Buck

prologue

I close the video of Steve flipping around on the roof of the abandoned house. Jesse had talked about it when we all were getting high. That's when they had first saw Theoa; she'd been walking around with her mum.
Steve's tricks are fine, neat, great, but they're just not my kind of thing. Does that mean I'm not a boy? Does it mean I'm lying to myself? Have I done this all for attention? These thoughts keep circling through my head and I haven't been able to stop them. I've been messaging French but I think he doesn't want to talk after I refused to believe that Theoa was lying. I hung out with Jesse for a while but all we would do was smoke pot and talk about inconsequential things. Steve hasn't talked to any of us, choosing instead to spend time with his girlfriend. So I'm just stuck at home with this stupid book about angels, my dad, and my fucking breasts.
I've been standing in front of this mirror for ages now, just watching. I don't look like me.
Originally, when I had begun torturing myself like this, a couple hours ago, when the urges began I had had my testosterone to use to satisfy them. I'd stabbed the needle deep into my skin, in the way I knew would hurt. But now, I've had my jab for the day and all I've been thinking about is my collection of sharpeners blades that I cut out a while ago. Eventually I can pull myself away and I head downstairs, pretending to get a drink.
Dad is sat on the sofa with some TV show blaring out.
"Don't use all the ice," he orders, never once looking away from the screen or shifting from his slump on the couch. His voice sparks a toxic irritation in me which I'm never quite sure how to get rid of. I shove a few ice cubes in an empty glass and carry it back to my room.
I throw a blanket over my mirror and sit in my bed with my laptop balancing on my knees. Then I hold one of the ice cubes in the palm of my hand. It's a trick I learned a while ago. Apparently it releases the same chemicals self-harming does but it leaves no scars. It's what's been helping me stay clean for all these months except I hadn't needed it when Theoa was around.
She had been so nice and interesting and something about her had just made me see the world so differently. But that's faded now that the doubt has settled in my mind like ash after a volcanic eruption.
I open my laptop to the results of my search about the bridge in Russia that I'd left up when I was looking at it yesterday. There weren't any real records about the crash but I found a tiny newspaper article about it that I had roughly translated. It was a lot harder to find any new proof without Steve and Jesse to help. Instead of looking, I just click to the other tab where I left the video of Homer talking about his near death experience. He looked very different to how I imagined he would. This video might not be that accurate for his appearance anyway, since it's been years. If, when Theoa comes back with him, I can see how much he has changed. I found an audio clip of Renata too and I've tried to message the guy who posted it online but they haven't replied. So far I'm stuck and exhausted.
The clock is flashing the time, 23:58. I sigh, shutting my laptop and moving it to place on the floor beside my bed. School starts tomorrow for the first time since the shooting. There's been rumours that half the school has left, scared. I've got to admit that I've had quite a few nightmares as a result of it but I can't afford to take up the counselor's time with my mopes when similar shootings have been happening all across the country. I wish I could be as brave as Emma Gonzalez but I can't, not without French, or Theoa, not alone.
I shut my eyes after adjusting my pillows. Colours dance against the darkness of my eyelids, remnants of the lamp on my bedside table- I haven't been able to sleep without it on since the shooting. I begin to count down from 500, the only method I've found to work in rocking me asleep.