My Dearest Social Pariah - Jesse
The term "Isolation" most accurately described my existence. I was like a lone prisoner in life's endless cell. Enclosed in a secluded room, I am barred away from the rest of the world. Outside the bars, I can see it- a beautiful day, glossed with sunrays upon the earth. Still, I cannot live this vision. This untouchable life is like a painting in a museum; I can see it, admire it, but, yet, there is a barrier that separates us. My eyes can gaze upon it with desire, but I cannot cross that barrier. If by chance of a dire wanting, I happen to cross past that barrier, the guards will come to drag me away. The painting is only there for the purpose of admiration- a beautiful site, but a self-absorbed site only. From my enclosed cell, I can see the polychromatic world about me, but it's only a picture, not a reality.
The cell is invisible, but I feel its confinement about me. The shackles of life's burden are tying me down again. They pin me up to their invisible concrete wall for everyone to laugh; the mockery is allowed and ethical. I am their freak, I am their prisoner, and I am their fool with a stake through his heart. Perhaps I am a vampire with the status of a pariah, but my own desires merely pursue me in my direction. Beneath a cloak of darkness, I am my own master; however, I am merely a human by physical standards. The cloak shrouds my "secret". Only the rest of the word will see the cloak, but not what lies beneath its dark folds. If they ever did, I might as well tie a noose around my neck.
Within the dark always lies the secrets that no one wants to see, but, yet, simultaneously, there is an unexplainable obsession with them; they must be part of the cache. There are the spies that are lurking behind you, peeking over your shoulder to find out your secrets. Sometimes, the secrets are veiled to be unseen by their eyes. A shroud of whispers will cover them up, and no one, besides for myself, will ever know the blasphemous words.
Sometimes, unfortunately, that is not the case. The can will explode, and all of the darkness will become pervasive in the air, and infect them with all of the truth that they, originally, did not want to hear. Now they feel sorry for prying into your past, the peril of your soul. There is no possible way to gather up the debris to shove back into the can again. All of them know, and they are laughing at your incompetence. The prison guards have tied to the shackles, and there is no way to escape. You struggle, but they metal only keep you captive and chafes you. The laughter becomes noxious, and unbearable to my ears. Every happy face looks like a clown's visage- childish and enraptured in their bliss. Your own bliss means nothing to them, and, in fact, they prey upon your bliss- eating it away and masticating it for them. Finally, after what seems like ages of suffering, the truth shows up, but it's only what they wanted. They wanted for you to be miserable, and to be the object of their taunts and torture. Your secrets are revealed, and the stake has ripped through one side of your heart to the antipodes. There is no way to heal the damage now- they are either joyous or horrified in the release. You are left to die in your own mortification, since the grave has already been dug, and the epitaph has been scrawled. The best advice is to hide yourself under your blankets, and smother yourself with your own misanthropic desires.
A lonely desolate house is depressing to greet when I come home. The sensation that drifts through the air is that no one cares about you, since everyone else has something better to do. They have a job and friends- neither of which you have. There are no jobs available, and there is no person without a smirk upon their face. In the winter, the heat even leaves, and the house became frigid and empty. Opening the door is like looking into the empty head of a person without a soul. Every object in the room looks like it once had life, but has been deprived of a fruitful existence. A chill lurks through the room as the door slams shut. A sickening, eerie silence lingers through the air, as if someone behind me is breathing down my neck. But, no one is behind, and the desolation does not remain a mystery.
The gray streets are covered with a thick blanket of snow that continued to grow, despite its monstrosity, by gathering in piles on the pavement, once it has fallen from the sky. The top of each pile is coated with a pure dust of white, but below is a base of gray, mirroring the image of a mountain. On each side of the sidewalk, a miniature mountain range formed from the snow, complete with peaks and valleys. Occasionally, a neighbor tossed out their garbage, which disturbed the picturesque piles of snow. The lumpy bag would crush the mountains, and the snow would flatten out. Once the block terminated into a corner, facing a cleared street, the mountains terminated as well. Squinting above, into the gray sky, I spied the street sign. By the decaying letters on the street sign, I knew this was my street, and I took a gulp of the alcohol supplied by my fragile nerves.
Reluctantly, I trudged down my street, but I could not look up and face those who might be staring at me. Evasively, I touched the smooth black buttons on my coat, and made sure that I was buttoned to the collar. In a nightmare, my coat would be blown open by the wind, which would then reveal my true self under the layer of black and shrouded my body. But, my coat was buttoned, and the only other visible things were my boots, visage, and hair. My hands, balled in fists, were shoved into my pockets. Although no one was home, I felt scared, since I knew that I was not analogous to the rest. Inadvertently, I was ostracized, since I felt like was a mere regurgitation from some point in time during their existence.
As I trudged down the narrow sidewalk, the only sounds that I could hear were the few passing cars and the echoing of my boots against the pavement. Each step was followed by an echo from the release of my boot. After every step, an immediate release followed, which, in seconds, was followed by another step. Then I realized where I stood- in front of my house. Cowering in meekness at the grandiose size of the row houses looking down upon me, I timidly glanced up at them as I searched through my pockets for a key. The windows, every one with their shades drawn, were like contemptuous eyes that stared down at me. Each door acted as a mouth, grinning in its superiority. The row of houses became an army of valiant soldiers, lined shoulder-to-shoulder, that glared down at me, about to consume me alive. I stood upon the pavement, and looked up at them. Who sent this army of giants to frighten me? I did not know, but the sight of them made me shake in my coat. In one gulp, I would not exist; they would engulf me into their mysteries lying behind those doors. The only residue left of me would be my footprints in the snow on the pavement. Those imprints would soon be trampled over by those of others, and I would be gone without a trace.
At the bottom of my pocket, a jagged piece of metal brushed against my fingers. A ring caressed my palm, and slid into my hand. A finger's length of smooth metal gave way into a row of stubby teeth, like those on a dull comb. I took the key out of my pocket, slid it into the keyhole, and attempted to open the door to my house. In an instant, the door opened, and the house swallowed me whole. Then, the door closed with a faint click from the lock. The grin was on the outside again, with eyes spying its next victim.
Darkness shaded everything inside with a gloss of a secretive shadow. The living room was dark, and seemingly dead, aside from the light that filtered through the front window. A beam of light shone through the stiff lace curtains, and onto the beige carpet below, and created a white island in a sea of blood. I, too, was engulfed into the sea of darkness. About me, everything laid in the shadows. Across the floor, the newspaper was scattered in a train, in which each section was piled onto another one. The room smelled faintly, but distinctively, of coffee and laundry detergent. Outside, a breeze blew, slapping against the windows, and rattling the glass. Timidly, I moved across the room, stepping over the papers. I stood in front of the window, and allowed the steam of light to fall down upon me. The front of my coat became illuminated with the light. In front of me, the curtains barely moved; only when the wind shook the glass did they quiver, somewhat.
Gingerly, I removed my hands from my pockets, and outstretched them to finger the lace curtains. The material felt rough between my fingers, almost like construction paper. The pattern woven from the lace was intricately embroidered into a chain of flowers. Each blossom has five elliptical petals, opened faced. Through the white lattice formed by the stitched details, the light filtered through onto the floor. As I released the fabric, it fell back into its stiff position again, and behaved like a shield for the window.
The room was starting to smell of cigarettes, now. Before I started home today, I had smoked a pack in the parking lot at school. Now, my coat was saturated with the intoxicating aroma, which surpassed the scents of the coffee and detergent. Reminiscing cigarettes, I began to crave for another. My stomach ached, as if I was craving for some type of ambrosia. It growled and begged for a cigarette; however, for a month, I had tried to quit smoking, which seemed to have slight success.
Two months ago, I used to smoke about two and a half packs of cigarettes when I was at the nadir of my addiction. Each week, I would save my lunch money, and later spend it on cigarettes at a gas station across the street; Glynis and I were not meeting after school to go to the cafeteria, like we used to in junior high. Everything I wore smelled pungently from the smoke and ashes. However, no one at home suspected me of smoking. My parents and siblings dismissed the scent as the result of Glynis smoking cigarettes around me. She did smoke, too, but only a pack or less per day. On the contrary, I was nearly infatuated with their intoxicating aroma and their smoke as it whirled about my head when I smoked outside during the winter. �Euphoria� is what I would always mumble in the transitory moment of pleasure. As long as I wasn�t in class at school, or downstairs at home, a cigarette was always between my crimson-lipsticked lips. A cigarette had to be there, or else, strangely, I would not feel complete. Perhaps the dependency came from the fact that its smoke filled me with amorous rapture, as if I was in love with someone. However, I was not in love with any person, I had to admit. Sometimes, I felt like an apathetic person, who did not love anyone, aside from Glynis. The smoke - unlike any person - as soon as it entered my lungs, captured me with a stronghold that could never let me go - so it seemed. Thus, I started smoking the amount I did, which was about fifty cigarettes a day. Then, the notion of death dawned on me after I nearly collapsed of exhaustion in gym class. My class was running laps outside, when I suddenly ran out of breath and was not able to regain it. Gasping for air, I felt as if my breath was being stolen out of my lungs, and all I could do was collapse upon the ground in a coughing fit. Vaguely after that, I can remember sitting in a dazed state in the nurse�s office as she told me about how I should stop smoking. And, ironically, I don�t even remember telling her I smoked, but I guess she assumed I was from the scent that covered my skin, hair, and clothes. Ever since then, I tried to quit, with minimal success following. From two packs, I narrowed my intake to about one and a few from a second pack, but never two whole packs. But, there were other severe repercussions that my parents became worried about, although they still were not aware of my habit.
Instead of cigarettes, I dived into a splurge of food. If I could not have a cigarette, I would gorge myself for hours in food, while trying to mitigate my addiction. The result of that endeavor was that within one month, I had gained almost fifty pounds from all of the junk food I consumed and the lack of exercise I was accustomed to. Before, I had a gaunt frame, and my trench coat loosely hung from my shoulders. Now, I was quite cherubic, and my coat fit snugly about me. Whenever I looked down at myself, I could always see the buttons from my bulbous stomach bulging under my coat, while its buttons were stressing to stay in their holes.
Everyone, except for Glynis, dismissed this as a time of depression, where I couldn�t help but succumb to watching an infinite amount of art films on television and stuffing myself with an infinitesimal amount of food. True, I admitted to myself once when I was watching Kiss of the Spider Woman and devouring five cans of ravioli Glynis shoplifted for me, I am depressed, but I was depressed before I started smoking; I had been depressed ever since the first time my mother caught me in female attire. This existence did not seem to bother me; however, I frankly did not care what my family and peers thought of me, as long as they didn�t know my secrets.
In a moment of agony, I turned away from the window, dismissing the light for the darkness. How I had become a slave to my nemesis, but I was bound by a ball and chain. Away from the window, the room became darker as the desire rose inside of me. The walls of the room became black, and the whitish furniture grew into a grayish color. The shadows then lead into the dim-lit kitchen, and I made an impulsive dash. No, I thought, I will not succumb; I am not that weak. In the corner, a rushed stove and washing machine stood, and adjacently stood the refrigerator, a white block cast in a shadow against the cinder block wall. Strings of wet, dripping clothes hung from the ceiling on clotheslines that were strung from one side of the room to the other. The scent of laundry detergent grew stronger as I approached the doorway. Water dripped from faded pants and gaudy shirts that were loosely clipped onto the line, and formed murky puddles on the floor. My stomach pleased again, growling loudly in its campaign to make me become an addict again. Appeasing my desires, I crouched on my knees, crawled across the floor, and veered around the puddles to the refrigerator. Grabbing the handle, I swung open the door to reveal a box of vanilla cookies, seductively staring at me in the face. How could I resist? Perhaps I succumbed to another desire, but I greedily grabbed the box of cookies. In the freezer above, a container of strawberry ice cream caught my eye, and my stomach began to plead again. In guilt this time, I grabbed the container and fled the kitchen, although no one was home to see me.
Upstairs in my room, I stumbled onto my bed, and nearly fell prone into my pillow. I could not cope with my stomach's insistent and constant whining. The box of cookies stared me in the face again, and I tore open the top of the box to grab a handful of cookies to stuff into my mouth. The cookies split into small particles between my teeth before they were swallowed into my stomach. But, my stomach still craved more. Since I was determined not to smoke another cigarette, I grabbed another handful of cookies, and devoured that handful as well. My stomach was too indignant to be full, and unwittingly, I winded up devouring the whole box, until a few crumbs were left.
I licked my lips in satisfaction, but my stomach was not satisfied with me. As full as it could be, my stomach still wanted the container of ice cream that started to melt beside me. No, I told myself, I will not succumb to my addiction. In a second, however, that proposal was defied. My greedy hands seized the container in full-throttle, and I started to consume the melting pink mess. It dripped through my fingers and onto my coat in a think pink rain and down my chin like a pink drool, but I did not care. Within a few seconds, the ice cream was devoured as well, but my stomach still whined.
"What is it you want?" I yelled in frustration at myself. " Do you want me to start smoking again, and end up dying?"
Affirmatively my stomach answered; it wanted me to resume my habit. " Fine, you win," I replied, and took another cigarette from my pocket. Begrudgingly, I placed it between my lips, and lit it. The paper started to burn a gray smoke that clouded the air, and filled me with rapture as I closed my eyes to inhale. I had surrendered. I was a prisoner to this habit; I was chained down and unable to stand up. My stomach seemed to be satisfied now. My addiction, once again, had captured me. Whether concerning cigarettes or food, I succumbed to both, and gorged myself with them.
Once both containers were disposed, I noticed the pink drippings on my black coat. They had to come out, I thought as I stared at the disappointed, or else they will stain. Placing my black coat into the bathroom sink, I soaked the material for a few minutes, until the pink started to fade. The mirror above the sink caught my attention. As my reflection stared back at me, I noticed how ugly I had become. The once-slender figure now bulged with fat. My face, showing few signs of maturity, was becoming cherubic, with a fold of fat about my neck. My middle and thighs now had a rotund appearance as they protruded from their original shapes. From my dismay, I wanted to cry at myself, screaming in anguish and frustration, at the way I had become almost corpulent. But, unlike my brothers, this is seemingly where my feminine side of me took the stage.
Beneath my coat, the side that was not revealed to most, was my dress. Perhaps I was ashamed of myself, but I always kept my coat over my attire, so no one could laugh at me. At home, however, I hid inside my room, where no one could see me, and unbuttoned my coat. The polyester fabric of the dress, pulled tightly about me, was patterned with an interminable design of intertwining pink roses on a thorny vine of black. How could I be ashamed of myself when this pattern of flowers seemed to be the only color in this gray house? In the darkness of the room, a single light bulb above the sink illuminated the porcelain basin and my visage. In the reflection, my makeup appeared to be blatantly false. My dyed-purple hair had the appearance of a synthetic wig, aside from the brown roots around my scalp. Had gaudy colors become to only gleam of hope in this mess?
Steam from the water clouded the mirror. As they film crept up the metallic picture, my grotesque figure started to disappear into the fog. Like an incompetent swimmer, my face bobbed above the mass of water droplets on the mirror. The water, in a steady procession, flowed out of the faucet, while it made a hushed sound of monotony, as if the water itself was telling me to be quiet. In an orderly stream, it fell into the sink, and onto my coat to defeat the stain of strawberry ice cream. The stain was disappearing into the vast black field of my coat, until it completely faded from the fabric.
In an instant, the cloud was smeared, and dripped down the glass, like blood from a deep wound. My hand touched the mirror again, creating more destruction. Among the film, fingerprint marks and slashes mottled the surface. In the slashes, I caught glimpses of myself, like part of a secret being revealed. Indeed, this had become a secret, and the cloud of steam was like a shield I was hiding behind. With each disturbance, more of my figure could be seen in the reflection. Perhaps a piece of polyester, a pink rose, or a roll of fat would be revealed every time. Something still seemed to be missing- something that needed to be pried into further to show the full dimensional portrait. Maybe the portrait would become too much to handle, once it was revealed, but the revelation, imminent to step out of the shadows, lurked behind.
The cigarette had burned to a stump of paper between my lips. The smoke had filled the room, along with the steam from the faucet. Taking the stump from my lips, I shoved it into the pocket of my pants below my dress. Like the dress, the black velvety pants were constricting, and the cigarette stump looked like a small bump near my waist. Staring down at my legs, they reminded me of a pair of black sausages, connected at the knee. Again, I could have cried in my disgust, but I had become too disconnected with myself. In denial, I was not inside of this distorted body, bulging out from my clothes. How cruel cigarettes could be, I thought; they throw you around, until you and your self-esteem are crushed by its abuse.
The strawberry stains were off the black fabric. The water, in a hurry, flowed down the drain, as I squeezed out the absorbed water from the coat. In my room, I laid the coat flat at the foot of my bed. Hopefully, I optimistically thought the coat would dry before anyone comes home. At the moment, however, I felt exhausted from my day, and the covers on my bed beckoned me into their comfort. Within seconds of lying down, my eyes closed as I mechanically fell asleep.
"Get up, you fat drag queen!� someone gruffly yelled, and assailed me with a blow of fists to my side. In shock, I immediately awoke, only to realize that I had slept for several hours, and my younger brother was staring down on me. Now that I awoke, the intensity of his brusque slap into my flesh took its toll, and I lied down again, but only this time, I was in pain. The rest of the room was bright with the light from the lamp, but outside, the streets were covered with a dark haze. Rolling onto my back, I saw one of my brothers, Tom, standing over me, with his fists balled, nostrils flared in anger, and eyes that bore with contempt into my own.
Tom was fourteen, two years my junior, and he also happened to be in Glynis� class in school. He was the same height as me, but his strength was greater; it always had been since we were kids. Whether I was emaciated or corpulent, he could have pummeled me to the floor within a few seconds of the first blow. I may have been the older son, but, in my father�s eyes, Tom was the favorable older son. In terms of maturity, however, he was like a pouty eight-year-old, but he still walked with the prowess of a �real man,� compared to my shy, timid effeminate manner. Myself, on the contrary, could never seem to be a �real� man, in the eyes of others, but the manner of my brother disgusted me.
�Where�s the cookies and ice cream?� he inquired with a sneer, as if he had known where they were before he asked.
My blankets were still pulled up to my chin, and I felt the repercussions of waking up after a long nap. �I don�t know,� I replied tepidly, wishing that Tom would leave me alone.
Exacerbated, Tom jumped on top of me and held me down. His powerful hands, pushing me down into the bed, seized my shoulders. �Jesse, I know you ate them, don�t lie,� he retorted with an insincere mocking. His eyes, looking down upon me, seemed to laugh at my helplessness.
�Then why are you asking me?� I weakly replied in a sickly tone.
The light flickered and cast a shadow across his face. If one placed us side by side, we would look similar, aside from the hair. Looking up at him from my supine position made me feel incompetent and frightened. His power was too overbearing, like the grip he used to hold me down, and as he persisted, my body went limp.
�Why wouldn�t I be asking you? Food doesn�t disappear when no one is home. You were home and the food is gone,� he said with a smirk.
�You know I did it, so just leave me alone,� I murmured.
�My friends are over, and there�s nothing to eat. You know Mom told you not to over eat,� he mocked. �You�ll get fat,� he mimicked in a poor impersonation of my mother�s voice.
�And she t-told you not to beat up on me!� I yelled. �Now get off me, Tom!�
�Fat chance!� he laughed.
�If you�re hungry, walk a couple of blocks and buy some food,� I rebuked as I began to become irked at my brother�s antics.
"Why don't you do it, fatty? You�re the one that ate it,� he retorted.
�Well, I�m the one that wants it!� I yelled back at him.
�At least I�m not the one that gained sixty pounds last month,� he snickered, and dug his nails into my shoulders. The light in the room was reflecting off his yellowing teeth as he smiled.
�What does that have to do with anything?� I inquired, with my own sneer, that wouldn�t have scared a child, and sounded like the retort of a female character on a poorly acted after-school special.
�If you weren�t so fat, then you wouldn�t have ate all that food I could have for me and my friends,� he whined spitefully.
�Maybe if you weren�t such an annoying prick, you wouldn�t get agitated over such small things,� I mumbled as I closed to eyes to avoid looking at him.
�You can be such a child sometimes,� he chuckled and released his grasp for a few seconds.
Tom was starting to perturb me, and I wanted him to get off me. As he sat on top of me, I could feel him slowing cutting off my circulation. The way he snickered and smirked at my incompetence gave me a sickening, helpless feeling, as if he thought he was some sort of superior to my being.
�Tom, get off me,� I said bluntly, trying to keep my voice steady and stern.
�Not until you go to the store and get me my food, Jesse,� he retorted slyly.
�Your food?� I rebuked, with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice. �Since when is it yours?�
�And since when was it yours?� he replied smartly.
�It never was!� I exclaimed. �I never declared it.�
�Yeah, but you ate it like the big fat pig you are,� he smirked. He was not going to get his way, I told myself.
�You call me that again, I�ll�� My mind drew a blank. What was I going to do, I wondered. I didn�t know; I just threatened him without any significant consequence.
�You�ll what? Get Glynis to beat me up?� he mocked.
�Maybe I will, maybe I won�t.� I was trying to seem ambivalent and to play his game.
�Admit it, Jesse. You�re fat; you�re a fat drag queen. Just say it,� he said in an insincere, but omniscient, manner.
�And you say that you�re a conceited jock. Admit that, hot shot,� I replied instantly, and sickly smiled back at him.
�Well, that�s only your opinion. You look it. You�re fat and you wear makeup; therefore, you�re a fat drag queen.�
�You�re so ignorant sometimes�, I murmured.
Someone knocked lightly on the door behind Tom. The light in the room stopped flickering, and in the doorway stood a few of Tom�s friends, looking similar to one another. �What are you doing up here, man?� one asked.
�Nothing,� Tom replied. "Ah," I heard him mumble in my direction. "You're not worth the time."
Without looking up from my supine position, I know my brother had left the room. In a streak of ambivalence, I felt relieved, but disappointed. Was I truly nothing in his eyes? Had he transformed into one of the dark, apathetic walls that enclosed this house? His mocking and antics struck a discordant chord with me- I despised myself for diverging from his image. How humiliating he could be � fourteen years old and able to pin down his older brother. His words, although immature colloquialisms, marred my perception of myself, making it even more distorted than it had become already. And, yet, I thought, I continue to stay like a coward in this bed.
At the foot of my bed was my trench coat, feeling like coarse paper after drying. Quickly, I slipped it on and buttoned it up to the collar. Now I could breathe a sigh of relief since no one saw me in my dress. Although Tom was in here, my blanket was pulled to my chin, and my dress was not visible to him. This coat is like my armor, I thought, protecting me from my peers and the rest of the world. Without it, I felt naked and exposed; all of my wounds would be revealed, and the blood would run like water from the gashes.
On the floor were my books in a loosely stacked pile of one upon another, in a domino formation that extended from my bag. Before tonight was over, I knew I would have to tackle the plethora of assignments I would have to complete. My academic grades were high enough for the honor roll- above my peers� as always; however, I could sense myself becoming lethargic and lax with my study habits. In gym class, for the past week, I had not even participated nor dressed in the appropriate clothes, but I had my reasons, which seemed cogent enough and did not derive from indolence. The most prominent of these reasons was the fact that I could not undress in front of my classmates anymore. Everyday, before I stopped doing class altogether, I would try to discreetly dress into my gym clothes in a corner away from everyone, and I prayed that they would not notice me. But, everyday, someone would always point me out for being effeminate. Whether the reason was a nonchalant hand gesture, my makeup, my walk, purple hair, clothes, or even my weight, someone in the locker room would direct a derogatory- usually homophobic- remark in my direction. And, after dealing with this since I entered junior high, I could not deal with the mockery anymore. I had no one to stand up for me, since Glynis wasn�t there, and the gym instructor always ignored me, no matter how miserable I looked. In fact, I think he even enjoyed seeing me mocked and pushed around by all of the other students. I might just have labeled myself �society�s defecation� and I would have received the same treatment.
The other reason for my abstinence of physical education in my daily schedule is because no matter how hard I tried in the activities, I always messed up in some way or another, and laughter ultimately followed. I was always running slower than everyone, or I was the one that could not put the ball though the hoop or hit it with my stick. In a sense, I had become the impediment of the class, and, although I didn�t care that I was always picked last for teams, I always made the team lose. The whole course, in my opinion was mind-numbing and fruitless; why couldn�t I be reading? And, since I wasn�t participating, I knew, sooner or later, I would end up receiving a failure notice.
My assignments were finished, finally. Every word that needed to be written was, and every page was comprehended. And, not once did I feel any connection to my work. All of those words were just meaningless letters on a giant page that needed to be read. Anything that was completed had only one purpose: to be done thoroughly and efficiently. Tomorrow, they would be handed in, and the whole process would repeat again- read, write, return. Everyday, every week the cycle kept continuing, and I would hope that the red �A� would come soon. All during the process, I felt apathetic. The words had no meaning as they stood outside the iron gate of my soul, never to touch the walls of empathy.
The army of sleep broke through the gate, and captured my soul in its soporific spell. The books slid out of my lap and onto the floor with a thud. The covers seemed to glide on top of me like they were made of air. From outside, the moonlight illuminated everything - garbage cans, windowpanes, rooftops, and cars- in the streets. The snow covered everything, as well, like a gigantic white glistening quilt in the light from the street lamps. Despite the layers I wore, the room still felt cold, especially against my cheeks. As I breathed slowly, my breath could still be seen in the dark as white clouds of smoke, like those of cigarettes that lasted for a transitory period of time. Like the palm of one�s hand, the cold in the room brushed against my skin. In my coat, I shivered and shifted my position slightly in bed. The bed�s springs squeaked with my weight as I moved from one side to the other. Under the covers, I huddled with my knees pulled up to my chest. Within a few moments of closing my eyes, I fell into the spell Sleep cast upon me.
One of my brothers turned on the light, which overpowered me and illuminated the dark room, while forcing my short, insignificant dream to fade away. Through the covers, the light shined through every stitch in the fabric. I pulled the covers away from my face, and revealed to room, flooded with light, into my field of vision and yawned. Out f the corner of my eyes, a noticed a figure in the room, sitting like a statue staring into space. Glancing at this figure, I realized that it was my seven-year-old brother, Davy. His bluish marble eyes gazed at me in his own microcosmic wonder, as if I was an enigma to his limited realm. In one hand, he held an action figure, complete with plastic army fatigues and a gun. With another, he stroked his smooth chin, paying no attention to the toy, while focusing most of his attention on me.
I could not help but stare back at him, although not in the same manner. His eyes reflected a perspective of innocence, while mine stared at him with indifference. Perhaps I was just being the epitome of the role of an older brother, but his innocence and unwitting ignorance a young child possesses at his age irked me. He seemed to try to understand why I wasn�t like everyone else, and his curious face echoed the questions of �What has happened to Jesse? Why is he such a freak? Why does he have purple hair? Didn�t my brother used to be skinny?� All I managed to tell myself in comfort was that he was too young to understand. There was nearly a decade of separation between us; a decade that I lived and he did not exist. All he seemed to understand at this point in his life was that action figure in his hand- that inanimate plastic toy with a gun in its fist. Poor ignorant child, I thought to myself about Davy. At his age, I can assume I was like him, although I never played with action figures. However, I could not remember a time when I was as innocent as he is. Heather used to live at home when I was Davy�s age, but I still had more responsibilities, despite she used to coddle me. At that time, I was seven and she was fifteen, but the years when Heather lived with us were only memories that emanated from her room. This phase will eventually pass, I realized, and perhaps, Davy will understand about my �differences.� Perhaps I would become �normal� again and the purple dye would wash from my hair. Maybe my excess weight would become muscle, and I would wear blue jeans without holes. But, at this juncture in my life, I did not care about becoming �normal� to appease my family; his expression of innocence seemed to scathe me.
�Jesse?� he questioned in his innocuous voice.
�What?� I groaned, still wishing he left the lights off.
�Why are you this way?� he asked unintentionally. Later on in his life, I knew, �this way� would have a more poignant meaning to him.
�What way?� I was trying to make him become more specific, while confusing him until he quiets in his own qualms.
�Y�know. The way Mom says.�
His statement struck a jarred chord with my nerves. What did she say about me that I did not know? Was I some kind of embarrassment to her? From the uneasy tone that Davy spoke, I knew he could tell that someone was �wrong� with me. �What did she say?� I asked, hoping he would give me a straight answer despite he was only seven-years-old.
�Well�� he hesitated, while rubbing his hand against his chin in search of a tangible answer. �She said something about you being a homo-something. It sounded bad.�
A homo-something, I thought, as my palms grew moist; I knew what she meant. Obviously, anything with the root homo- in it was seen in a negative light, since she was religiously zealous and ardently opposed to equal rights for homosexuals. In her eyes, being accused of homosexuality was even a sin. Myself, However, I gave up on religious principals a long time ago; her god was in the dark corners of my soul in a petrified dust pile. �He� had no influence on me, and his presence made me feel more inferior than I already felt. For years, she tried influencing her beliefs on my siblings and me, but I set a barrier and Heather seldom came home to visit while my mother was trying to influence us. Her god�s presence would never enrapture or captivate me for as long as I�d live, I declared.
�A homosexual?� I asked Davy, and I hoped that he would be able to clarify. I could bet that he had never heard of the term until our mother mentioned it.
�I think so, but I don�t remember?� he replied. Trying to extract information from Davy was like trying to extract water from dessert sand.
Irked, I asked, �Did she say anything else?�
�She was angry �cause you�re failing gym,� he mumbled.
So the failing notice came today, I thought with disappointment. The only thing I was ever good at - maintaining an honor roll average - was starting to disintegrate, too. I could guess that she thought I was useless- an impeding parasite of a son, who was a burden on everyone�s existence.
For a moment, Davy gazed at me in silence with his curious, angelic eyes again. Then, without flinching, he opened his mouth. �What�s a homosexual?� he asked.
This question took me by surprise, like an instant electric shock to my nerves. �A guy that likes other guys,� I bluntly replied with an insufficient definition.
Across his smooth face, clouds of worry spread across the terrain. �Does that mean I�m one? I like guys, and I hate girls, but Mom says it�s bad.�
�As in love, like kissing and stuff, but not as friends,� I clarified.
�Do you kiss guys, Jesse? Mom was calling you one in the car.�
�No,� I asserted, trying to save what small credibility I had.
�Then why does she call you that?� he asked in a strained, whiny voice.
Coldly, I replied, �I don�t know why.�
�Does Mom think you�re a bad person, like you�re going to hell?� he asked, still persisting with repetitive questions.
�There is no hell,� I answered and rolled my eyes at his unwitting ignorance.
�Mom says that being one of them is a sin.�
�I don�t know what she�s talking about,� I stated tentatively, and that assertion was true; I honestly did not know why she was calling me a homosexual. The only times she ever referred to me as a homosexual were when she caught me masturbating in my room in a dress and when I first dyed my hair purple. In both of those instances, she called me a fag, not a homosexual, and, both times, her mendacious words upset me. When she caught me in my room, the expression upon her face was filled with terror and fear of the unknown that she did not want to encounter. From a rosy, content expression, her face became pale, like the color of old, discarded bones on the ground of a scorched earth. Her eyes hardened, but nearly burst into tears at the sight of her son in feminine attire. I remember lying on my bed, wearing a tight black dress that Glynis stole, with my hand between my legs. Perhaps no one would see me, I remember thinking as I touched myself, stroking between my thighs like I caressed the skin of someone I adored. Her mouth opened, and shrieked, �Jesse! Stop that right now, you fag!�
What did she find now, I wondered. Had a guidance counselor or a teacher wrote a note of concern? Perhaps she was merely doing the standard scrutiny of my room to see if I was �fine.� In a sense, I didn�t care about what she thought, or even what both my parents thought, since I had grown into a stranger to them. After a moment of wandering around the labyrinth of my thoughts, I came to realize that the only way she could have found anything that hinted of homosexuality would have been if she looked through my closet. Inside my closet, below several pairs of worn pants, was where I kept most of my feminine things, such as a few dresses, makeup, and the purple hair dye. And, if she was searching through my closet, what was her motivation? Maybe the failing notice is what pushed her to see if I was hiding anything, such as drugs or alcohol. I knew if I used either one, my academic grades would be in mediocre shape, and I didn�t have the money to buy either one, since they cost more than a pack of cigarettes.
Davy continued to stare at me, as if he had nothing else better to do with his time. From his hand, the action figure dropped to the floor, and he didn�t notice its fall onto the carpet with a dull smack. Why is he continuing to stare at me like I am an animal in a zoo, I asked myself. But, I had to tell myself, Davy doesn�t understand how I am feeling and what is going through my mind. His world was my past that I gladly discarded years ago. If anything actually mattered to him, it was the basics, such as meals, television, and toys; his emotions revolved around the weather, which indicated if he could go outside and play.
�Jesse, why do you wear that coat all the time?� he asked.
�Because I do,� I answered in a concise manner.
�But why? No one else does,� he whined.
�No one else in this family dyes their hair purple nor are they friends with Glynis,� I said with a lackluster repartee.
�Purple�s a girl�s color, and I don�t want to be friends with Glynis,� he replied with disgust, and made a face like he just ate something sour.
�You don�t have to be. I�m just saying that this is how I am and you�re not.�
Davy looked like he was cogitating, but I did not have anything better to do than to wait for an inquiring thought or a puerile answer out of him that I could answer instantly, but would not keep him appeased. Veering away mentally for a few seconds, I listened to the wind howling outside, like a lone person crying in desperation for someone to simply appreciate them. Police sirens blared through the streets, and the scuttling of footsteps on the pavement echoed. Downstairs in our house, there was a metallic crash followed by a curse from my mother.
�Oh shit,� I heard her say as she threw something. The television was blasting, and a murmur of the voices of Tom and his friends could be heard below it. Davy�s face was done its contortion exercise, and his mouth opened to speak again.
�So, does that mean it�s okay to be a homosexual, even though Mom says it�s a sin?� he asked. I noticed that the two notions of being yourself and being ethical to society had become twisted around in his head.
�Davy, I�m not a homosexual,� I insisted.
�Then why��
Interrupting him, I retorted with, �Why anything?� which contradicted his efforts to understand the differences between my mother�s ideals and my own.
From downstairs came the brusque yell of my father�s voice. �Jesse! Davy! Dinner�s ready!�
Davy snapped out of his trance-like gaze, and then ran down the stairs delightfully for the food. Tepidly and laggardly, I followed, but felt like I was dragging myself by an iron chain down the stairs.
At the base of the stairs, my father waited with a stern look directed at me. The folding table was set in the living room, with the television murmuring in the background, and Tom and his friends were lounging around on the furniture like vines that wrap around trees, but hang loosely about the trunk. The room was now filled with light and life, contrary to this afternoon when I arrived home. However, my father refused to remove his glare from me, and instead, its intensity grew, until he looked like he wanted to pummel me to the floor with his fists, fueled by his disgust for me.
The stale air of the room smelled of macaroni and cheese, which pervaded throughout the whole house. That scent also happened to make me nauseous. Everyday, from my perspective, we would have macaroni with something, whether it was sauce or cheese. After one has something everyday, they get tired of it, and I was starting to revile even the scent of macaroni and cheese, whose noxious smell made me recoil in disgust before we started having it often.
My father was glaring at me now, his lips tightly pursed together in his anger. His eyes reminded me of cold, green daggers vying to pierce through my heart. No matter what I achieved, he always had that contemptuous expression upon his face. Now that I�m in danger of failing gym, he must want to kill me, I thought. Everything I did was never good enough for him, or, else, what I did was overshadowed by my hair, the shroud of horror.
�Jesse, take your coat off,� he demanded in a slow, harsh tone. His eyes gazed with a strong aversion into my cowardly ones.
I refused to answer him or abide by his commands. If he saw what was under my black armor, then he probably would force me to leave this house and never return. Near the base of the stairs, I stood, without moving from my stance, and kept my hands firmly settled in my pockets. In front of me, he stood, with an appearance as an omnipotent being that towered over me, despite he was only a few inches taller.
�Jesse, I�ll repeat myself again. Take your coat off,� he commanded with authority and a tinge of aggression in his voice.
�No,� I murmured inaudibly and stood timidly in my stance.
�What? I can�t hear you,� he gruffly asserted.
�I said �No,�� I stated. Uttering each word took an exasperating, exhausting process to make out.
�What are you hiding under there?� he asked, changing the tone from angry to irked.
�Nothing,� I mumbled and stared at the floor. The worn, trampled carpet was the only object I could empathize with in this room right now.
My father�s visage turned a crimson color from the dilating veins on his neck and face as he filled the room with his anger, which took the form of a land mine. �Everyday you wear that coat!� The room exploded into a conflagration, and his blood-shot eyes contemptuously glared into mine. �Every, single, damn day! And, for once when I ask you to take it off, you don�t. What the hell are you hiding under there, Jesse?�
�Nothing,� I murmured again and continued to stare at the floor.
�What? Speak louder when you talk. You look like a fuckin� retard sometimes, Jesse, you know that? You stare at the ground all the goddamn time, and you wear some damn coat like one of those murders like it was the only piece of clothing you owned. For once, when I ask you, take that friggin� coat off!�
Against my thighs, I felt the material of the dress flutter and brush up against them beneath my coat. My father�s intense eyes bore into mine as a lump from my apprehension formed in my throat. Around the room, I stared at all of the ghostly faces of my brothers, Tom�s friends, and my mother, holding a dish of macaroni and cheese. The steam rose up from the meal like ether in clouds about her pain-stricken face. Her mouth was agape like a knothole of a tree as she stared at me in disbelief.
�Get down here right now, Jesse. You have some serious explaining to do,� she said; her face looked tense as she gripped the clear pan of macaroni.
�He�s not coming down until he shows me what�s under that goddamn coat!� my father yelled at her. �He never takes it off. He�s not eating until it�s off!�
�I�ve got to talk to him,� she pleaded.
My father turned towards me. �Listen to your mother; she wants to talk to you.�
The failure notice, I thought tepidly, and whatever branded me as a homosexual were what she wanted to talk to me about. He was the impediment in our conversation. As long as I didn�t take the coat off, however, I couldn�t eat dinner nor move from the stairs.
�You�re not doing anything until you take your damn coat off,� he sneered and spread his arms across the stairs to trap me.
�He�s got to eat!� my mother exclaimed with exasperation at my father. �And I�ve got to talk to him!�
Replete with malicious motivations, my father turned towards my mother again, but pointed a finger, like a rifle, at me. �Look at him! The kid�s a fuckin� pig!�
�So what? I�ve still got to talk to him, and he is going to eat his meal like the rest of the family.�
Tom emerged into the unfolding conversation. �Bull shit!� he smirked.
Frozen in shock, my mother turned towards Tom. �Watch your mouth, young man.�
�I�ll watch it as soon as you tell Jesse to stop eating all the food,� he retorted.
�He didn�t eat all of the food�� my mother replied, but Tom interrupted her in the middle of her assertion.
�He ate all of the ice cream and cookies for me and my friends,� Tom whined like a spoiled child who hasn�t had enough of what he desires.
�See, hon?� my father said in a nonchalant tone. �He�s a pig with no consideration for others, especially his family.� The clich�s made me cringe.
�That food wasn�t specifically for you!� she yelled at Tom, but then turned to me and said with equal vigor, �And that�s another thing I�ve got to talk to you about!�
The lump in my throat had multiplied its size considerably and felt unbearable; I couldn�t even swallow without feeling like I had a rock over my lungs. Everyone in the room was now staring at me, but in the midst of the silence, my heart started to pulsate loudly in my ears like a metronome timing my movements. For a few moments, no one spoke to each other. Tom�s friends, trying to escape the picture, stood by the door. Tom, however, stood between our parents, with his hands on his hips, as if he had some type of authority. Davy, with his innocent face staring at me in a pleading manner, was the only one sitting at the unfolded table in the middle of the room. No plates were out yet, and my mother still held the food, but that look of yearning pervaded in his pupils, and I could sense that he was starving. And, for the first time today, I felt guilty about eating all the cookies and ice cream.
Out of the haze of silence, my mother was the first to start speaking again. In haste, she turned towards Tom�s friends. �Out of my house,� she ordered, and the group of them instantly crept out the door without trying to set off another explosion. Then, on the table, she set the meal down without regarding Davy�s pleading expression. Turning to my father, she glared at him with contempt, despite she was a head shorter than he. �Move, now, or else, you won�t be eating anything tonight.�
Without a word exchanged, my father moved away from the stairs until my mother stood in front of them. Her demeanor was not of hatred, but, instead, one of a feeling of being tired about the same ordeal she had to deal with for a troubled son. With sadness and weariness, her eyes stared up at mine, and for a moment, as I timidly looked back at her, my heart bled the same saturnine blood. �Jesse,� she said in an assertive, but exhausted, tone, �come down now. I�ve got to talk to you.�
Timorously, I made my way down the remaining stairs until I stood on the floor like everyone else. Looking from my mother to my father was like looking at two contrasting pictures on the same page. One was of a destitute wasteland that was tired of trying to pull itself out from blight, while the other was of a general in battle whose only motive was to destroy anything in its path. �C�mon. Your father and I need to talk to you in a sane manner.� She eyes my father with disdain as she emphasized �sane.�
Between them, I walked into the kitchen. The lights were on, and the lines were bare of clothing. However, the room still smelled strongly of laundry detergent, along with tonight�s dinner. My mother, with her arms crossed across her chest, leaned against the counter, and my father stood beside her, with a smug expression on his face. Speaking strongly, but softly, my mother took the authority for the moment.
�Jesse,� she started her speech, �I received a letter from school today.� Placidly, she took a breath and, then, started to speak again. �And while it says you are doing excellent in most of your classes, it also says that you are in danger of failing gym.�
�Gym?� my father interjected once she was done speaking. �You�re failing gym? Of all classes, how much of a freak are you to fail gym?�
�Let him speak,� my mother vexed. �You don�t ever let him talk.�
�How the fuck can someone fail gym?� he continued to rant in exasperation. �Only a goddamn faggot does that.�
�Let Jesse talk!� she rebuked back at him. In a placid tone, she said, �Jesse, why are you failing gym, of all classes?�
��Cause he�s a fuckin� faggot!� my father exclaimed and refused to allow me to explain my situation.
My mother took neither side; she did not defend me nor did she support him. �Can you give me a straight answer?�
�I duh-don�t know,� I mumbled and started to cry. The lump swelled increasingly, until it�s blood of my tears bled from my eyes. The cold, salty drops fell down my face, which smeared my makeup.
�What do you mean you don�t know?� he inquired with a sneer. �You�re the one taking the damn course, not me!�
�I-don�t-� My sobs captured my throat, and yielded my actions to a halt. I could not speak anymore; only my forlorn cries came from in place of my voice that sounded like a repressed whine when I opened my lips to speak.
�Quit acting like a girl, and show you have some manhood in you!� my father upbraided me in a scornful tone. However, my mother�s eyes widened at his chauvinistic remark.
�That�s also another thing I need to talk to you about. What is the deal with this makeup?�
Enthralled by my weaknesses, I collapsed to the floor in desperation. My mother suddenly stopped speaking, and she and my father disdainfully stared down at me. On the cold linoleum, I lay prone, but partially on my side. Captivated by my fears, I drew my knees closer to my chest in haste to escape the scene and hugged them for comfort. The tears were still in control, but now another force, nausea, was taking over. In the dark pit of my ample belly, like a whine, came the sour voice of nausea. Its words irritated my stomach like acid and stung my throat like a poison. Both forces were struggling to take over, but neither took the final reign of absolute power.
�Get up,� my father brusquely commanded. I refused to move from my position. �I said, �get up,� now!� he yelled, and the crimson color made his face look like a red Christmas ornament. Despite I still did hot heed, he grabbed me by the collar and forced me into a standing position.
�Don�t you do that to my son again!� my mother wailed as I tried to disconnect myself from the scenario; I was at the cafeteria with Glynis, I imagined.
My father�s voice instantly sent me back into the kitchen where he was firmly holding onto my collar and I was feeling like a puppet trying to stand on collapsible legs. Because of the sudden change in position, however, my stomach became even more sour and irritated. Like I was a limp rag, he shook me and yelled, although his words seemed nonsensical. My mother, on the verge of melancholia, wept and wailed, but had no effect on my father.
�Stop it,� she wailed. �Can�t you see he�s crying?�
The tears from my eyes had the quality of acid as they flowed down my face. His words were like newly sharpened daggers to my heart, and I only cried more with the pain. Beside him, my mother was helpless, but she still screamed at both of us - my father for being aggressive and me, for being secretive. Then, I became weak under the control of his fist, like a destitute nation that falls under the control of a sadistic dictator. The nausea was in control now, laughing and burning inside of my stomach. For a second, I winced and shut my eyes from the pain, and tried to moan. In an instant, my father, with the anger taking the form of bonfires, fueled by my inadequacies and idiosyncrasies, in his pupils, pushed me into the counter, and its edge stabbed into my lower back like a blunt blade. My hands were trapped between his weight and mine, and the sensation of helplessness pervaded throughout my composure.
�Get away from him!� my mother screamed, but he was indignant to her cries.
�You want to see your son?� he vexed at her. �You want to see this freak you call a son?�
My mother did not reply, but my father still grabbed my shoulders, nevertheless, and, with a sneer, unbuttoned my coat. The pink roses emerged out of the folds of my black coat like numerous intertwining vines growing from a crack in a wall. My mother�s face lost its color until it had the quality of chalk, and her lips opened like a knothole again, but quivered in shock. After the final button, he threw my coat open, and revealed the flowing rose-patterned dress.
�See, hon, this is your son - this faggot you call your son,� he yelled as he forced me in her direction.
In a moment of stupor, my mother backed up against the counter before she began to scream and cry out with her face pointed towards the ceiling. With her quivering hands, she searched her neck for her charm, but to no avail, it did was not there. Her pinched face shone with the light from a bulb on the ceiling, and her tears were illuminated like dead fireflies floating with the current of a stream. However, she made no sound until she scornfully spoke to me. �I thought I told you to never wear a dress again!� she screamed, but voice sounded choked as it left her undulating throat. �You said you wouldn�t! You�re a liar! A liar!�
My heart plummeted into my stomach like a heavy stone being thrown into an abyss. Instantly, I vomited onto the linoleum floor, and fell onto my knees before I writhed in pain from the pangs.
�Look up, you little queer! You�re upsetting your mother.�
I was trapped in my position on the floor; they stood above like towering nefarious giants. The room blurred and the sounds augmented with every word they said.
�You promised me,� my mother wailed repeatedly with her hands covering her face. �You liar. I bet you really are gay, aren�t you?�
I didn�t answer, but, despite, my father rebutted, �Get out of my house,� he said with a venomous tongue. �Get out now, Jesse.�
From my supine position, I stood in front of them. My mouth tasted of vomit, and my face stung from the tears. The pained look of my mother and the bitter tongue of my father sent a chill of apprehension up my spine.
�I don�t want a sinner in my house,� my mother said coldly. �You�ll be sent to Hell for your actions and you�ll be even miserable than you already are.�
�You hear your mother,� my father added. �Get out.�
If ice spoke, my father mimicked its tone, and I was frightened. My bladder, which was starting to feel heavy with my fears, loosened, and I urinated all over myself. With a quick, but apprehensive, glance, I looked back at my parents, both in a disdainful, but disheveled, manner, before I left the house and ran out into the snow-strewn street.
Where did Glynis live, I asked myself. At the moment, I could not recall the name of her street, despite I had been there several times. The desolate sidewalk stretched before me as it did hours ago when I came home from school, but this time, I had no direction or destination. The arrows of escape were pointed in divergent directions. Inside the house, there were more screams, cries, and whines, and I became motivated to walk to the corner and beyond. I�ve to get out of here, I thought, but felt as if my efforts were ultimately leading into a dark tunnel.
Of every dark house, the windows illuminated its facade with life. The bright lamplight shone into the streets and created a pattern of squares on the gray, piled snow. No person wandered the streets tonight, and by the silent surroundings, aside from a few passing cars, I assumed that curfew was already in effect. From the images of familiar buildings I noticed in the daylight, the dark transformed them into an underground gothic city. The only redeeming setting was the park, and anyone could tell that it looked the same in either light. A fence consisting of iron bars surrounded the grass field and playground that made up the park, and a statue of Eros stood in front of the entrance. However, everyone called the statue by its Roman name, Cupid, but I could never understand why such a ludicrous image was erected there, anyway. For all of the years I lived in the city, that statue of a lanky boy poised with an arrow stood there, without any blemish of dirt or vandalism upon it. Tonight, the moonlight shone upon him, giving him an omnipotent quality. One side of him had a thin line of white light running down his sculpted back. The shadow cast about him that started from the line on his back faded into the darker side of his front, which made his face give a sinister, but smirking, glance at the park�s visitors. As I stood by a side fence since the front gate was closed, his angelic, apathetic eyes gazed at me as I proceeded to climb over the fence with hopes of sleeping on a bench inside. That iron fence separated the gritty sidewalk from the green squared-off area that was an anomaly in the grayish city. Beneath a tree, I noticed an empty bench. Feeling exhausted, I aimed to sleep upon that bench before the sun rose in the morning. From there, I would decide about my future after school. Perhaps I would embark on an adventure or find Heather and live with her until I was not nonage. Maybe Glynis would take me in, I thought, but then I remembered her mother�s contempt for me, and that plan did not seem to be an option. Perhaps I�ll leave the city and pass myself off as a female until I�m accepted in society, I thought, but Cupid�s smile deterred my nascent plans. It�s saccharine and superficial smirk made me want to melt it away into a nondescript expression. Look at the vagabonds and drunken teenagers lurking under your trees, I wanted to tell it and hope he would cry. With my foot harnessed on one of the fence�s bars, I proceeded to climb, until a frigid hand grabbed my nape and collar. Another cold hand slid over my mouth as I tried to scream, although I knew no one would care to help a frightened androgynous, purple-haired teenager. Maybe the police have found me, I surmised, but I would have seen their lights flashing in the darkness.
A pair of dark eyes sunken into a pale face beneath a shroud of greasy black hair stared into mine. This stranger�s pale face had no smile or frown, but his cheeks reddened with the delight of something. He took me down from the fence, and I was too mystified to struggle against him. However, he did not remove his hand from my mouth, and a metallic ring on one of his fingered pressed into my lips. Sweat was upon his palm, and crimson lipstick colored his lips; a trace of hair was also visible above his lip. My nerves calmed, and I wanted to empathize with his stranger.
�Shh�� he said, as his eyes gazed intensely into my own. �Don�t scream, and I�ll let you go. Don�t run, and I won�t call the police.�
Despite his cold hand left my mouth, his strong presence kept me in awe; how could I leave? Who was this person, I wondered. He did not seem to have any authority, yet his presence halted me from sleeping with the drunks and vagabonds. Again, his intense, dark eyes gazed into mine, but did not have any spark inside of them.
�I�ll give you three choices. You can run away, but I�ll call the cops; I don�t call the cops, and they�ll arrest you-�
I interrupted him. �How ol-old duh-do you th-think I am?� I questioned.
�Old enough to look innocent to a bystander,� he remarked. �And, the third option: I�ll let you come to my place for the night. Now, what do you want?�
For a second I cogitated as the stranger stared at me and thought f all the possibilities. In two out of the three options, I would be spending the night in a cold cell at the police station, or perhaps, in the extreme worse case, they would call my parents to take me home from the station. In my thirds option, I might sleep in a warm bed, without my parents� knowledge of my whereabouts. However, I would be in the house of a stranger, despite I would be out of the frigid weather. In this city, everyone was a stranger to me, and all of them had a monochromatic indifference.
�Are you going to muh-murder me or anything?� I timidly asked him.
His pale face loosened to a slight crack of a smile upon his crimson lips. �If I would hurt you, I�d be a hypocrite,� he said, �and, anyway, can see where you�re coming from.�
Too weak, too tired, and too sick, I decided to follow him home. From the black sky, a powder of snow started to fall. The flakes caught on to everything dark, including his black hair. For a few minutes, we stared at each other. This man was a stranger to me, I thought, probably hiding a razor beneath his coat, but yet, I trust him. For all I cared about, he could butcher me with that blade, if he had any at all. Those eyes enveloped me into his aura, greater than that of the statue�s eyes, and I became hypnotized.
The nausea started up again like a lone howl from a lost creature in the depths of a dark pit. Like a snake, it wrapped itself around my stomach and squeezed it until I was in pan. This man seemed to disappear for a minute as the nausea - a cauldron of acid, about to explode like a volcanic eruption was boiling inside of me - grabbed me with its suffocating grasp. Yet, it insisted on staying down there. Cold beads of sweat appeared on my forehead, but they melted into a stream that ran down my face. My voice was squeezed out of me again, and I could not seem to talk. From my throat, I uttered a low groan, and those eyes appeared again, but with a look of concern in them. A rough, cold hand touched my cheek; despite my eyes were closed, I knew it was his, but I was enveloped in a plethora of pain from the nausea.
�You feel extremely hot,� he murmured in the silence. �You�re sick, aren�t you?� I nodded weakly. �We�re going to my place. C�mon.� With a firm grasp, he took my hand and began to lead me back to his place through the winding desolate streets of the city.
As we walked, he told me a bit about himself. His name was Vince, he was twenty-six years old, and he lived in �this drab city� all of his life. For money, he worked at a body graphics parlor, but he desired to be a visual artist, but, more specifically, he wanted to draw. In an apartment in the south side of the city, the inspirational side, he lived with his mother. The apex of his one-sided conversation was his admittance of being a cross-dresser, or, in other words, he was a man that felt comfortable in women�s clothing despite he did not want to become a female. �I can live with the androgyny,� he said with a laugh and hoped I was not offended. Despite I wasn�t in any mood for talking, this aspect about him intrigued me. At the moment, anyway, there was no one to care about, aside from him. As we walked to his apartment, I wouldn�t help but watch every detail of his movements. Vince, as he walked, stood a head taller than I, but he was quite lithe and glided about the sidewalk like a graceful ice skater. He reminded me of one of the lampposts on the side of the street when he stood still before we crossed a street. His face was gaunt with high cheekbones, but hollow cheeks, and dark, sunken eyes, almost like how my face looked before I gained weight due to my addiction. Blame the cigarettes and depression, I could say, but nothing seemed to matter, other than going to Vince�s apartment, at the moment.
The wind blew, scattering the snow on the ground again like powdered sugar brushed off a cake when there is too much. Vince�s coat, a black trench coat similar to mine, shifted about his ankles with the change of the wind. Around his black boots, like those of a fearless troop about to trample the world, I caught a glimpse of color- perhaps a purple or a blue. It brushed against the tips of his boots before retreating back into the folds of his coat.
Vince kept on talking about anything and everything from 1980�s pop music to the free verse poetry of Tennyson and coffee to obscure dreams he had as a teenager. I only half-listened; the other half of me was engulfed in watching this mysterious person with such prowess despite his gloomy presence. Then, in the midst of his words, he stopped. A large gray brick building stood before us with windows ranging from black to illuminated white. The surrounding neighborhood was filled with buildings of the same statue and parking garages, closed for the night, but still filled with cars that reflected the moonlight from their hoods. With one hand, Vince held a set of keys, and the other still held on to my hand. He approached a doorway marred with scuffs, scratches, and dirt upon it and trash surrounding the doorstep that stood in the shadow of the rest of the monolithic building. After a few tries of turning the labyrinth of locks, he opened the door. The desolate doorway was immersed in a dim light as Vince opened the door. While he walked in a few steps, I stood in his shadow.
The room smelled of cigarettes and potatoes, and a cloud of smoke hung over the room, which created a haze over every object. Timidly, I peered over Vince�s shoulder to see a middle-aged woman lying on a stained sofa as she smoked a cigarette. A coffee table in front of her had an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and gray ashes and a few magazines that looked unused, aside from the burns on their covers. She lay supine with her face, with a stiff look - eyes closed and lips pursed - upon it, pointed toward the ceiling. By the stern expression on her visage, I assumed that she was asleep, but she placed a cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and then blew a ring of smoke into the air. When Vince entered the room, she did not move from her position nor did she regard his presence.
Vince walked up to her, but stood behind the coffee table. �Ma,� he whispered, �I�m home.�
She stirred, tilting her head and opening her eyes to stare at Vince. The cigarette that was held between her fingers was burning to a stub. �Vinny? Hon, is that you?�
�Yeah, it�s me. I�m home,� he said again in the same tepid tone.
�Can you turn the TV on?� she asked; her voice sounded distant despite I stood in the doorway. Vince obediently turned on a black and white television to the evening news. �Thank you, hon.�
For a few moments, Vince�s mother sat up on the sofa, staring at the television as if she were in a trance. The cigarette between her fingers burned, but she did not put it to her lips. Vince maneuvered about the small room, congested with boxes and smoke, to the door. �Just stay here,� he told me. �She�ll be out of this mood in a few minutes.�
In the light, Vince seemed to have more color and act with more natural movements; he did not glide about the worn carpet like he did on the sidewalks amidst the snow outside. Outside, with his black trench coat flowing behind him, he reminded me of a ghost mourning in the night when he was not talking; his voice, outside, added the only animation to his movements of fluidity. In this room, the light brought a line of color to his pale face. A blush of pink was added to his cheeks and a warm glow to his sunken eyes. As his mother watched the television, Vince stood beside me in the same manner, watching her. �Any minute,� his face seemed to say, �And this game will be over.�
�Shit,� she yelled as she jumped from the sofa. The cigarette stub was not between her fingers, and she shook her hand like it was in pain.
�What�s wrong?� Vince, concerned, asked, about his face indicated that he was about to cry crocodile tears if she was going to complain.
�That stupid cigarette burned me again. I completely forgot it was there.�
�Shouldn�t smoke when you�re tired, Ma. I�ve told you that before,� he reminded her.
�I know,� she mumbled and shifted her position to light another. Her sunken eyes squinted at Vince before she reached between the magazines for a lighter. For a moment, she looked longingly at Vince, and gravely studied his details. �Vinny, who�s that standing behind you?� she asked.
Scared, I cowered away behind Vince, but he turned to look at me; the expression on his concerned face seemed to realize that he did not know what my name is, or anything about me, for that matter.
�This is�� he hesitated, but still stared at me in the doorway. �I found him on the street. He�s sick, Ma.�
Her sickly eyes widened. �Must every time you find someone on the street, you take them home?� She studied me now, and observed me with those intense eyes that looked exactly like Vince�s. Then, her face softened from its stiff impression, and her eyes became glazed over with a look of worry. �You really are sick, aren�t you?�
I nodded, but looked away from her since her expression became like stone. The nausea was starting to take action again and clawed away at my stomach and throat with its palms and nails. The smoke in the room only made the sensation worse - suffocating me, depriving me of air. Both of them seemed to be swimming around slowly in the room and treaded on the floor in their places. Vince�s mother may have only stood as tall as my chin, but as she peered into my eyes, I felt weak, but that might have only been from the nausea. She smelled strongly of cigarettes, even worse than Glynis or I did. In a hazy, distant tone, her words sounded as if they were wallowing through the swamp of toxic smoke. Vince, standing beside me, made sure his mother was not behaving inappropriately or harmful to me.
�Look at you,� she murmured in a low tone that was only audible to my ears. �What have they done to you?� I didn�t respond to her, and instead, looked away like a nervous child who hid behind his mother in fear of the world. Then, in a louder voice, she added, �You need a bath, hon. You smell like piss, cigs, and throw-up. Vinny, go fix him a bath.�
Vince left the room, and running water was soon heard in another part of the apartment. Her face then became saddened, becoming soft and pink, as she looked at me. At first, her mouth opened, but then insecurely closed. But, instantly, her frail arms embraced me, and I could hear faint sobs coming from her. �Whatever happened to you, I�m sorry. Don�t worry, you�re going to stay here, whatever your name is. My son is slightly different, bit I�ve always known him for doing something good. Just take a bath and rest. I�ll talk to you in the morning. Okay, hon?�
I nodded, but did not pay much attention to what she said. All I wanted to do was to rest, no matter where I was. The water soon stopped, and I proceeded into the bathroom, a small room with peeling pastel flowered wallpaper that was taken up mostly by the bathtub. Steam rose out of the yellowed tub and clouded the room like cigarette smoke. A film of water and drops clouded the mirror above a sink, yellowed as well and adjacent to the bathtub. Inside the tub, the placid water made no ripples. Vince, in a plaintive position, sat on the toilet seat with his head resting in his hands as he stared at the water. His black coat was still on, and in the stifling room, beads of perspiration dripped from his forehead. As I looked closely at the beads of sweat, I noticed that he was wearing makeup, too, and a lot of it. His face was lightly powdered and his eyelashes were coated in black mascara and cherry-colored eyeliner. Like blood, his lips were red as if he split them to have the blood bled to make the shade.
�The water�s ready,� he said, and looked from me to the water. �I never asked you what your name is,� he asked me. �Tell me, what is it?�
�Jesse,� I replied in a nearly inaudible murmur.
�Jesse, huh? That�s a pretty nice name,� he added. �How do you spell it? With an �-I� or an �-ie�?�
I assumed that he thought I spelled it like the nickname for the girl�s name Jessica. �Nuh-neither,� I softly replied. �It�s spelled with an �-e.��
Awkwardly, he looked at me for a few moments and gazed mostly into my eyes, despite he sat at a distance. A slight smile broke across his face, but did not change his pallor. �Don�t be afraid; I�m not here to rape or murder you or anything.�
�I-I want to tuh-take my ba-bath now,� I mumbled and stared forlornly at the floor again.
�You want me to wash your clothes?� he asked, and I nodded in response. �Just hand them to me before you go in. I�ll be outside, all right?� I nodded again since I didn�t want to seem too juvenile by stuttering in front of him.
Vince left the room, closing the door behind him. I stripped until I was nude, and then stared at myself in the mirror, which reflected only from part of my chest to my forehead. How I longed to be thin again, to wear my coat and have it flow about my sides, just like Vince�s, I thought. Perhaps everything has a punishment. This was my punishment for smoking- gaining sixty pounds and thus, becoming twenty pounds overweight. If I could destroy all the cigarettes in the world, or at least in this city, I would, but I would be a hypocrite. I knew that I could not survive without smoking, and neither could Glynis, for that matter, and I knew that I�d eventually die from this �habit.� Lying in a hospital bed and breathing from a nebulizer is my fate, I thought. As long as they numb the pain, I�ll await my fate with open arms.
Opening the door enough to stick my hand out, I handed my clothes to Vince. His mother was right; my clothes smelled pungently of urine, vomit, and cigarettes. My clothes always smelled of cigarettes, but never the other two, until tonight. On the seat of my pants, there was a stain from the urine, and on the front of my dress, a few grayish stains of vomit trailed down the skirt. Most of my regurgitation was on the floor of the kitchen, but I was not wondering about what was going on at home.
The warmth of the water welcomed me into the tub. Today, for too long of a period, I was steeped in the cold - cold school, cold house, and the frigid world outside. The water passed over me like a transparent blanket as I sank into the bottom of the tub. My knees stood out of the water, like two stone-white mountains in the distance. Then, for the first time since I left home over an hour ago, I realized where I am and the reality of the situation. Here I am in a stranger�s house; this �stranger� was a transvestite that picked me up from the street like taking in a stray dog. However, to add the whipped cream and cherry to the enormous sundae of a convoluted situation I created, I had no choice but to stay here, unless I was to wander the streets like a vagabond. My parents, specifically my father, forced me from their home because they suspected me of being a homosexual, but is that truly a crime, I thought. I remembered my father yelling and his face turning into a crimson shade while my mother was screaming in shock and looking for her religion to take care of the problematic situation, and I shuddered. If I returned to that house, I�d be foolish, for the eternal argument would start where it had ended. There would be no end to the quarrel, unless they stripped me of my identity and tied me into a straightjacket until I could prove that I was as masculine as Tom. In a fleeting moment of bliss, I thought, if they can�t accept me, I have no reason to return there again.
The water, wetting my face and hair, rose over my head. In a superficial sense, I did not know what to do, but in another sense, one of more depth, I did. I knew that I should not return home, or could not return, for that matter. What else was there to do, I asked myself. Nothing, I thought as if I were replying to myself, just travel with the current. At this moment, the wind and water had taken me to Vince and his mother.
The water was becoming cold, and my skin felt clammy. The future, as I looked at it from here, made me confused, but sick and frightened at the same time. Then, I thought of school and my books that still lied on the floor by my bed. That room, I guessed, wasn�t my room anymore, but it never truly was since I shared it with my brothers. Only now, that space be longed to Tom and Davy, with myself excluded from the picture. The thought of my keys dawned on me: they were still in my pocket. Just one day away, tomorrow afternoon, I�ll take the books. The mottled puzzle pieces will eventually form the full picture on the front of the box. In two days, I�ll go back to school, and perhaps, call Glynis, to inform her of my whereabouts. Right now, everything was scattered across a barren room. Just close your eyes, I told myself; the wish will eventually come true.