Supernovas & Escapism

Chapter Twenty-Four

      The silence that lingers between us is almost too much to bear. We both want to say something, but it's the most stressful game of chicken.

     My knuckles tense and my jaw locks. I can feel my blood boiling slowly but surely. It's terrifying and enlightening at the same time. Every breath that I took came like an inhale of sulfur—always burning and never quite leaving me. My lungs wanted to break free from my rib-cage. And at the same time, my brain was scurrying, trying to find out why this was getting to me so much. Even in the moonlit darkness, I can see the white heat in my fists as they squeeze tighter by the second.

     This was the norm for a boy like Garth. He'd said so the first time I'd spoken to him. His body was used to bruising and bleeding, and it showed. Unlike the teary fury that was brimming down inside myself, Garth seemed a little complacent. Sure, his movements and expression were moody, but not more so than usual. The state of his body didn't even match his almost calm and cool persona.

     In that moment I kind of understood him.

     It was like he was daring the world to do its worst. Garth was a boy in the middle of a hurricane, standing his ground and waiting for the next wave to hit him. It didn't matter if he wanted to escape; when he was faced with the trials that stood ahead of him, he took it on the chin.

     And I was pissed at him for that. Kids like us—the broken ones—we were supposed to fight back, show the world that we were truly made of tougher stuff. It hurts that he probably thinks so little of himself that he's willing to stand in the face of a speeding train.

     But what pisses me off more than anything else is my own reaction. I want to say that I think I know Garth, but I don't. Every time I think I have this side of him figured out, he reveals another edge of him that proposes two more sides. He's a friend, or rather I wish he was a friend. The heat that burns in me feels different though.

     It's not like that white-hot anger I felt back when Eric Castillo knocked out my best friend Tommy's front tooth. It burns twice as hot and it's choking my breaths. I'm starting to think that the only reason I've not said anything is because my mouth feels so dry from the heat of my body.

     I needed to know why this was coming to me in waves. But I already knew the answer to that.

     Like that day all those weeks before, I wanted to step in the way of confrontation. I wanted to make the world stop spinning for a moment, and I wanted to stand for something that made me feel proud of myself.

     It's only when I reach the crux of this anger that I find myself thinking a bit more logically. There are questions that I need answered, and they all crop up at the same time.

     What happened to you? Who did this? Tell me where they are so I can smash there face into the curb.

     None of that comes out though. In fact I actually manage to surprise myself with the question I ask.

     "Are you okay?" My body shifts on the front of the car, sitting leg crossed with aggression painting my every expression. Everything in me feels live, like it's coursing with enough electricity to power LA.