Polyphia

R Y A N

Since Lilly and I don't have driving licences, we made a pact to always walk home together. It was the perfect time to catch up and talk about what had happened during the lessons we didn't share.

As we walked along and talked (talking as in me talking shit about some jock) I noticed how Lilly didn't even listen or followed along. She would normally say stuff like, "don't say that Ryan, that's not nice" or "you don't even know him, he could be going through something"; instead, she was too focused on kicking the same the stone as we strolled back home. I knew there was something going on with her, which surprised me as we would tell each other everything, and I mean everything. Lilly hated keeping things from me, it physically made her sick; one time, when we were 12 years old, she threw up because she kept the fact that she ate my Snickers bar from me. She had a high guilty conscience and the idea of keeping things from me eats her alive.

"Loli," I referred to her nickname as I was incapable of pronouncing Lilly correctly for the first ten years of our friendship; I honestly don't understand, the name's fucking simple. "Are you okay?"

She mumbled that she was just tired and kept kicking the stone. I grabbed her shoulder, making her stop, and turned her to face me.

"You've been kicking that stone since we started making our way back home, and you're not chastising me for being a dick. Something's wrong, and you're not telling me."

"I wouldn't say chastising..." she rolled her eyes. "I'm just tired, that's all."

Bull shit. I knew she was hiding something.

"I know you're not telling me something," I crossed my arms. "What's wrong? You never keep things from me. Don't you trust me?"

Am I guilt-tripping her? Probably. Am I feeling bad for doing this? Yes and no. I know I should leave her alone and wait until she feels comfortable enough to tell me. However, I know Lilly like the back of my hand. I know that when she furrows her brows, she's confused; when she sticks the tip of her tongue out during a task, she's concentrated; if she plays with the ends of her hair, she's nervous. And right now, she's playing with her ring, and that's an indication of hiding something from me.

Lilly is hiding something from me, and I know for a fact that it is eating her alive. The fact that she isn't willing to confide in me, hurts me a little. But I must respect her choice of not telling me, even if it frustrates me.

So, I drop the subject and continue walking home. For the first time, none of us spoke a single word.

***

When you think of the word home, a warm feeling should spread all over you. A fuzzy feeling of comfort, safety, and even love. But that was never the case in my household. Now, I didn't grow up abused, or neglected, it was the tough love that embraced me inside those four walls.

When I was six, I learnt to ride my bike. Every time I worked those pedals, I would always find myself toppling over and landing face forward. It was rare that I would end the session unscathed.

At the age of ten, I fractured my wrist as I fell from a trampoline, placing it forward to prevent myself from hitting my head against the concrete.

Of course, there were tears that followed along with it. Every time I cried, I heard my father say one of his phrases such as 'man up' and if you were lucky, you would receive the good old 'don't be a pussy'. Crying about the physical pain was rarely allowed in my household, the exception to literal blood gushing out of you.

But that was always in my case. My older brother Rick, on the other hand, he would cough, and we would immediately rush to the hospital. He was the firstborn. The tough one. The masculine one. In other words, he was dad's favourite. He played every single sport when he was growing up. He would never cry whenever he fell over, scratched his knee or broke a bone. Not only that, but he showed no indication of being in pain. Whenever he got mad, he would hit something; and when he couldn't find anything near him to punch or kick, he would use me. I was his personal punching bag. He was my bully. He was my nightmare.