The High Price of Living

Stephen

Almost every afternoon, I have a ritual. 

It begins as soon as I get home from school. 

We've never worn shoes in the house, not since I can remember, which is a long time. So I pad up the stairs to my room, barefoot, and twist open the door.

Mom's been inside, I can tell. The bed's unmade like I left it this morning, but a few usually neat stacks of astronomy books are off-kilter on the floor, and her tea-tree-essential-oil smell is here. Barely detectable, but there. She tells me she only comes in when I'm out, but I still don't like knowing nothing I have is truly safe from anyone anymore.

I lock the door behind me - this, I managed to convince her, was purely for privacy's sake, though the slightly betrayed look on her face almost made me reconsider. Then I unzip my backpack and take out the notebook and the smooth stone I bring to school every day.

It always happens on my bed. I'm not sure why I chose it. Maybe it's because it's safe. Maybe because I knew the sounds would be muffled by the pillows and the duvet. Or maybe because it's just easier to lie to myself that I'm okay, that that I'm about to do to myself is okay, when I'm in a comfortable, unthreatening place.

Today I'm stalling, passing the stone I chose from the piles lining the walk to school from palm to palm. The notebook sits next to me, innocent, waiting. I don't want to pick it up and open it to today's entry.

I do, though, just like I've done every afternoon for the past eighteen months.

It's not that bad. The page is less than half full. 

But it still means eight lines.

The stone rests in my hand, heavy and unforgiving.

'Might as well, Stephen,' I tell myself softly, and raise my arm.

I read the words on the first faint black line, and Darren O'Shaughnessy's face surfaces in my mind. He'd sneered at me as I walked to my locker, flicking thick fingers on my cheek where they left welts I could see in the mirror when I went to the bathroom after second period.

'Retard.'

The stone falls for an improbable amount of time, and then it lands on my arm, shock and a shudder of pain on the fresh skin.

I let it slip off me onto the sheets, sucking in a breath as pain skates up my arm. Then I turn it over so I won't see the bruise forming. 

'It's okay,' I whisper. 'It's okay. It's okay.'

I lower my gaze to the next line. 

'Asshole.'

This was Ryan Smokeman, who shoved me in homeroom and muttered it as we watched his books tumble to the floor. I knew better than to try and pick them up for him.

This time I misjudge the path of the stone, and it grazes my elbow instead of my forearm. I grit my teeth and pick it up, trying to forget the sound of rock on bone.

The next few drops are easier.

'Freak.'

'Homo.'

'Loser.'

'Faggot.'

'Girl.'

'Shitwad.'

When it's over I fold my legs and carefully tuck them under the duvet, then lie back slowly until my head is pressed into the pillow and all I can feel is pain.

. . . . . . . .

I can't recall exactly when it started. I know it was back in sophomore year, after I got beaten up behind the locker rooms, and the guys on the soccer team took turns relieving themselves on my clothes while I shivered behind them, freezing and exposed and ashamed. By the time I rinsed my shirt and pants and dragged them back on, the tears were everywhere and I was a bloody, scraped-up mess.