The Chronicles of Thomas Hickory

Entry Twenty Four

It was great having a friend. Someone to talk to and someone to trust. Mason was great. His friends were great. Everything was just... great.

Until it wasn’t.

I knew the day would come when someone would mess up and ruin the game. The charade would end and we would all just go back to our individual lives. I just wasn’t expecting it to come so soon.

Mason wasn’t at school today. It was the first time I sat alone. I sat at my same table, the one I have sat through all of high school. I knew it was all too good to be true. All football players — no, that’s not fair — all kids are just the same: mean. They are cruel and they revel in others pain. Well, so do I, I guess. It hurts though, when you are on the receiving end.

I sat alone today for the first time in months. The silence was deafening. I never expected my free ride to end so quickly. To be kicked to the curb so fast. I never wanted friends. I had learned how to get along without people. I liked being alone, but then Mason entered my life and brought along his own friends. For a time, I thought things would be different for me. For the rest of high school. But I was mistaken.

The lunch hour was long and silent. Worst of all, it was lonely. I hadn't felt alone in a long time. I learned that my own companionship was the only thing I needed. It took awhile to learn this, but I learned it nonetheless. It only took a short time to reverse it all. To revert to instincts. To need — to want — people again.

The last bell rang. Cold and unforgiving. Teachers no longer were in control. I grabbed my book bag and traveled the usual, lonely route to my car. It was there were they caught me. They grabbed me and dragged me to the woods adjacent to the parking lot. They punched and they kicked me. They spat at me and called me foul words. Worse of all, they laughed at it all. At my pain. And at my tears. When they left, I let them fall. My pain watered the earth. My pain helped new growths to flourish.

My parents thought it odd that I wore a sweatshirt in May, but I knew what was behind my sleeves. The bruises and the disappointment. I had let myself dream again.

Sleep produces dreams. Dreams are dangerous. I cannot afford to dream, so I cannot afford to sleep. But if I do not sleep, I will grow tired and weary. And weak. I cannot afford to be weak. I must learn to see a dream for what it is:

A painting in my head.

Thomas Hickory