What We Stay Alive For

Chapter Twelve: Knives are Dull, Toes Get Stubbed, You Are in Love

14 September, 1959. Cont.

Todd soars out of John Keating's classroom without looking back. There's some commotion and yelling for him to stop, but he keeps running. Running through hallways you aren't usually allowed to run in, Todd finds, is very freeing. He runs past every door, office, and exit; Neil's name is a melody playing over and over again in his mind. It doesn't stop, not even when Todd makes it up the stairway to his bedroom and slams his door shut.

The first thing he does is kick off his shoes and claw his tie off of his throat. Every article of clothing on him feels overwhelming. Once those are off, Todd fills the space of his room with his own footsteps. Pacing and pacing, Todd frantically wipes at his eyes. He can't keep up with the steady flow of tears and assumes he must look silly. His face is so saturated with the state of his blubbering. But, he keeps crying. He cries and cries, then cries some more.

Todd cries and can't tell if it's because of the name in his head or the feelings it comes with. He cries because it's unfair. It's so unfair. He's been swung into an intense epiphany in front of his peers: one he's only beginning to understand himself and can't dare utter a word about. Discovering big things alone always feels like such a spectacle, but to discover big things in front of almost everyone you know, in front of Neil, is highlighted text. It's the full performance without a rehearsal.

And he's crying. Todd cries until there's no sound coming out of his mouth and the tears have to work a lot harder to form. His thighs are burning, pleading him to sit down, but he won't.

He's too embarrassed. Too heartbroken and scared.

Then, when it feels like he's been crying for much too long, Todd stubs his toe on the corner of Neil's desk. He curses loudly and hunches over to hold his foot. Bouncing with each of his winces, Todd allows himself to act with adolescent anger. Nobody is watching him, so he can. It's a nice alternative to the crying and he indulges himself in his tantrum.

Soon the throbbing in his foot calms and Todd lets go. He listens to his body and falls onto his bed. One hand hides under his pillow and the other he holds clenched towards his chest.

'Let me reach into my chest and squeeze the grief out.'

It really hurts. His chest hurts and he's angry. His toe might be bleeding beneath his sock, but he can't be bothered to check. He'd be a bit thankful if it was bleeding. Maybe then the heat in his heart will rush to the aid of anywhere else.

And, wow, is Todd so sick of this heat and hurting. He's so sick of accidentally hurting himself. Of never seeing the maiming and bruising coming until it's already there. He's sick of it, but there's a sicker part of him that might like it. He doesn't like being hurt. He doesn't like the feeling of being hurt. But the horrible, underlying comfort in feeling hurt and getting to put all the pieces of yourself back together is there. It's that feeling of 'I'm angry and embarrassed and sad and it's all I've ever known.' It's the tantrum he just threw and the crawling into bed after the fact.

And that feeling of hurt and healing himself has been permanently placed as a warning bile in the back of his throat ever since he met Neil Perry. Todd Anderson has hurt and broken his own heart over Neil for years. And it was never only because he was gone. No, it was there in the months before and Todd's only realized it now.

Now, in bed and too warm to be under the covers, Todd Anderson has found himself exactly how he was ten years ago and ten years from now. Only, Charlie won't knock on his door to check on him. Now, it could be Neil.

The thought of that forces Todd to sit up and out of the corner of his eye, Todd sees it. Right there on his desk is the tray Neil had brought his breakfast on this morning. It's still there. The biscuit crumbs and half-empty glass of water are the only proof that there was ever food to be eaten in the room at all.