Alone Together

Friend

So Phil told the voice what was wrong. How everything was wrong. How everyone hated him, how he was abused. How his parents didn't really notice him as much as they should(they tried, Phil was just scarily good at hiding that there was anything wrong in the first place, so his parents didn't think they were missing anything. He figured what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.) how his brother picked on him loads as well, always making him feel like he's less than he should be. Always making him feel like he isn't manly enough or not athletic enough or too clumsy. How he had no friends.

And the voice told Phil what was wrong with him.

The voice was also severely bullied. He was only a few years younger than Phil. His father had died of cancer when he was only a baby. His mother had been pregnant at the time. She had had to put up the baby for adoption-she couldn't afford it. She couldn't give it a good life. She was a loving mother, a good mother, but she couldn't provide much for him. It had been hard. She was around less and less as he got older and more independent, taking on more work and becoming slowly more tired. The voice also gave the outward appearance of an "emo" because he loved bands and black and was sad and tired. The kids at his school gave him a rough time for it, to grossly under exaggerate.

Phil felt like he finally had a friend. The voice and him were talking more and more frequently. Sometimes they would talk about things like classes and drawings and bands and they were both surprised at how much they had in common. Sometimes they would cry to each other and talk about what was wrong. Because something was nearly almost always wrong. But they would listen to the other and console them.

After two weeks, they were friends. It made Phil happy, knowing that he had someone to turn to. It was unfamiliar to him, but he definitely liked it. It made him feel all fuzzy inside. Sure, they didn't talk too often-they would have a real conversation once every couple of days, and sometimes thoughts slipped in unintentionally and they would exchange a few words-but Phil really loved talking to him.

Phil was in history class, half listening to the teacher drone on about some war while doodling in his notebook. Over the years he had perfected the art of doodling in such a way that it looked like he was taking notes.

A crumpled up piece of paper was tossed onto his desk, but when Phil looked up, whoever had thrown it had looked away.

Phil stuffed the piece of paper in his jacket pocket. He had once opened a hate note in class and gotten caught "passing notes." The teacher had read what was on the page and Phil had gotten a detention for bullying and passing notes. He didn't open the notes in class anymore.

After about ten minutes, the teacher from the classroom next door came in and asked for assistance with playing some video. The class was instructed to start the homework while that was sorted. Once the teacher had left the room, the class started talking amongst themselves, as classes do when left alone.

Phil pulled out the paper and smoothed it out on his desk. Over the page were a series of notes from what had to be at least ten different hand writings and writing utensils. How inclusive.

"Fag"
"Go die"
"Just kill yourself"
"You gay piece of shit"
"Fuck yourself"
"You fucking faggot"
"Faggot"
"Die gay scum"
"Stupid flamboyant emo shit"
"Retard"
"No more pity you fag"

As he read each note, each given by a different classmate, Phil fought the urge to cringe. Getting the same message over the years hadn't dulled the hurt. But it was the last note that made him do a double take, that made him want to cry. Phil recognized the handwriting as Ed, the person who outed him as gay to the school, and his only friend. His friend.

Some friend Phil thought to himself bitterly.

Hm? thought the voice.

Oh, sorry, didn't think I was talking to you.

It's cool. What's up?

Someone threw a note on my desk with a bunch of insults. They got nearly the whole class to write a note.

How inclusive of them.

Phil nearly smiled, but he realized he was still looking at the note and decided he didn't want to look even weirder. That's what I thought.

That sucks, I'm sorry.

Eh, I'm kind of used to it. What is really bad is that the last note was from my only "friend." Looks like I'm even more alone now, if that's even possible.

Sounds like a dick to me. If he would do that, you don't want him in your life. And besides...

What?

You've got me. Is it alright... Is it alright if I consider you a friend?

Phil actually did smile just a bit. Of course. I'd like that a lot. And you're right. I do have you. Phil tore up the page and threw it in the recycling. Hey, friend?

Yeah?

We don't know each others' names yet. I don't have anything to call you. Until now you've just been "the voice."

Phil heard a laugh in response. He smiled, not giving a damn who saw anymore. He was zoned out and didn't even really remember where he was. And his friend's laugh was the most beautiful, precious sound Phil could dream of. Phil wondered if that's what his real laugh sounded like, or if it was only that way in his head. Did a person's laugh sound different in their head? Their voices did...

I don't know, now I'm tempted to not tell you. "The voice" sounds a bit badass.

Phil laughed mentally. Come on. Friends should probably know each other's names, shouldn't they?

It seems like how things should work, yeah. Remind me, how did the subject of "what's your name?" Not come up earlier?

Beats me. But seriously. What is your name?

Phil was met with silence. The halt in the conversation snapped him back to reality a bit. The teacher walked back into the classroom just as the bell for next period rang out. The teacher sighed and said, "Finish the essay by Friday!" to a group of kids that had largely already walked out of the door.

Hello? Phil didn't want to just leave the conversation, but he had to get to art class soon. The one class he liked. Phil was good at art. He could draw well. And there was nothing like getting lost in the sketching with music blasting through his earbuds. He loved talking to his friend, but art class was off limits.

Huh. That's weird. What's your name?

Phil was caught a bit off guard by that response, but just went with it. My name's Phil he thought, but something was off. He scrunched his nose. The words weren't going to the voice, no matter how hard he pushed them out of his head. He tried a few more times without success. Huh. I can't say. Like, I want to, I'm trying to, but the message won't go to you. It's just my own thought.

Same here. So what should we call each other?

Hm. How about... Oh I don't know. But I have to get to art class.

Aw, come on, don't leave me hanging. First idea that comes to your head?

I don't know, friend. There. How about Friend? Phil said, mostly joking.

I don't see why not, Friend.

Phil thought about that. Having the voice call him a friend felt good. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Yeah, okay. Friend. Well, I gotta go. Talk to you later.

Bye.