All is fair in Love and Strikes (Sprace)

Chapter 11 I Race

SLIGHT HOMOPHOBIC TRIGGER WARNING. IT'S BASICALLY JUST RACE'S SEXUALITY DYSPHORIA. IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THAT PART, SKIP THE "DEAR JOURNAL".

SENSITIVE TOPIC TRIGGER WARNING (SUICIDE)

I made my way up to the roof. The sky was a deep, afternoon blue and there was a breeze that cooled my skin in the warm summer sun. The clouds were scattered like someone took little wisps of cotton and threw them blindfolded across the sky. They were moving at a gentle pace with the wind. My eyes followed one until it made it's way over the East River. My gaze drifted down a touch. Brooklyn. There was Brooklyn on the other side of the glittering river. I sat down and opened the notebook I had in my hands to a blank page. I drew the scene before me.  The river, the clouds, the bridge, the buildings, Brooklyn. I smiled at what I had created. I've always had a creative hand. I was sketching everything in sight by age four, and drawing realistically by six. It's one of the things that kept me sane when my life became abusive and pain filled. 

I finished up the last few details and switched to the page right next to the drawing. I began to write.

Dear Journal,

I'm back. Miss me? Ha. Of course you didn't. You're just a book that I rant to every now and again. Anyway, the boys are acting like, well, boys! Drooling over a bunch of girls, it's what boys do. Does that mean I'm not one? I mean, what's in my pants tells me I am, my head does too, but everything else tells me otherwise. I'M IN LOVE WITH A BOY FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!! Spot Conlon of all people! I'm. Not. Normal. Of course you already knew that. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. If I tell the others, they'll ditch me. They'll think I'm just a stupid little queer who doesn't deserve anything in life. If I tell Spot... Lord knows what'll happen. I can't stop thinking of him. Those stormy blue eyes... ugh I wish I could get his pretty, fucking, face outta my head. Changing the subject... Jack was caught yesterday. Our trial is tomorrow which means I have to face Spot again. And after last night. We told each other our stories. He took my shirt off me. I don't care if it was to help me, he still did it. I can't handle all this. I'm tempted to just jump off the roof right now and relieve all this pain. All this confusion. Maybe make you a suicide book. Years worth of emotional and physical pain are crammed in here so it could be like several suicide notes in one. Y'know I might do just that. Here's to my last entry *Raises mental glass*.

Goodbye *sips from mental glass*,

Race

I stared at the leather-bound journal I had been writing in for as long as I could remember. It was basically my Autobiography. My whole life was crammed into these pages. I ran my fingers over the paper. The pages were thin and slightly yellowed, like parchment. A few of my fingers were sliced open. The cuts stung, starting to bleed, dying the paper a bright, sickening red. I stood up and glanced over the slowly darkening sky. I clutched my journal tightly, ignoring the stinging paper cuts, and stood on the very edge of the roof. This is what it's come to? I thought. I'm such a coward that I'm running... well jumping from my problems? I started to sniffle, leaving a knot in my throat and snot clogging my nostrils, making it difficult to breath. A tear escaped. Then two more. Then three. There I was, crying, about to jump off a building to escape the the cruelty of the world. 

I always had the jokes. I was always the clown of the Manhattan newsies. I never realized that,  deep down, I was just trying to cope. Trying to pretend that everything was okay. EVERYTHING WAS NOT OKAY. The world's fucked up. I'm fucked up. I've always said I'm fine, I've never been fine. I wanted a place where I belonged. I thought I had finally found that refuge in the lodging house, as a newsie, all those years ago but nooooooooo. Never. I'd never belong. Not ever. Not when I'm like this. Not when I'm different. I'd never belong. I'd never fit in. I'd never be fine. I'll forever be a coward. I heard the clanging of footsteps coming up the cold, metal fire escape. Oh, now I'm delusional too, I thought. Why would anyone come up here for me? 

I turned my head and looked behind me at the sun setting over the Hudson River, suddenly aware of everything that surrounded me. Shades of red, orange, pink, yellow, and purple were dominating the once blue sky. I could hear the sounds of horses neighing in the streets, people making the last errand for the day, the clip-clop of hoofs trotting down the dirt streets, birds chirping away the last minutes of day light, newsies laughing inside the place that I had called home for so many years. The trees in the somewhat distant Central Park stood tall, a darker green from the hot July sun. They would be changing by September, maybe August. The buildings around were mostly made from worn, red, brick. I could see the World building towering above them all. This was my world. I had never much taken a second glance at it, but now that I'd never see it again, I was soaking in all of it. Like how your clothes do when you jump into the water. Every fiber in me absorbed the view. It was a gorgeous view. I just wish I could share it with someone... with Spot.

No, no, no. Don't think about that. Don't think about him. Don't think about Spot. My thoughts didn't stop me. Brooklyn Bridge stood tall over the East River in front of me. Taller than anything I had ever seen before. It was the connection between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Me and Spot. 

Everything felt so distant. The trees, the buildings, the river, the bridge, the city, the ground, the sky. Everything.

I sighed. It was all too much. The world around me was too good for me. Too cruel to me. "Goodbye," I whispered in a soft sniffle. With that, I stepped over the edge of the Manhattan Newsboy Lodging House to the road five stories below. I had won battle after battle after battle, but in the end, the world had won the war.