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He was confused. He could not comprehend how this ball of hate that grew steadily in his chest could ever resemble affection. Travis wonders if this is how his father feels. He knew that his father was a stern man, God above knows, but maybe this hatred his father feels, the anguish that roars in his soul and shows in the bruises that paint Travis’ skin, maybe it’s a broken kind of love.
This realization, above all things, startled Travis the most because it confirmed maybe one of Travis’ biggest fears, and greatest hope. Travis does love Sal. Unfortunately, not in the way he wishes he could. Travis didn’t want broken, sick love. He had seen couples, on TV or in the halls of the school, he had seen the way they held each other, they never want to hurt the other.
Travis does, though, hurt Sal, physically and emotionally, even though Sal never shows it. So perpetually calm no matter the curse or slur. He is broken…and he yearns to be fixed. Fixed by pale, slender fingers and kisses from scarred lips. If he could be held like shattered glass in Sal’s hands, blood dripping from his fingertips, he would be content.
Tears well and slip from the brim of his eyes, falling onto the dirty floor of the bathroom. Sobs rack from his chest, lungs heaving from his struggle. He clutches his fists into his shirt, feels the sharp bite of his cross around his neck. He savers in the flashes of blue hair behind his eyes. The soft voice in his ears. The slight echo of touch against his bruised knuckles. Then, with all the strength he has ever gathered in his sixteen years of living, he makes his decision.
He lets Sal go.