wrote on: February 18th, 2008
I grinned at the feeling this drug was giving me.
I felt totally out of it, but aware and familiar with what’s going on, and what I’m doing.
My body was limply lying against the cold wall of my room, and my head was titled to the side gazing but not seeing, too lost in the sensations of….nothing.
I heard footsteps outside my bedroom, and heard the squeak of the hinges of my bedroom door open, and I saw him looking disappointingly at me.
“Get up, you look pathetic sitting there like your doped up.” His deep voice boomed out at me. I didn’t move, and that led him into a long lecture of listening and being polite to others, which led me to wonder why I am so hungry all the sudden.
“Hey, would you listen? I said get up.” He said a little more sternly.
I deeply inhaled before groggily kneeling on one knee and standing.
“Good, now help me out with some boxes, you still need to help me.”
We both walked to his new house that he bought. It was two houses down from mine, and I promised I’d help him move stuff in, I’ve known the guy since elementary.
He was talking about how better this neighborhood was then the previous one he lived at. I just nodded and said a few things.
A flash of some sort of discontent was in his eyes when I decided to look over at him.
When we finally reached his house, he turned on the radio and picked up a box filled with who knows what, and kicked his cracked door open to get inside.
I followed suit, only I had a hard time grabbing a box thinking there was 2 or 3 of them.
When I entered his house, his parents were already inside and greeted me as I did to them before returning to organizing their house.
“Hey!” he shouted from up the stairs, “that box goes in my room!”
I walked towards the stairs and watch him wait for me before we both walked towards his room down the hallway.
He sped up a little bit and entered his room, followed by me, and dropped the box he was carrying on the wooden floor, emitting a loud BOOM. “There was carpet in my last house, but I think wood may be better, less chance of getting stains huh?” he grinned at me before leaning back and popping his back.
“And what stains did you put in your last carpet?” I asked bordly.
“Oh you know,” he replied, “the usual food stain or drink stain a friend would accidentally knock over.”
He sat down backside towards me on the mattress that was in the middle of the room, it didn’t have its bedpost yet. His back slowly drooped till his shoulders were slumped. “How do you think she’s doing?” he asked quietly.
I sighed before walking over and sitting next to him criss-cross-applesauce style on his mattress. “You need to stop all this thinking; it’s screwing your brain up.”
“Oh and like drugs aren’t fucking yours up?” he snapped back.
What the hell?
I just dumbly stared at him. His face was a bit scrunched up from that anger accused accusation about me.
Well then if he acts like that, let him sit here and act like a pussy over her, he needs to learn when to let go.
I quickly stood up, making my head spin a little bit and made my way to the door.
“Wait, I-I didn’t…mean to say that.” He called out.
I stopped moving where I was and looked back at him, his eyes were glistening with water, and his torso was turned towards me.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, must be tough right now, your probably right anyways.”
I again walked back to him and sat down, and pulled out a box of cigs and lit one up.
“You’re gonna set off a smokin’ alarm with that.” I ignored him and puffed out a drag. Realizing I ignored him, he asked for one too and I complied.
A long silence between the two of us came; we continued to flick the ashes in an empty box that was already in his room. When he was done and only had a bud, and I still had some way to go, he abruptly stated, “She fucking hates me.”
Dammit, not this again.
“So what? You said it yourself; she doesn’t even deserve a guy like you.” I quoted.
He turned away from me. “Yeah, but…it still hurts to know she just,”
I heaved another sigh, smoke emitting out of my mouth from the cigarette.
“Look, girls are just like that, they’ll like, maybe become overly obsessed with you, call it love, and be yours until they find another guy. Bitches like her,” a grimace was earned from him, “always pull off shit like that because they’re just confused hoes out for pleasure. Most of the time they’ll keep that shit up till their adults and live like the dirt bags they made themselves out to be.” I finish my statement with a long inhale of my cig.
“Please don’t call her that, it’s not helpin’ right now.”
I frowned at him, “you need to move on, no matter how hard it’s on you, it doesn’t matter, and you’ll find a better catch yeah?”
He shrugged a small shrug, and asked for another cig to calm his nerves. I gave him another.
“Hey, let’s unpack this last box you have.” I wanted to get off the topic of his ex.
“Why do you always do that?” he sharply asked when I rose up from sitting. “Wha?”
His voice, irritated from emotional stress, grew a bit higher. “Why do you always change the subject, especially when shit like this happens?!”
I gawked at him, this guy never yells, and he’s always grinning or laughing at something, why is he acting so bitchy and snappy just cause of a girl?!
“I’m not good with words, I usually say something wrong.”
He stood up too, so I’m now being looked down on, he’s standing too close, uncomfortably close for the “anti-social” like me.
“What the wrong is you not comforting me or helping me out! What happened to you?! You use to always want to play or talk or want attention from everyone, now you’re just a plain, unfriendly, jerk! Your nothing like the girl I-“ He stopped mid sentence.
And I feared the words that wanted to follow that unfinished sentence.
“Shit happens, it changes people.” Was all I countered before stepping back, leaving a comfortable distance between him and me.
“I miss the girl I played with at recess.” He stubbornly said, glaring at me like I wasn’t the same person he was talking to.
“I miss the guy who wasn’t a pussy for shit like this.” And then, I made my mistake.
I called him a pussy.
He widened his eyes and opened his mouth stunned at me. I never called him a pussy.
He felt utterly defeated just by the way he turned from pissed, to shock, to discomfit in a matter of seconds.
“So I am huh?” he sat back down and gurgles of noises could be heard afterwards.
It only took me to call him a pussy, out of all the words I’ve probably teasingly called him, to make him…cry?
Sure enough, he was kneeling over, shoulders shaking, softly crying, and trying so hard to be silent.
Aside from him falling and getting hurt, I have never seen him cry.
Subconsciously, and I don’t even remember walking over to him, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and let him cry on my stomach.
I let him cry his little beaten heart out, even when I felt the hot boiling tears soak through my black shirt. ‘Thanks goodness I wore black’ I thought, before returning my comforting duties to my emotional friend. He wrapped an arm around my waist and grabbed my shirt squeezing it for some kind of relief.
I just pat his back and rubbed soothing circles, all the while smoking my cig to the bud.
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