Boys Don't Cry

Cold

Sheets rustled and bunched as room 137's inhabitant, the leftmost to the door, drew his knees to his chest laying in a fetal position. The three other boys were all snoozing quietly in their own beds.

His legs, from his knees down, felt icy, his shoulders were numb, and his fingers felt dead and faintly stiff. Under the thin sheets and the bedspread he shivered, unable to sleep.

It happened every night when the furnace kicked off.

The other boys had quilts drawn over them, or across their feet, and this boy didn't know why he didn't have one-

Wait, he did.

He thought numbly how the priest doesn't look at him during mass, and how the nuns won't talk to him... Making him ignored. He didn't mind being an introvert, not at all. He didn't mind being the last served at meals, he just wasn't psychologically hungry. And, he knew the difference. He didn't WANT to eat.

He didn't need a prayer quilt. Who cares if everyone has them?

"I do."

He whispered a shushed confirmation of his thought to himself, dreading the anticipation of the stinging tears clouding his view of the moonlight clinging to the wall.

It happened every night so far.

He felt miserable. But, he had no need to feel miserable.

Slowly, he shut his eyes, shuddered, and thought about what he had done all day. He woke up, didn't eat breakfast, went to Math class, then Science, then History, so on and so forth, and then Remedial English. The teacher of the latter was a petit elderly woman who smelled strongly of mothballs and ammonia.

She'd satirize his penmanship, which he was silently happy about the steady, visible improvement of. And, she'd push his chair so close to the table his stomach would ache, and speak to him with extreme volume and enunciation as if he were an invalid. It was ultimately humiliating.

He wiped at his face, which felt suddenly warm, and sniffled.

But it beat recess. The puzzles became increasingly boring- he'd solved them all at least once.

He looked over at Chuckie/Chuck/Charlie who still slept with a stuffed bear under his arm, a wave of drool dribbling over his puffy bottom lip.

Now hugging himself, he began to rock a few inches to either side for warmth and comfort, only spurring his tears further again into immediate relevance.

The infirmary sounded nice. Nursey would leave him alone and he'd get a warm blanket from a closet- and they warmed a person in a hurry.

But, he didn't want to make a fuss (and a mess) as to disturb the others, who were sleeping very well tonight.

He slipped his thumb to his mouth and began to suck on the very end of his thumb, his throat closing up.

Nausea wasn't much of a wish anymore as his stomach began to hurt and he found himself breathing at a faster, however irregular pace.

Jolting up, the sudden need to vomit dissipated, but a headache sank in. He laid back down and sniffled, pushing his face as far as the pillow could allow him to smother himself before beginning to cry out softly. The desire of not wanting anyone to hear him outwardly usurped the longing to have comfort. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, skin prickling from the cool air, he looked down at his pajamas.

They were too short, worn-thin, cotton pajamas, with 50% of the buttons for the shirt missing, only the top two and the second to the bottom were present. Hand-me-down-and-down-and-down-agains. It wasn't fair, but there was not plenty to be handed around- there wasn't a choice.