Before You

Can I trust you?

“If I am to get through this, it will have to be with someone preferably paradisiac.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about what the meaning of life is. How knowing the meaning of life is different from knowing what the point of it is. I don’t know either. But as I walk into my old bedroom after spending the last three days on the couch, my thoughts drift to something else. Any aches from my body haven’t come yet, my parents are still being good people. Stepping around the spot where the dead squirrel had been cleaned up from, my back rests on the fuzzy, black sheets of my bed, the window still hanging open as my arms pulse in exhaustion, sweat pouring from my body and the adrenaline from the climb vanishing in a heartbeat. A knock on the door disturbs my deep thoughts, my breath hitching in my throat as I’m sure I’ll get caught and hit. I roll my body sideways, scrunching my eyes closed as my head rests against the wall, creating a cold feeling as the door creaks open. Oh, shit. I forgot to close the window. I bite my lip to suppress the sounds threatening to come out, my eyes snapping open as I try and stay aware of where the person is in my room. The window shuts closed, tightly, and as I try my hardest to act fast asleep, a figure looms over me and my back slides down ever so lightly as a weight lands next to it. I feel a hot breath next to my breath, the person hovering over me, surely seeing I’m not asleep, yet not doing anything about it. “I know you’re awake, prowler.” The voice whispers, toasty breath still covering the side of my face. But I don’t move, forcing my body to stick with the lie that I can’t hear the figure behind me. “Tell me, where were you tonight, son?” The voice asks once more after that when I don’t answer him. He comes into my face, and I can almost see his clenched teeth as his hand goes to a fist beside me. “Out all night being a disappointment, son?” I barely manage to stifle a whimper from my mouth, a part of my brain saying it’s a smart idea to talk back to him. Nevertheless, my heart knows this isn’t him. It’s not safe to interact with him. “You answer me when I talk to you, boy. Or you’ll get it.” I let go, thinking about what will happen if he does something distracts me for the time being, my tongue shaping the words for begging. Though I don’t manage to utter a word, as I begin sniffling, crying out as he strikes me. The male, who I never really thought of as my father, had his whip ready as soon as my mouth opened. He smacked it against my back, his hand full of grime and filth from the day’s work that dirties my shirt, him pulling it over my head harshly. “Stop it. Please, this isn’t you.” And we might know it isn’t sometimes, though we also know there’s no chance of him stopping. The male, muscles broad and flexed, his height intimidatingly hovering over me as he pulls my waist down to the floor. My eyes trail to the spot, an alien sticker covering the hole as I remind myself this has happened on multiple accounts. My biological father’s whip crashes onto my bare back, thrashing against me multiple times during the time he edges my school pants down to my knees.

The sun arose rather delicately, shining onto everything in an early state, happy as can be. It burst into my eyelids, giving my head a bright awakening after the sore, catastrophic night I’d had. I cleared my mind as the memory of what he’d done to me so many times washed over, there is no joy I will find in that. So, as I go through my usual morning routine, I find myself putting on my earbuds as I skip breakfast to catch the bus in time. The window edges open, furious lyrics coming into my ears as my arms stretch in an exercise to reach the vines.
As I scurry to the bus stop, I watch in the distance as the number ‘33’ comes into view. Gladly, I reach the front of the bus door in time, smiling at the old man as politely as I can. The students are rowdy today, I can tell, obnoxious rap songs ruining my eardrums as me and my neighbor clamber on, forcing adults to squeeze past males legs spread out across the aisle. My ears fall deaf on the groans and whispers of the bundies down the back, but as an old man squeezes past yelling profanities, smoke brushing past the neighbor’s nostrils causing him to wrinkle it. Our sides push together as the engine turns on, the bus driver completely giving up to enforce the laws. ‘Hello, there.’ I see him mouth, and I manage to get the same across before he crashes into me, a hand brushing my chest as he furrows to get away from me, pushing on my chest successfully, my neighbor has an obvious blush on his cheeks as he apologizes immediately, consulting me that he ‘really didn’t mean it’. My heart forgives him instantly, a surge of warmth going through it at the young boy’s clumsiness. The bus swerves onto the motorway, another bump into me, and if I didn’t see that his grip on the bar really was weak, I’d have thought he was doing it on purpose. “I’m so sorry.” Over the chatter, I hear him squeak. “Scuse me, young sir. Getting off I am, I am.” Says a rambunctious black haired man. I only notice him because people part, even the bundies, to let the poor man wheel himself off the bus. Yet as the vehicle gets going again, the man’s structure reminds me of my father’s, the same tan skin touching my skin, hitting me, rubbing cream on the sore spots. Nevertheless, my neighbor has noticed this as per normal, nudging me extra softly. The dull ride is put to an end as I hop off next to him, hand in hand as the other students push each other to get off first, eager to do the same thing they did the entire ride although with their friends. “It happened again, last night.” He observes my behavior, and I don’t say anything. My lips zipped sealed until I think of a different conversation to have with one, a less important one. “I don’t understand high school students. Always in a rush, but never to do anything important. They confuse me, and they wound me.” He pauses the rambling rant he’s been on since the school gates about getting help, standing up to him. The usual. Then he drops it, shaking his head as a short smile rubs off on both of our faces. “You are, yourself, a high school student. You are saying that even yourself confuses and wounds you.” My shoulders rise up once then down, eyes tailing after some small brunette catching up to his friends. “Sometimes I do.” His head turns to me, a look of two seperate feelings laced together as his bister eyes twitch, following my glances at the kiddish teenager bouncing up to his friends near us, chatting away about some guy on the hockey team. “You should see a therapist.” The neighbor suggests in a small tongue, side stepping away from me with shy eyes. Another blush forms over his cheeks, so I reach over to him. “Hey. Come back, don’t shy away from me now.” I add in a little chuckle, successfully bringing him over to a usual spot of mine. Charlie leaves his bag on the ground after grabbing his laptop, signing in and starting a game of tetris. A small laugh comes out of my mouth and he eyes me with one eye still on the screen. “What?” I shake my head, shrugging that it’s nothing. “I just thought you’d be doing something more productive than tetris. Like studying whenever you can.” Charlie lets out a giggle, short and sweet, at my words. “Sure, I would. Definitely didn’t spend biology playing tic tac toe with Aries.” His breath halts as a curly haired, grey lady walks past, glaring at him like it depended on her life. “Oopsie.” He whispers, shrinking down the wall as he forgets his game. “You’re about to die.” I mention, staring at the screen as the blocks build up. “Oh no, my high score!” He whisper-yells, giving the impression that it happens to be really important to him. The smaller boy lets out a groan as his new high score pauses, a new game immediately starting as we both try to think of stuff to talk about. “Do you play?” He eventually asks, trying to fill the void of awkwardness. I shake my head, then realizing he might be more focused on his game, reply with words. “No, I’ve been more focused on riding.” There’s no reaction to my words, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he didn’t reply straight away. “Oh! How’s that going, anyway? Have you won any competitions yet?” I scoff playfully, “Not many competitions in this part of town, and anyway, my parents force me to work in my free time.” He frowns, still playing the game with no end, but still keeping the conversation going. “So, you really have no free time at all?” His question makes me think for a moment, and now that I do, my brain comes to the conclusion that my parents have been controlling my life. Ruining it for quite some time. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you always turn me down for hangouts, and why we never see each other besides school?” Though it’s posed as confusion, Charlie continues after a breath because he knows the answer. “Well, then, I think I need to have a word with your parents.” His tone comes to be more high-pitched, a different more posh version of his voice coming into play with his joke. His humor forces a smile out of me, though a real laugh this morning seems like it would be a miracle. “Yes, go ahead, Charlie. I’m sure they would love that.” I answer in the same rich, snobby actors voice as him.