My shirt was muddied
I felt heat rush to my face as I had ruined it with my wheelchair wheels. But you were superman, and I was a civilian you were ready to cloak with your cape. Your girlfriend at the time came to me with the biggest genuine smile and handed me your jacket. Bait. "He said you could wear it! So no one sees your shirt," my heart fluttered and I felt myself being overjoyed. How could a boy like him like me? I wore it the entire day, his girlfriend was oblivious to the entire scheme, I walked up to her at the end of the day and she said "he wants you to keep it," her smile genuine. I couldn't figure her out.
I kept it, we snuck behind her back and the manipulation started, he would tell me how no one understood him except me, he would ignore me until I gave him what he wanted. I thought he was the boy with the jacket. Not the boy who held a box cutter and told me "do..." I felt myself getting deeper and deeper under the ice and was unable to turn to anyone, until my diary was read publicly. But that's a different tale. This is about the boy with the jacket. The one who would hold me between his knees and console me and then lie to the locker room and say "she and I have done it all, she's a..." you may think I'm obsessed with my past, but I think I'm scarred.
