Focus - Logicality

Logan - Brace Yourself For Change

After I showed Patton The Notebook last night, we talked about feelings. It wasn't a fun conversation, but there wasn't much to say after he read what I wrote. That notebook practically knows more about my feelings than I do. He told me he'd give me a day to quote-unquote figure things out and do what I need to before he gets involved. The warning was pretty thoughtful, I guess. He informed me that I have to ride with him, Virgil and Roman to and from school from now on, which I'm just as neutrally aligned towards as his warning. Right now I'm in the back seat of Roman's car, which--unsurprisingly--matches his taste in clothes: expensive, bright red and attention-seeking. Patton is next to me holding my hand and Virgil is in the passenger seat. He and Roman are sniping back and forth, as per usual.

With my free hand, I feel the scars on my arm. I know better than to expose them for Patton to see, but I can't help but wonder what made me this way. Some cruel twist of fate? Could the death of my mother have impacted me, or was I always this fucked up? Was it unavoidable, or was it something I did to myself by remaining devoid of any friends or unnecessary human contact for over a decade, possibly followed by the most impactful event I've ever lived through: the betrayal of my first love? I mean, it couldn't have helped, but I doubt Dee could have done this to me single-handedly. Could he? Or maybe I just want him to be innocent, which makes me feel worse.

After Patton left last night, this was swirling through my mind, along with the usual mountain of guilt and suicidal thoughts. As soon as he was gone, the journal received some heavy use. At 3:27 that morning, I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from under my bed and retrieved the knife I stole from the kitchen about two months ago that's hidden in the back of my shirt drawer, wrapped in two shirts that I've long since outgrown. The one with the diagram of my scars. Those saw some use as well, but I washed the knife and hid everything carefully. Nobody has to know.

Before I know it, we've pulled into the parking lot and everyone is piling out. We go to everyone's locker in turn, then Patton and Virgil exchange a glance. Patton taps Virgil's arm twice. Virgil nods then takes hold of my wrist and drags me into the nearest bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Patton leading Roman in the opposite direction. Roman complains but follows Patton anway because he seems to know as little as I do about this.

Virgil pulls me into the very back corner of the bathroom, the same place we were with a crying Patton yesterday. He motions for me to sit then follows suit. "What are we doing here?" I ask.

Virgil raises an eyebrow. "What do you think we're doing here?"

"Patton told you about last night," I sigh. "So much for secrecy."

"It's still a private matter. He only told me because I'm sort of an expert at being fucked up." Before I can question him further, he pulls three yellow bottles of prescription pills out of his backpack for me to see then quickly shoves them back in, scanning the empty bathroom out of instinct to make sure nobody else saw. "The only people who know are you, me, Patton, and Emile Picani."

"Wait, who's Emile Picani?"

"I don't know him personally, but he's been friends with Patton since 3rd grade. Based on what Patton said, he's studying psychology and therapy, so he goes to a high school centered around his interests, but they still tell each other everything and help each other out a lot. I wouldn't be surprised if Emile knows more about your relationship with Patton than either of you do. Emile is pretty good at what he does."

"Fine," I sigh. "But why am I here?"

"Because I know more about this shit than you or Patton," Virgil intones gravely. "We're going to talk. You're going to be honest. We're going to find a way to proceed with this angsty shit that you're comfortable with. Am I understood?"

I nod. "You don't have to do this," I insist.

"Yes, I do, because you sure as hell won't do it yourself and neither will nobody else, and I don't want to see my best friend's first love take his own life--Patton would never recover. But first, give up the knife."

"Wait, what?" I gasp. "How did you know?"

"No answers until you give it up," he insists. I sigh, digging through my backpack until I find a pocket knife. The blade is tinged red, but the blood is mine. He inspects the blade carefully then rolls his eyes and pockets it, holding out his hand again. "I mean all of them. I'm not stupid; only three of your scars were made by this pocket knife. The others were obviously made by something bigger and sharper, and of higher quality. Give me the second one." I dig through my bag until I find the kitchen knife wrapped in two t-shirts. I shove the shirts back into my bag and hand him the knife. He nods. "Does Patton know about this?"

"Nobody knows," I inform him warily. "How did you?"

"If Patton doesn't know, then that's your first order of business. If you don't want to do it around Roman and I, that's understandable, but you're telling Patton the first chance you get because he deserves to know. Am I understood?" He raises an eyebrow and I nod. "And to answer your question, I know about this the same way I could tell how long you'd been starving yourself when I pulled you aside in the bathroom to warn you about Remus on your second day here: I observe much more than most people. I decided to respect your privacy, though, so I didn't say anything--I had also hoped that being around Patton might help. Plus, do you remember the incident at the library on Thursday?"

"How could I not?" I mutter under my breath with a small nod.

"While you were helping Patton out from under the mountain of hardcovers, I saw the scars on your left arm. I've been monitoring them since." I flinch instinctively at this. "I'm vigilant, remember?" he laughs. "It's okay. Why do you think I'm here doing this?"