Straight Boys

As Straight as a die

Andrew's POV

I didn't go to school for a while after I had finally just snapped. I didn't go to school because I couldn't remember half of what happened, and that scared the shit out of me.

I do, however, remember Zachary picking me up after I had calmed down, walking me to the nurse's office, but after that, I couldn't really remember a damn thing. My body had shut down seemingly to protect myself from, well, myself. I only remembered snippets here and there.

"What happened?" The nurse had asked, immediately jumping to her feet when she saw two boys entering her office, one supporting all the weight of the other on his shoulders to help him walk.

"He wasn't breathing," Zachary had started to say, but his voice was breathy and he couldn't quite get all his words out without jumbling them together, "and-and. . . I think he was about to pass out or-. . . Or he fell down and couldn't move, couldn't speak. . . I- um - I think he was having a panic attack." It was the first time, I think, that Zachary Rogers didn't know what to say or do. He had always been the one to have something on the tip of his tongue to say, and it was always clear, concise and maybe even a little Jackass-y. He was always the level headed one. It never occurred to me that Zachary would ever feel so... so helpless.

Even when he was telling me about his mom, and how he had lossed her, he never outwardly conveyed this downright life-crippling emotion to me.

And I think that's why I remembered that part so much.

Then my mind had left me there, trying to help me forget about whatever the hell was happening to me, about whatever the hell had happened to me. Although, I do remember the nurse talking to someone at her office door, and my dad's voice, after what seemed like only a few seconds, suddenly finding its way into my ears.

"Andrew?" He had called, but as soon as he saw me, he was kneeling over my bed while he stroked the hair out of my sweaty face. Behind him, there was a clock, and I remember seeing the hands pointing at almost eight-thirty in the morning. The clock now read almost eleven. I had been in that office for over two hours. It only felt like seconds.

After my dad had picked me up from school, he drove me home, leaving my car in the school parking lot, where it would stay for a long time.

Maybe it had been a week? Maybe more, but I hadn't been to school in a while. I stayed home, away from that Hell hole, away from my newfound problem, and away from all the shit that seemed so misplaced in my life.

I was completely and entirely alone. There was no one around me for once.

The only time I left the house was to visit Lola and mom at the hospital; but even then, however, I was still somewhat alone because Lola slept half the time, or had to go to therapy for the shit weaknesses she developed from the accident. And so when she went off, I would move to my mom's room - since Lola now stayed in the pediatrics part of the hospital - and I sat in life-ruining silence that was never really silent because of the constant beeping of her heart monitor and the thoughts that exploded in my mind, behind my ears, when I had realized I had been slacking on my duties as a son.

Shakily inhaling, I let the sterile air fill my lungs for a pause, before I slowly exhaled with so much sadness, the sadness that I couldn't quite contain anymore, and let my thoughts dissolve away as I sorrowfully watched my mom. My hand rested over her hand, which was discolored and nothing like it used to be, and I let my eyes heavily cast themselves over her still features.

"Mom... I'm sorry." I whispered, the words pain inducing because my throat was closing in on itself.

My life had been so fucked up recently, and yet I still couldn't fucking find time to be with my mom anymore. Isn't this what your father wanted, though?