because he's never really been much of an extrovert. I let him go into his own world, deciding that it just doesn't bother me as much as it did anymore. I can't be mad at the fact that they all make me out to be a fucking chick because I know the truth. So I ignore the harsh pounding in my heart, deciding that maybe I'll go lift weights or do some other incredibly masculine thing just to ease my mind a little more. It's easier to immerse myself in something productive like exercise than think over my thoughts because it's just not fun to pick over my emotions and analyze him. I know the rage's going to come back but for now I can just go lose myself and pretend none of this exists, pretend there is absolutely nothing chronicling me as an absolute emotional wreck.

I can pretend nothing's wrong because I know the truth and for the moment, I assume the truth just has to suffice.