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Joey always wore his cross earring in his left ear. Joey always wore black eyeliner that was perfectly shaped to fit his eyes. Joey always wore converse shoes, never tied correctly. Tied in different shapes. Joey always wore long sleeves. Sweaters, Jackets over T-shirts. Long tees under shirts. Joey Trotta was truly an island unto himself.
Joey was always quiet, and held a sketch pad everywhere he went. He had different colored pens. Anyone who knew Joey, knew how good of a drawer he was. He’d draw landscapes and skies and illusions. Everyone knew Joey hated his father, and was still scared of him all at the same time. When Joey would talk, it would always be a popped off smart-ass comment that was never followed up by anything.
Everyone except for his roommate, William ``Billy” Tepper. Billy knew more than anybody else ever did about Joey. Billy knew the kind of records and CDs Joey listened too, Billy knew *why* Joey felt the way he did about his father. Billy knew almost everything.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Billy to come back from town, sodas in hand, too see Joey with his Walkman, spacing out against the wall, eyes closed. The room smelt like incense, which meant Joey had been smoking weed, which he only ever did when he was upset. He flickered the light of their shared room to get Joey’s attention, he looked up at Billy like a curious puppy.
“Joey?” Billy asked Joey, who was taking off his headphones and wiping his red eyes. Billy wasn’t sure whether or not his bloodshot eyes were from crying or from smoking. “Hey.” Joey slurred, and Billy looked around and saw the empty mouthwash bottle, which had previously been filled with 100% proof vodka.
“Did you.. Drink all of that?” Billy hesitated, and Joey nodded, his eyes hooded, a lit joint on the floor. Billy rushed over to put it out before it started a fire. “Hey, come on, let’s get you some water?” Billy tried to get Joey up on his feet, but it felt more like he was holding him. He walked him over to the lower bunk, which was Billy’s, but he was not planning on trying to get the intoxicated Joey all the way up there.
“I’m tired!” Joey complained. “I’m sure you are.. We’ll talk about this in the morning, alright? In the meantime, Is it okay if I put you in some comfier clothes?” Billy looked at Joey’s outfit. It didn’t seem very comfortable, a pair of baggy jeans, and a tight sweatshirt. Billy pulled a t-shirt and a pair of shorts out of his drawers, they might have been a little bit big on Joey, but Billy didn’t want to find out what kind of stuff was in Joey’s drawers. He’d always been a bit protective about his stuff.
“You wanna take off your shirt for me?” Billy asked while he was still grabbing clothes. Joey obeyed, and removed his sweatshirt, and leaned back on the bed. Billy walked back over, clothes in hand. “Jo- ..” He stopped himself, because he was staring at Joey’s body. Of course, it wasn’t in a sensual way. He was staring at the deep lines, sideways and longways across Joey’s arms. Some of them were white and faint, while others were very purple and scarred. Some of which were completely fresh and infected. One of which had pus leaking out of the side. You’d think growing up in the mafia you’d learn how to clean a wound. Billy thought, carefully grabbing Joey’s hand. “Jojo.” Billy whispered, “How long have you been doing this?” He pitied the boy, the smell of weed and cigarettes wafted into his face when Joey talked, or breathed. “Hmm, oh. Years? Since my mom left I guess. 13.” Joey shrugged, as if it weren’t a big deal, but it was a big deal to Billy.
Billy helped Joey slide on the blue shirt he’d gotten for him, and slid off his jeans. Billy could almost feel his heart break more. In what could only be interpreted as self-harm, Joey's legs were almost completely white and scarred from what he was left to assume was self-harm. Besides maybe a dozen fresh cuts, which didn’t look as bad as the ones of his wrist and ribs, it was almost like he’d run out of room to self harm, which showed as the cuts and scars ran all the way from his collarbones to his ankles.
Billy couldn’t stare anymore, so he slipped the shorts onto Joey’s careless body, and pulled the blanket over him. He climbed up the ladder, and slept in the bunk Joey usually would sleep in, so when Joey woke up he wasn’t uncomfortable. Billy could hardly sleep after what he’d seen the night before. His mind raced with thoughts. How could he be so stupid? How could he pass off Joey going to the bathroom to change into pajama pants and hoodies before bed every single night? He questioned himself, before finally falling asleep.
The next morning Joey woke up first, stretching with a yawn he realized his arms weren’t covered or protected. After muttering a ton of cuss words under his breath he sighed, his head pounding from the night before. Joey was prone to hangovers no matter how much or how little he drank. He stumbled out of bed, and quickly changed into one of his usual outfits, baggy jeans which didn’t cling to his fresh cuts, and light sweatshirt, which didn’t make too much contact with his body.
He sat there, waiting for Billy to wake up and question him about what he’d seen. He didn’t remember too much from the night before, only gut feelings, which were almost reminiscent of memories. He remembered turning on his music, and then starting to smoke a joint. He remembered finding Billy’s vodka and chugging as much as he could. He remembered Billy walking in, and taking off his shirt. Now, he had to deal with the consequences of his actions, facing Billy and telling him what he really felt.
Another half an hour or so went by before Billy woke up, He stirred and then sat up, too see Joey sitting at a desk and drawing as if nothing had happened the night before, but Billy was confident in what he’d seen. “Morning.” Billy said, climbing down from the ladder. “How’d you sleep?” Billy asked, pulling a chair next to the desk to sit with Joey. “Shitty. I’ve got a killer headache.” Joey complained. “Yeah? I wonder why.” Billy laughed a bit. “Hey, I have a question for you.” His tone of voice suddenly shifted, and Joey knew what he was going to ask .”I could have an answer for you.” He shrugged.
“Why are you hurting yourself?” Billy asked, and Joey wasn’t prepared for that. Joey was prepared for a Have you been cutting? Or maybe a You need to stop. Joey wasn’t prepared for genuine worry. “Billy..” Joey whimpered out, he hadn’t meant to worry Billy. Hell, he didn’t even want him to know. “Life just sucks I guess.” Joey kept his eyes focused on his drawing, but he was just drawing shapes and it was clear to Billy that this was his way of avoiding eye contact and telling him ‘Hey, don’t worry about me.’ However, Billy worried anyway. Joey mostly was worried because he thought his scars were ugly. Billy didn’t think they were ugly, he was just worried about Joey. Joey didn’t know what that felt like. He’d never truly been cared about before, let alone worried about.
“I don’t hate you.” Billy said, looking into Joey’s eyes, who had looked up. “I know.” Joey tried to dismiss his relief. “No, Joey, I don’t hate you. I’m worried about you.” Billy comforted, and Joey pushed. “Worried?” Joey asked. “Yeah, I care about you and I’m really worried that you’re hurting yourself.” Joey felt his body stop tensing up, he felt himself genuinely relax for the first time in a while. He felt warm tears come up to his eyes, and his mind telling him not to cry, because it was a symbol of weakness. At least, that’s what his dad always told him.
Joey sobbed uncontrollably. Billy walked over and just held Joey, and Joey felt safe, and warm, and cared for. All of the things his parents could never provide. Not only did Joey feel safe, Joey was safe.