1, 2, 3, 4... 6?

Boy 3 of 3

                Parker Matson. I didn’t meet him till senior year. Well actually, that’s not true. I met him in my World History class freshman year, but we didn’t talk much till senior year. If you remember, I was one of two freshman to make the musical freshman year. So I was a pretty good actor. And even as I was dying a slow death being ripped apart by high school, no one really knew. I was good acting confident. I joined yearbook senior year. Parker did too. We were a team, and our job was take pictures all year. So we each got school cameras and we spent our days going to random club meetings to take pictures. We split up clubs and events to go to and met every weekend to sort through all the photos and figure out which we would submit. (So if you’re a senior reading this, Parker and I took all the photos in that book. The candid ones, not the staged ones a school photographer did. So sorry if by leaving I’m ruining your book.)

                Anyway, Parker and I went to the dances together to take photos, and so it was convenient to go as dates too. And since we spent so much time together, it was easy to start dating. So we did. Parker was smart, and funny, and a little nerdy. Just like me. People liked Parker, but they weren’t his friend. He faded into the background. Just like me. So we were a great team to be in the corner, invisibly taking pictures. It was easy to forget we were there and act natural. It made for a great yearbook. But personally, having someone to fade away with made it so much better. Everything was great. I had someone who was my friend and more importantly, my equal team mate. But I was lying to Parker every day. Because I was pretending to be happy, and I couldn’t really feel anything. But Parker wasn’t perfect either.

                One day in January, after the winter dance, we were going through photos and we didn’t agree on which ones to keep and which ones to toss out. Parker wanted to keep the happy, typical photos you would expect from a dance, and I wanted the darker ones that showed how it really was. And Parker got angry. He yelled a bit, but that never bothered me much. And then when I was reaching for a photo and starting to argue back, he hit my hand out of the way. Hard. And he grabbed my hands and said to just keep it to myself. I should’ve disagreed. I should have told him to take his hands off of me, took the photos, and left his house. But I didn’t. I knew at the time that’s what I should be doing, but I couldn’t leave him. I loved him, and he was all I had. So I stayed and did what he said.

                Most of you probably don’t know that part of the story. But you probably remember how he used to tell me what to do. How he used to push me around, with words and actions. You probably remember the bruises on my arms and face. I blended in, but bruises don’t. Did you all think I was hurting myself? Like the rumors Cami had spread? Or did you know it was Parker? Either way, why did no one help me? Or even ask what had happened? No one said a thing to me or Parker. And I let Parker push me around. And he got worse and worse.

On March 25th, he got really mad. I was carrying boxes full of all the photographs we had picked (or he had and I silently agreed) and we were arguing. I wanted to scan them all in, he wanted to digitally send them. It was a dumb argument. But I was depressed and had anxiety and was being abused. Parker was on a control rampage. We were sick. And no one was helping us get better. So Parker got angry. And he hit me. I dropped the boxes and all the photographs flew everywhere. And he hit me and hit me and hit me. And then he left. And I lay crumpled against a locker, my face bruised and bleeding, and all the photographs of smiling and happy seniors scattered around me. And I watched he person I loved most walk away from me.

The poms team found me after their practice. I never told anyone it was you, Parker. I was scared I guess. No, I was trying to protect you because I still loved you. I always loved you, and I’m going to die loving you. But you killed the last living part of me. Of course, just like Colin, and Nicole, and Andrew, and the principle, and Cami, you had help. Everyone who saw my bruises and said nothing helped you. And everyone who saw you touch me and said nothing helped you. And I helped you by not standing up for myself. And so on March 25th, the last sixth of me died.