Super Rich Kids (BoyxBoy)

Chapter 22: What's Normal Anyways

Fun fact: I get a ton of inspiration from music. Ever listened to Super Rich Kids by Frank Ocean? I really relate to that song and it describes the world I live in perfectly. It was very easy to translate the song and add a creative spin to it.

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We hear tragic stories and see things on TV, but never formally accept that as humans we are as vulnerable to such tragedies as any other. We as humans are not invincible. There is no safety that stands between eminent danger and us. Thus reminders are thrown our way so we may learn to guard ourselves and become aware.

This was my reminder.

I was alone, sitting in the hospital bed, barely able to focus but trapped in my mind regardless. And for the first time in the three months that I have been in New York, I felt the urge to see my parents. I wanted to tell them I am sorry. I wanted to apologize for not trying harder, for being a disappointment, and for not loving them, as I should have. 

A part of me even wanted to speak to Jake and Emily, just to remind them that no matter what I still love them.

The truth to our reality had never seemed so colorless... so worn and faded, until I began to fashion a played out version of me speaking to my family in my mind. Not one fabrication shed light on my world or gave me hope for recovery from the walls built around our family tree.

I felt suffocated in the bland and sterile room. Alone, but feeling crowded. Taunted by the echoes of silence, and feeling embarrassingly hopeless, but not emotional enough.

I should be crying, hurting... that's what would be normal. But nothing was there. There was a twinge in my chest, like the stress of the day had taken its toll on me, and my heartbeat slowed to something painful and arrhythmic.

I blamed the fleeting memories. The haze of recovering thought as I tried to recollect every last detail of my night and morning. And every time I came up short. Everything after my second drink faded to nothingness. Wisps of voices, crumbling images and misplaced touches built up the vague storyline of my shitty time at the club. It was more frustrating than anything.

Frustrating because too many questions were falling in my direction. It was fast and rushed and I couldn't comprehend-- couldn't answer the police officers when they asked me what time I went to the club bathroom, couldn't come up with a valid excuse as to why I was underage and drinking in a nightclub. And then the nurses, persistent and unsympathetic, stripped me of my last bit of dignity.

It was only procedure. I tried to force myself to understand that, but with every poke and prod, with every explanation that contained the words 'sexual assault' or 'victim' I couldn't help but to withdraw more into myself. I felt cold, vulnerable and free of any coverings.

The worst of it, was that no one ever gave me any answers.

I was forced to answer every question, and it felt unfair that every time I got brave enough and let the words, "What did he do to me?" leave my lips I would only get a vague response that I assumed was their attempts to deflect my mind from the one thing that I needed to know. They would say, "We are waiting until we get the full examination report, the doctor will speak to you then." And then they would deflect, "Do you want to watch a little TV?" or "Would you like anything to eat? I can bring you something small."

It wasn't until I spent a solid two hours alone that the sound of the sliding glass door had me pulling my attention away from the white sheets. Joey walked in, hands stuffed in his pockets with a brunette girl that I immediately recognized as the kind bartender who had helped me. Joey looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, eyes red and clothes wrinkled and twisted. He looked worse than me, which I didn't think was possible.