Flower Boy (BoyxBoy)

lxii

kevin.

I TURNED MY ESSAY IN TODAY.  About twenty-three sixteen-page psych evaluations were all passed to the front of the classroom, then to the center; to my seat.  When the thick stacks meet at my seat, I placed mine on top and handed them to the professor.  He looked down at me and scanned my face carefully with that easy smile he always has.

"How was it, Kev?" He asks me. 

I thought for a second.  "Bad," I deadpan.  Prof laughs loudly, clutching his stomach as he leans back slightly from where he stands.  He takes the essays shortly after. 

Like usual these days, I don't pay much attention in class.  I record the lesson on my iPhone just in case I want to review it later, but I probably won't.  I take out my laptop to fake taking notes by texting Edd and playing games on miniclips-dot-com.  The games are tedious and childish, but they keep me busy until Edd texts back.

hey babe

Hello, Kevin!  Did you get out of class early?

no but im bored ):

Now I wait for him to reply.  I'm tired of playing dumb games.  Suddenly, like some kind of fucking masochist, I think to myself, "Hey, why not Suffer and read my psychology paper for the fifteenth time this morning?" 

Slowly, I contemplate if that's what I should really do, but before I can tell myself, "Oh, yeah, I don't wanna do this," I'm already in my Google Doc, reading my essay.

It's called Analysis of the Complex Mind: The Truth behind PTSD.  The first section is called, "What is PTSD really?" 

"In this paper, I studied the daily life and mental processes of a young man suffering from many mental illnesses, such as PTSD, that are the effect of long-term domestic abuse.  Eddward, my study subject, or patient, reflects in his weekly therapy sessions on how he can get better quicker and more effectively. 

"PTSD is..."

I skim the rest of my opening statements, uninterested.  The section is followed by a pie chart that shows the percentages of men vs women in abusive relationships, next to a chart of domestic abuse according to age, both according to 2017 studies.  The first chart explains the surprising amount of men that are being abused without public attention, and the second showing the increase in toxic relationships since 1999.  After that, I have a section on the effects of his mental condition on his family, according to what Edd told the recordings and what many other sufferers of PTSD have disclosed.  I compare Edd's PTSD to that of different sufferers to compare how they react to their family in especially triggering times.  After that, I have a section about friends, then love, and finally himself.  All spread onto sixteen, one-sided, double-spaced, size 12 Times New Roman font pages. 

I'm not even gonna try and lie to myself.  This was a really, really good essay.  I feel like my passion for the--um--subject was clear, and I knew what I was talking about.  It helped that I know Edd so well.  Thinking about that part hurts me a lot, though. 

I check my texts; Edd said: "You should be paying attention!  You handed in your essay today, right?"

After I text Edd back with, "Yeah, finally.  How's your day?", I decided to reread the final part of my essay: the thank you note.  I reread it over and over and over again trying to find some kind of fault in my feelings, but it seems accurate, I guess.  Just a little fake.  Maybe a little full of pain.