The child of my youth entered the store.
And instantly, the room felt the weight he beared.
Sorrow screamed from his weary eyes.
Red Chucks.
Brown socks.
Six, convienence sized, packs of Tylenol PM,
Gripped in his gaunt hands.
He stares for a moment before he realizes
Who I am.
His groggy, blank face turns upward.
"Hey man, keeping out of trouble?"
The superficial answer.
"Of course."
His eyes wander to me bandaged wrist,
The object of my sister's aggression.
He beams a smile.
Lifts his lanky arms, palms up.
Three jagged scars,
"We have something in common,
But I did it the right way."
A year ago, I wanted to be him,
A year ago, he had what I always wanted.
This boy, who beat me at everything we did.
Charasmatic,
Energetic,
Handsome.
Now he has 36 Tylenol PMs,
He hasn't slept in three days.
His scars are my phosporescense
Shot to the stomach.
I wanted to cry.
"See ya Ryan, keep out of trouble."
"You too."
Good luck, Donny.