Charlie sat down on the floor,
textbooks splayed about the carpet,
the fan causing the pages to turn before the worksheets could be filled.
It wasn't like Charlie was reading them anyways,
no,
Charlie's train of thought was traveling through the day,
the laughter that was heard,
the comments,
(the eating alone in the car),
the lying text to mother:
"I forgot something at home, can I drive home and get it?"
in which Charlie never returned after that.
No, after lunch,
returning from the cold car,
only to hear the cold students laugh when entering a classroom -
then seeing Jordan, knowing that was where it started -
Charlie couldn't take it. No more school for the day.
The curiosity burned Charile's throat,
it caused thoughts to become a whirlwind,
and soon Charlie couldn't take it any longer.
Charlie crawled through Jordan's window,
and Jordan was lying back on the bed,
staring at the map that has been taped up on the ceiling since as long as Charlie could remember.
"What happened today?" Charlie asked.
Jordan's eyes flashed, and turning over, Jordan gazed at Charlie intently.
Jordan knew that Charlie was not asking about how the day went,
no, Charlie was asking "why did you do that to me?"
"It was a day full of opportunities."
Charlie had never wanted to hurt Jordan physically before,
but that smart-ass answer was enough to bring absolute rage.
And not just about this time,
but every time,
the first time;
the thoughts, the ferocity flowed through the bloodstream,
and made the heartbeat roll like a snare drum.
Charlie's fingers twitched,
teeth grinding,
eyes clenched shut,
and hot anger, boiling hot anger running through those blue veins;
oh did Charlie want to hurt Jordan.
"Charlie?"
Charlie grabbed Jordan's arm,
bringing Jordan upright
"I -"
Charlie couldn't even speak.
Jordan's breath didn't even quicken,
the only signal to the alarm that was felt was the widened eyes,
waiting for Charlie's next move.
"Jordan," Charlie's eyes were shut tight,
and Jordan could sense the disgust Charlie felt;
it thickened the air making it a bitter taste,
it sharpened the smell,
it rang an endless echo in Jordan's ears;
Charlie's scorn was electrifying, it made you hyper-aware, fight-or-flight.
This wasn't like Charlie. Charlie bottled, Charlie ran.
The echo, "You're good, Charlie," came to mind.
Charlie's grip on Jordan slacked, and ever so gently dropped.
Every facet of Charlie fell away,
like being pulled to the floor by chains
around the neck, the wrists, the ankles, the chest,
Charlie was dragged to the ground.
In a heap on the floor, Jordan heard Charlie murmur, "I'm sorry."
Jordan nearly spun off the bed,
frightened by the utter defeat in that voice.
Charlie was staring up at the ceiling,
a cloudy gaze, sort of focused on Jordan, sort of focused on the map.
"Sometimes . . ." Charlie started, but couldn't find the words to finish.
Jordan put a hand on Charlie's arm,
and Charlie looked into Jordan's eyes which were wider than ever.
"I get it. I'm sorry."
Charlie'd heard that before.
"Charlie, Charlie. I'm sorry. I mean it, I'm sorry, I - I didn't think this time."
"Huh."
Charlie laid on Jordan's floor for a long time, just staring up at the ceiling.
It was good, the apology, but unnecessary. Because this is what they did to each other.
Sometimes, Charlie forgot that.
