city of achilles {bxb}

prologue

Monday

As of late, I've been spending a lot of time in the basement.

Working, painting, thinking- or lack thereof. Lots of thinking, then no thinking. Thinking and then trying not to think. Same goes for feelings. I really don't know what's going on with me. Maybe it's been the whole bullied-out-of-my-school thing, or the bullied-into-a-new-school thing. I feel like a Renaissance painter who's just cut off a festering toe with his late father's scalpel. Next on the list: cut off my ear during a fit and give it to someone as a badge of my affection.

It's 1:53 in the morning on a Monday (even though my brain still thinks it's Sunday night) and I've just barely gotten through my first week at Rosedale Heights and I've been in my room (the basement) since Friday night. It's an art school, so it's already gone better than my first week of grade nine at Wilfrid. I don't have friends and I haven't talked to anyone besides my teachers, which is probably for the best.

I lay back on the futon and stare up at the painting of Mary. I made it this summer. Something about her image comforts me. I'm not allowed to have pictures of Mary or Jesus or anyone on my walls because mom calls it idolatry, but she doesn't have to know that the woman I painted was supposed to be Mary. I made her appear motherly. I talk to her sometimes, along with all the other paintings I've made. It makes me feel understood. Like at least someone is listening. I guess that's sad, but it's all I can think about when I'm alone like this.

So here's the thing:

I am depressed. I can't sugarcoat it or make it sound beautiful and poetic, I just can't. It's been like this for various reasons since I was eleven and I entered middle school. If I were to wrap it all up in a blanket: it's because at eleven, I started becoming more aware of things. Myself and the people around me. Middle school was definitely the training wheels on the bike that is depression. Actually, it's more like a rollercoaster- God, how neurotypical of me.

Everybody that's been in my life ever since seems to have a different idea of why I'm depressed, but none of them are quite right. They'd rather make sense of it themselves instead of maybe just listening to me, which I get, I guess. If they don't understand, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm aware of how dismal that sounds, but I have reasons for having a vice-grip on that belief. And since nobody listens to me, I paint. I create a face, a character, a being. And I talk to it. Weird, lonely, call it what you will. I've been doing this since the beginning of the shitshow that is My Interpersonal Interactions.

There's a long, long explanation as to why I am the way I am. It goes like this:

It's August. New kid, new town, new congregation. New church, technically, but they think they're special, so they call it a Kingdom Hall (just Jehovah's Witness things). Anyway, new everything. I am six years old. I go to the Kingdom Hall and I make a friend: his name is Gabriel. He gets in trouble for playing with his Hot Wheels toy car during the service (but again, they think they're special, so they call it a meeting). I smile at him. He's a young white boy who looks like he could be one of my cousins on mom's side. He looks about my age.

After the meeting is over, everyone chats amongst themselves. The combination of a hundred voices sounds like a dull buzz, so I imitate the general sound with my own voice as mom takes my hand. I'm so wrapped up in blending in when I don't even realize that mom is introducing me to Gabriel.

"Marco. Marco!" She says, shaking my hand a bit.

I realize that I am in front of people- a short Italian woman with brown hair and blonde highlights and her blonde, green-eyed son. In little kid fashion, I hide behind mom, peeking from behind her skirt.