Healing The Scars From The Past (BoyxBoy)

Chapter 7 : The Fight

Chapter 7

The Fight

You know, I didn't need a lot to be happy. No need of a brand new sport car. No need of being popular. No need of a lot of friends who would stab me in the back, nor fans, nor cash, nor anything that superficial. I already had two friends in Mike and Federico. I didn't need more. I had gotten my mother back. Oh! there was still a lot of work to be accomplished between me and her. But with the discussions we had this last week-end, I thought we were on a good way to understanding each other. Jeez! I was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Did that mean I was on my way to recovery? I couldn't be so sure, but I could certainly hope.

Realizing that somebody had painted back my locker to its old original colour was almost bringing tears to my eyes. I know it was just a locker, but the pink colour brought a symbolic I didn't want to have. This meant I was different. But I was not different. I was human. Black or Jewish or Arab or gay, who fucking cares! Because who I preferred didn't mean who I was. Being gay was not who I was. I didn't want to fit in any stereotype. Because I was so small, I should have been acting girlish? Because I was not good at sports meant I was weak? Because I was shy, I had to be a sissy? I was not the only small guy in my school. I was not the only one who was not good at sports. I was certainly not the only introverted kid either. And I was surely not the only gay guy in the school. Trust me, I had read about it. I was just a teenager trying to fit with the others.

The difference in colours between my locker and everyone else's just meant that I was different. In medieval times, during the plague epidemic, they used to paint red crosses on houses' doors where people were infected. So my pink locker was my own personal red cross on the door.

So it was my father who had painted my locker in green, and I knew exactly when he did it. I didn't know what to think of it. Before last Thursday, I hadn't heard my father talking to me for five years. Hell! I always thought he had even forgotten I was still living under his roof, the way he was ignoring me. But Thursday, my father had told me he was sorry for not being a good enough father. He had recognized it. And in front of Federico, by the way!... Federico... Yeah, he was right. Sometimes, even if we were not the responsible of what happened to separate people, when the others had made the first steps, it was ours to meet them halfway, if we considered having them back in our lives. Oh! it didn't mean that I had to forget all about the pain my father caused me. It didn't mean I had to jump to his neck and tell him I loved him unconditionally either. But I could just do as I had done with my mother. She walked half way to me with mugs of coffee as white flags, and I had met her at the doorway. We had been able to talk. I had been able to tell her how hurt I had been and still was. She didn't try to kiss the pain away. We both did it.

Maybe I could repeat the experiment with my father, since now he seemed eager to be able to talk to me. Maybe it could work. Now, with my locker gone green again, I knew he had tried to meet me halfway. He took all the steps my way he could and now, he was waiting for me to decide if I wanted to retract myself or walk his way. I used to love him, the same way I used to love my mother. He hurt me. Yes, it was true. But what happened to Federico's advice of living in the now instead of trying to change the past? Maybe I could try. I could lose nothing more by it. Yes, I would do it tonight, if he would let me.

It had happened the same between me and Mike. We had talked. He had met me halfway. He didn't try to make me like him. He simply wanted to tell me he was sorry. So there he stood, waiting to see if I would come back and talk to him. He was there to hear me telling him I hated him. He never moved since last Thursday. Oh! he made a single mistake, but I could say that he made up for it Thursday night, when we closed the bookstore, and later, when he simply held my hand the whole night. He had gained the right to call himself my friend. But with the simple act of replacing my notes by copying his, now he had won back his own title of best friend to me.