Evacuated

It Started Like This..

Author's NOTE: This chapter is not a continuation of the current story. This chapter serves to describe and inform on the topic of Jess and my friendship, and not where it began, but the nature behind it, in order to provide readers with the knowledge I have, so you can comprehend and understand how important this is and why it is not just me being oversensitive. The chapter following this one will, however, be a continuation following where I left off in the actual story, "Sunday - Part Two." Feel free to message me if you're still confused and I'd be more than happy to explain. Happy reading!
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Leslie Burke & Evacuated Presents...
"It Started Like This.. (Jesslie's Story)"
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"When I moved here, to Lark Creek, from Arlington, when I first laid eyes on you my first day, I had no idea you would be so special to me."
-Leslie Burke, Lark Creek School

We were both your typical fifth grade students attending some low-priced elementary school in a small town, the backwash of Virginia.

He, who had been at this school all his life, had been bullied and pushed around since kindergarten. For whatever reason, people found him easy to pick on. People, even little kids no older than five, made life harder for him. Because he wasn't going through enough already. Even as a little kid, he was unconfident, afraid, mesmerized.. The smallest things touched him like you wouldn't believe. A gentle shove would cause him to breakdown, tear up and cry softly in the corner of the classroom by himself, not even the teacher took recognition. Grade school rose, but he didn't. He'd be sitting in class like everyone else, then have to dismiss himself so his thoughts wouldn't break him down in public. In the school washroom, crying softly so nobody would hear, knees pulled up to his chest, rocking back and fourth, trying so hard, too hard not to let the pain get louder. Nobody understood why he'd get up in the middle of the lesson and almost run out of the classroom, nobody understood why he sat by himself, his fear and suffering surrounded him with a force field that not only blocked out pain, but love and any chance at being okay. It worked against him, the pain still touched him and love never came back. He'd ride the bus home from school, glancing out the window with his head leaned up against it, trying so hard not to cry, trying not to let the tears escape his eyes, and when they did, he'd cough gently before wiping them away with his ripped sleeve. They used it against him. They made fun of him for not having the courage to fight for himself. He hid in the shadows of neglect, bullying and so much more. Nobody knew and nobody cared enough to find out. His sisters watched it from time to time, the rest of the family, witnesses. But they didn't do nothing. They couldn't afford to lose income or stability, so they let it happen. Reactions only proved that it wasn't, in fact the truth. He went to school everyday, covering up bruises, cuts and throbs from being pushed down to hard, gripped too hard or working too hard outside, after dark when he couldn't see what he was doing. There were no bandages, no kisses to make it better, just his small cut open wound, his shirt he used to stop the blood. "Walk it off" they'd say. "If it kills you, just walk it off." Nobody ever asked why he wouldn't speak in class. Why he would never raise his hand, but ask teachers after instead. Nobody wondered why no matter how hot it was outside, why he'd always prefer to stay inside. Every recess. He'd look out the window at children laughing, playing. No comfort. Nobody to cry to at night. Nothing but the sound of the little girls shuffling in their beds. Trying not to sniffle too loudly, so they wouldn't wake up and he'd be forced to sit outside and let it all out. Years. For years, and it never got better. Only worse. Home was harder, chores were painful, cuts and bruises; deeper. School bullies found more things to pick on him for, he said nothing at all and somehow they used it against him. It never ended, not for a day. And the worst part is, it hasn't stopped to this day.

No, they didn't like me. And no they didn't keep quiet. But the funny thing is, it never touched me. They could push and they could shove. But every time, every damn time, I got up with not a single cut. I was different, too different for their liking. Of course they're kids too, and what almost every kid wants is to fit in at school. And the easiest way to do that the wrong way, was to make fun of those everyone else was. The ones who dressed different and acted different too. The ones who came to school with different priorities, a whole nother life. We sat so close in the same classroom everyday, yet we were so damn different, so far away. I walked my own path, I had my own style. The rest of the kids wore slacks and my jeans had an uncountable amount of buttons and marks that described me, enlightened me. Sure they didn't include me and made fun of what I wore, but I never cared. It didn't matter at all. I'd always wear a smile, it fit perfectly with my mixed up outfits. My parents both loved me and gave me all their affection. Being an only child was lonely, but I never forget how lucky I really am. I never cared what anyone else thought. I just did my own thing, the things they said slid off my skin like soap. I didn't care. I was me and nobody oughta change that. I don't bandwagon. I don't wear something because everyone else is. I stayed true to me because that's all that matters. Nobody liked it, in fact, they hated it. The more I ignored them, the more they threw at me. I never minded doing projects by myself. I did twice the work that partners did together. I loved life and it loved me back. I knew real from fake and I was able to separate myself from what was right and what was wrong. And that never changed, not in the very least.

We were both targets. Nobody liked either of us. They ignored our existence when they weren't picking on us. But the difference between us was, the slightest push knocked him off his feet and left him by himself to hurt. But even the sharpest knife couldn't cut me deep enough to get me on the ground. I was stronger than what I had been set up for, and he spent his life being forced to be stronger than he was.

Fate brought us together somehow, this year, fifth grade. He pushed me away, like he did anyone. It was instinct, he did it without even knowing it. He didn't want anything to do with anyone. His only priority was to make it through each day alive, and as long as he didn't have more new bruises than the previous day, he was alright. But bruises only got deeper and the amount, larger. I showed him a world that nobody else could have. I tried hard to pass a little of my strength on to him, but it slid right off the force field that protected him. It took some time, a lot of it actually. But he opened up and tried to listen to me. I didn't give up and in the end, I'm glad I didn't. The first second I saw him, I knew there was something different. If I'm being honest, I "fell in love" with him at first sight. He was uneasy and even though he was right in the middle of the room, in the middle of it all, I just knew. We became best friends after so very long. I had every bit of confidence, strength and hope he never knew existed. He hadn't opened up to me, wouldn't tell me much. But I told him everything I knew and that helped at least a little. He was a whole different person around me. We balanced each other out. We made the best of friends. Nobody else would ever come close to what we were.

In quite some time, it grew obvious to the entire school that we were inseparable. We sat on the bus together, lived next door each other. The irony was that there were no other houses within walking distance. A small farm that had both our houses and no place more. We were best friends. Everyone knew we fell in love with each other, except it wasn't like that at all. We both fell madly in love with our friendship. The way we could hold hands, lay down in the same bed, lay together and just talked in the dark of night, we could lean our heads on each other, wrap our arms around each other, spin each other around, he laid his head in my lap while I played his video game system, we pushed each other around and never hardly ever stopped laughing. All things couples did, but for us, it wasn't like that at all. Holding hands meant best friendship. We could hold hands and it wasn't weird at all, it wasn't meant or even thought of like that at all. Eventually I found out about his unacceptable circumstances at home.. He cried so hard, I held him in the dark, made circles on his back with my hands and told him it was okay. I promised him it wasn't hit fault. Sometimes even at school I could see he was thinking about it, about how different he was treated compared to his sisters. I sat down beside him, held his hand, rubbed the top of his hand with mine and let him lean his head on my shoulder. He was only safe when we were together. Even then, he was always so emotionally torn apart, unstable. He was forced to be so much stronger and tougher than he was and was capable of being. He was pushed so hard, like a slave, until he bled and cried and even then he was "acting like a baby." I held him close to my heart and tried to pass on to him what I always had; love, comfort, security and hope. It always bounced right off him like a balloon. Since he was only three years old, too much damage had been done. I couldn't do as much as I wanted to, I couldn't. I tried so hard but he was immune to security, safety, and the senseless idea of being okay. The bruises never went away, only got darker. The cuts never faded, only got deeper. He was broken far too much and I knew it would take short of years to fix him to an extent where he'd feel safe. Even then, I could never erase the memories or the scars he bared. I wanted so much for him, more than I could give. And eventually he pushed me away, like it hit him all over again.
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