The Balcony Scene

here's what was suppose to happen - part one

tw: mentions of suicide, self harm, and r*pe.

jayme (draft)

-

"you remind me of a boy from my 7th hour." antonio whispered into darkness one night.

george felt guilty for not paying attention, and it seemed like guilt was all he ever felt. his eyes bared all the tears they could, leaving him to feel nothing but guilt. to feel and see nothing but grey and everything surrounding the color. george felt cold as he turned to face the ceiling above him. his voice was harsh as he responded with a quiet, "yeah?"

"yeah, 'e 'ad eyes like yours." the boy in the bottom bunk mumbled. "lively ones..." there was silence for a minute, one like death. "the bright colors still there."

lively? george felt his eyes burn, his missing emotions taking the shape of a ball. they crawled up his throat, making it impossible to breathe. his lip quivered before he let out a sob. and the guilt ran to hide in the shadows, allowing shame to step in. he felt pathetic, he had done nothing but cry. and just before he thought he had drained the faucet in his pretty eyes, he found that there was still more to let out.

antonio said nothing else, lifting the covers over his chin. the room being filled with sobs and hiccups. the boy below just waited for george to get over it. to snap back into reality, to normalize it, because he knew eventually the faucet, the denial, the spark would burn out, settle in, and have no more tears to spill. it was only a matter of time, and george would have to get used to it.

after minutes, they both slipped into a dark abyss. george still dreamt then, always the same dream, or memory. they always involved will- both of them out in a field, laughing. will's hands on george, either on his shoulder, his knees, or on his hands. always holding him, letting him now that everything was going to be okay. never verbally, always physically.

but just like antonio, it wasn't long till george no longer had dreams. will's physical reassurance was imagery. something george had made up to stay sane, to stay alive.

mornings were much worse, they were the reality george wanted to get away from. they always pulled him violently out the dreams, dragging him into his new life. he'd lay there every morning, listening to the shower and antonio's razor blade hit the cold floor. listening to antonio cry over the way things were. that was the part of him that still hadn't normalized anything, that still wanted to be free.

and every morning there was a new accident on his arm. and every morning, george acted like he couldn't see them. playing into the other boy's facade was not a performance he was proud of. the shame he felt for crying, he felt for encouraging antonio's deadly game. having to look into antonio's dead eyes and pretend that everything was okay. half expecting a spark to light. one that george knew was still in there. he could hear the real antonio crying every morning, he knew that the boy wasn't completely gone. but the longer he was there, the sooner he realized that eventually the flame would be entirely out.

it was only a matter of time.

-

breakfast was usually a cup of fruit, toast, and eggs. on weekends, they were given pancakes or waffles, on some occasions crepes. breakfast lasted an hour and twenty minutes, five of those minutes were sometimes grace. a prayer that they had to do before every meal. it was usually led by rudy, one of the brothers who worked there. sometimes it was led by jenna, who kept it very short.