Hidden Dimples and Butterfly Wrists

3. Mean Dreams

I could feel my tired eyes and see the murky clouds roll in overhead, like small waves searching for a place to break. I remember always thinking about what was coming next in thick anticipation but now all I do is dwell on what has already gone by. I can still smell some normality in burnt toast in the early morning or a pair of mismatched socks. I feel it when reminiscing about when we walked the quiet streets, never scared or anxious because nothing that bad ever happened in our sheltered bubble of a town.

369 days.

I didn't sleep much and the mean dreams that easily found their way into my lazy mind didn't affect me anymore. Younger me thought that growing up would be more bittersweet and filled with midnight drives to McDonald's with 80's music blasting from boot speakers and the windows down or star gazing with someone special lying next to me on a warm, clear night. Our homes had white fences and we laughed far more than the next person, but now the fences were turning grey and so was our laughter. Everything was turning grey; my jeans, the sky, my eyes and my thoughts. 

7 hours. 

 You soon realize that when you've got nothing left, you've got nothing else to lose. 

24 minutes.

Sometimes I craved not being sad like I craved chocolate. I remember when the despair came and went like the colour of paint on my walls. Now it hung around me like the guilt I felt. After all, he wanted the honey, not the bee. I felt like the honeybee. He came around and asked for a smile and the stars aligned. Tears, like rose petals, would fall but now they fell in the shape of thorns. The calming sound of waves from sitting near the sea and soaking up the salt and the sun were now warped into the echoes of ambulance sirens and tsunamis of blood.   

45 seconds. 

It's funny how his voice floods my brain and reminds me of when he told me he was sorry. I can't do anything but believe I've caused the pain he forced onto me and himself. Before I met him I wanted to feel so badly I knew I would even consume it artificially, but things changed when I locked eyes with him on the first day of high school.

 I remember walking into Fletchers High School and feeling the heavy heat of the summer. I was so scared that my hands were shaking and I could feel my heartbeat in my stomach. I wasn't sure whether the sweat highlighting my face was from my anxiety or the ominous warmth. After reporting to the office for a map of the school and my timetable, I wandered about in search of my locker. My locker was located parallel to the basketball court and, at first, that worried me, but the worry was washed away when I saw him at locker 40.

Locker 40, locker 40, locker 40...

40 minutes.

"James! James, pass it here!"

I can vividly remember James turning his head as if he were in slow motion. He had his black school shorts low on his hips, his grey school shirt untucked and his tie lazily hanging over his shoulder. His eyes were a gorgeous light grey and the vibrant blue of the sky was reflected perfectly in them. He had a soccer ball nestled between his feet, like a penguin nursing it's egg. His hazel, shaggy hair resembled an upturned mop on his head - it wasn't styled, but it somehow still looked like a fashion statement. All of these thoughts were lost when he laughed. He laughed like an angel. His mouth fell open and his head tipped back slightly as he showcased his crowded teeth. He was beautiful.

"Just wait for me to put my books away Tom."

When he spoke, I knew what I had been missing my whole life. I had never been in so much awe. Both of us were just on the fringe of being thrown into the depths of puberty so his voice was crackly and a little squeaky, but that didn't occur to me. All I knew was that, as I watched his lips move, I wanted them on mine. The only problem was that this was all new to me. I was twelve at the time and I understood how people treated boys that liked boys. After all, Dad wore his homophobia as proudly as the cross hanging from his neck.