A Little Therapy

The quietest boy often got strange looks and he could never obtain whether it was the $300 jacket he had around his shoulders, or the fact that he never really spoke. It wasn’t that he didn’t like speaking, because he did, he just never had anything to say. That sort of changed in High School because that was when you had to have something to say; whether it was on Homophobia, or Racism or Feminism, there always seemed to be something that needed to be said. Whilst he had grown up being told not to have an opinion, it seemed that now that the shadowy haired boy was given the chance too, he couldn’t stop.

“Women are as special as men, if anything more special, they’re more adapted than men who for centuries had everything done for them, for starters, they’ve spent years being oppressed and they go through childbirth,” He was currently stuck in a heated discussion with a young lad from Sheffield, who’s accent was too thick and smile too bright.

“so, yer a feminist?”


“I suppose, I don’t think I can really be classed, although I definitely believe in women’s rights,” He thought back to his mother, all but chained to his father’s word. “I never really understand the struggle because I don’t live through them,” Then the brunet would look up at the boy (Oscar? Olive? Oli, definitely Oli,) and smile, whilst the other would nod thoughtfully and disappear in the process of lighting a blunt.

“You’ve got some strong arguments for someone who didn’t speak at the start of the year,” True, it was two months into him being there, and about one month and a half of knowing the twosome and suddenly it was like nothing was the same. He would go home, act all dapper, go to Alex’s and rant about all the shi -rubbish in the school, like a “Common kid,” The honeycomb haired boy would always listen, his dusky haired other half would be stoned, and the three would talk until Jack had to leave. He didn’t know what the two did after he left; he also didn’t want to know.

At home, he would seat himself at the far end of a table that was ridiculously sized for a family of three, especially one with an introverted child that barely spoke. He would eat in silence, with a lot of deodorant on to rid the smell of Kellin’s habits off of him, and insist he had a sweat problem to his fussing mother and narrow-eyed father. The sound of a knife screeching against the plate filled the silent room, and everyone winced “Stop that,” his father hissed (or spat rather) and glared as if he had done it on purpose.

“Sorry sir,” He said quietly, and avoided his eyes, returning to his food. Yet again, Jack could feel stares and he looked up through his trimmed, dark fringe. “Urm…yes?” He cocked his head, mistakenly, the way Alex would do, eyebrow raised and defiant. He immediately regretted it, of course, because he wasn’t Alex.

“Don’t you dare take that tone…or give that face!” His father stood up and towered over the young boy, who shook slightly in his chair. “You ask politely, with ‘Sir!’ or ‘Mother’ depending on who you plan to address!” The brown eyed boy choked on the air as he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly.

“Sorry sir,” Jack whispered, tears stinging those dark russet orbs as he stabbed a piece of meat viciously. A slap rang through the air, the sound of a fork clattering onto the plate. Immediately he stood and backed away as if it were a routine his body was used to-working on muscle memory.

“Go to your room, you ignorant little boy,” And Jack ran, he ran as fast as his lanky legs would carry him until he collapsed on his bed, legs folded under him whilst he stared out at the blanket of a sky over the dusky town. A soft sound like a whimper escaped his lips, but no he refused to cry, he refused to give into the weakness; that’s what tears were, for wimps, for fags. But you are a fag, ain’t you? The common little boy inside of him jeered. You wanna get on your knees for Kellin Quinn and you know it.

He stood up, panicked as if someone could read his thoughts, shaking his head as if that could rid his mind of the pollution. “Shit,” He cursed, and then internally told himself how obscure it was to curse. It was there he realised what a soldier he had become, Jack Barakat was not a boy or a teenager, he was a soldier, but who was he fighting? His parents? Or his friends?
He grabbed his phone and punched into the number he felt he could call freely. “Jack?” the voice made him pause and close his eyes, made him take a deep breath and exhale. Then the rest came easy.

“Alex,” He whispered. “I-I,” And then he froze, his voice was cracking and he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t upset the angel on the other end of the phone. “I was wondering if I could come over?” He heard Kellin’s muffled voice, shouting down the phone in what was most likely an intoxicated state. “Just need a break from homework,” He offered by way of explanation.
Now that it had settled, he realised his father had not slapped him, but rather punched him with a big metal ring on his finger. The underside of his eye was red and bruising, tender even to the touch of the wind but Jack paid it no mind and simply grabbed a little courage “Can I…stay the night?” He whispered.

“Are you okay?” God dammit Angel, don’t ask that, please don’t ask, I don’t know how much resolve I have.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, and then waited, the tears building in his chest, he blinked and forced them back because there was no way that the boy could know how damaged and broken his so-called “Perfect,” life actually was. “Can I stay the night or not?” Jack knew his words were harsh, he had to spit them out otherwise the already stormy eyes would fill like the sea and overflow, sinking his emotions like the Titanic and with it any hope he had of being normal.

“Yeah, Yeah you can stay the night,” There was a hurried whisper between the two, and he could hear an immature snort from a more down-to-Earth Bostwick-Quinn. Grabbing a few shirts and jeans, he threw them into a bag and strapped it onto his back, before pushing through his door and sneaking down the stairs.

In the other room, he could hear his mother weeping and begging, heard the clink of 12-year-old Whisky, and his father muttering obscenities. Then he opened the front door with a turn of the brass knob, and ran. He blessed his long and lanky legs as he raced down into the shower of Heaven that pelted in ice form onto his face; the wind carrying away the shouts of his parents as he ran to the only two people he knew wouldn’t scream or shout or over-exaggerate. And he was sure he’d never stop running.

Notes