𝔍𝔞𝔯𝔞'𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔤𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨

#14

It's been a long day without you, my friend
And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again
We've come a long way from where we began
Ooh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

- Charlie Puth, "See You Again" 🎵

*

I'm currently trembling with the most unsurpassed horror as I attempt in futility to contain my emotions. I don't know how on earth I'm still standing; better still, I can't seem to comprehend how I'm not berserk with terror. Even as Tremaine assures me he's more than capable to salvage the situation, I don't believe a word of that. And I'm getting some ill-boding feeling that the photo isn't the only thing I should be bothered about today.

I had visualised the mob of castigators would disperse, but they're doing the exact opposite. This time, they seem to be following me in every direction in a manner so unsettling that I retrospectively regret ever wanting to be the very focal point of paparazzi and celebrity attention. What's worse is I haven't got an actual class, so I don't exactly have any welcome diversions until after lunchtime. Fudge, I'm screwed.

I feel myself convulse as I grope my books aimlessly. At that point, I hear the guys murmur the most atrocious things I've ever heard; both against my person, against the sexuality they now presume I embrace, and against my race. I even see some of them flock towards me and I realise then that I'm not going to be fortuitously saved by Reese or Ashish. Those two have got class and I don't think I'm important enough to skip class for. In all fairness to them, they don't even know a thing touching any of this. It's official: I'm helpless and alone.

I decide I'm not going to be sitting this one out. I feel myself shudder violently and my breaths occur erratically. My temperature is higher than the freaking Sahara and my sight is becoming somewhat of an extensive blur. I'm having a panic attack. I don't think I even sort the books in my locker before I slam it shut. Distraught as I am, I plunge through the students, completely disregarding their corrosive stares as I run out the door to the one place I just wish I can be protected. I'm running home.

It's past rush hour, so the streets aren't thronging as they typically do. My movements, accelerated by the panic now gnawing deep into my rear, help me arrive home quicker than expected; quicker than my very languid frame can transport me. I spot my parent's cars in the driveway and I'm grateful they're in.

I bolt for the door, pounding mindlessly in sync with my heart pounding out of my ribcage. I don't even know if that's biologically possible, but I don't even accord any thoughts to that as the door slides open. Mum stands in the doorway and I frantically manoeuvre my way under her arm just so I can get inside. It's uncouth of me, I know. But I'm not Jara Blake anymore. I'm a boy running from the world, and I mean that literally.

"Jara," Mum starts with what I decipher to be a question, "It's almost eleven in the morning. You're not supposed to be home till three. Unless of course you did something…"

I'm about to unravel everything but Dad's raving voice interrupts me. "Jara Angelo Blake, you cursed son of a whore!" Dad's visage first emerges behind a pillar as does his body. That's when I spot a phone in his hands. "I always suspected you of being a stupid fairy, but never did I conceive this!" He turns the phone and I'm once again confronted with the same picture I just ran from.

O God of Heaven, why'd I even come home?

I'm left with little time to disabuse Dad of his idea when he bounds towards me and pins me to the floor. I watch Mum pick up the phone that's now fallen from Dad's hand and effuse something of an ejaculatory prayer in tremendous shock.

Dad grips me by the collar of my shirt and lambastes my face with his ringed fist. I feel a tooth come loose and blood trickle from my mouth as I croak and then shrill as his hands clasp my neck in a strangling style.

"Give me one reason not to cut off the air from your lungs, you abomination!" Dad screeches. All Mum responds with is, "Jara, honey, you shouldn't have done this."

I stare intently into Dad's terribly wrathful eyes as his fingers begin to press my neck. In that moment, all I can see is a gaping, irreversible darkness. And something about that distresses me so much that I find my hands wrenching Dad's shirt, my leg kicking directly into his genitals. He releases me and I blast off the floor, shoving my way past Mum and to the door.

I'm still racing through the streets of Albany like some recently turned lunatic, like some poor soul high on moonshine. I don't know where to go, but it's settled I'm not returning to school. I can't survive a single minute of that crippling anxiety in that very toxic environment. I also can't head home; Dad will probably be lurking around in anticipation of my presence in the house, after which he'll undoubtedly finish what he started earlier.

A thought strikes my interior. I could go to the church. Don't sinners seek pardon in God's House? And wasn't I taught that Our Lady, the Virgin Mary, was the Refuge of Sinners? I don't think it's such a horrible thing for me to head over there. Maybe the good confessor will be most effective in persuading Dad to reconsider choking his own son. Or maybe I can just live there from now on or something. I don't think my parents want me home, especially not Dad.

These disoriented thoughts cause my mind to vacillate recklessly. I don't think I've got the time to write down my feelings in my logbook, but it's okay. I don't think I'll ever see Mercury again after today, and a numbing pain slices through my chest as I feel tears begin to brim. I'm squeaking as I run on the open street until I stop at a sidewalk and pick up my phone.

Ashish, I need you. I need you so much right now. It's all too much and I feel so heavy. Please come get me. I'll be waiting for you in the Church of the Holy Angels.

I halt myself a bit, foresight flooding through me. What if I don't get to tell him this anymore? My thumbs locate the right keys and I tap them.

I love you, Ashish Mehta. Thank you for everything.

And that's when I feel wrought iron on wheels crash into my legs and my body flips right through the air. I must've been airborne for a few seconds, but it's as though I've seen my whole life on replay. I land right on the asphalt road, my chest directly ramming against the ground and my head against a metal pole. I see the car in question as it pulls over and its owner steps down as horrified gasps rend the air and hordes of people gather around.

And that's the last thing I see before the compond effect of incapacitating pain and rioting tensions drive me straight to the jaws of unconsciousness.

†

*In British accent* Oh blimey, what's happened to him?

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