I live for her

Chapter 19: The Killers

He leaned over the countertop. "How's things son?"

"They're okay," I utter trying to make this conversation as brief as possible. So I didn't mention my mum... or my dad.

"That's good to hear, boy."

I return a smile and started to settle into the sweet scent of silence that oozed into the atmosphere. In the background I could hear the sizzle of my burger's patties and peeked behind the talkative man to see the efficient people in white conjuring up my dinner like scientists in lab coats piecing together a Frankenstein.

He didn't seem to like the scent of silence because he vaporized it. "You know, some fella today pitched this idea. Something like a poetry night at my diner. And I said I'd give him a try - so I might amass enough money to buy a scooter. Then Ed's diner can also do deliveries. Wouldn't you like that? Ahh, I can see you fighting off an ecstatic smile. I bet you wouldn't stop ordering from us then."

All I heard was poetry night. I gave a fake a smile in response to his dry joke. "When's the poetry night?"

"Wednesday night. I never knew you were into that... stuff."

And he finally receives a true smile from me. That wrinkled my forehead and illuminated my cheeks. "I do."

The tables seemed to have turned because he gave me a very fake smile - prejudice... I guess. Finding out that I do poetry seemed to have put him off the idea of preventing silence from filling the air: so my favorite chef walks away from the counter leaving me to picture a poetry night in his diner. The thought of it simply made me happy - yeah... happy. Just the thought of being able to see a live poetry night. I contemplate sharing one of my poems in front of people with open minds. That's the only place a poet is ever fully accepted: among a crowd of open-minded souls. But I'm not saying close-minded people don't hear poets - it's just sometimes poetry doesn't reach people. And it's because their minds won't let anything in. And poetry to me has always been about empathy - putting yourself in the shoes of someone else.

The shoes of a self-loathing/suicidal fifteen year old boy are very unappealing to many. It also sucks that no one ever gives credit to the poet who expresses and tackles such controversial topics. Instead they get disdain and eyes that try to stain their minds with thoughts of unworthiness. Without that bravery - the poet is just a caged bird. The essence of its existence is to fly... but it cannot fly within a cage: the poet cannot share words of empathy without courage.

The food I ordered in an earthy-brown bag drops onto the counter before my eyes. "Your order, Leroy."

I space in - if that's a word. It should be - but who cares? I have poetic license. With the hunger clutching my insides I quickly grip the brown bag at its rolled up top portion, flash Joe an authentic smile from a boy who hadn't eaten food for an eternity and then I launch myself onto my bike. At lightning cycling speed I cycle 'til the tires thunder down the driveway of my dad's house. He's not home.

The double-patty bacon and cheese burger did go down well with How I met your mother. And without any typical warning of flickering eyes or frequently yawning: Sleep slapped me in the face.

Then she called. The vibration against my face woke me up.

"Hey". There was silence and then I heard her sniffling. She was crying.

"Leroy..." I heard her cry some more and urge herself to keep the crying at bay.

"So... My mum's badly beat up because my stepdad got upset again... but this time it's... it's..."

She tried to get it out quickly but the tears halted her again.

"It's okay, take your time babe, I'm here."