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Summary
Surviving meant explaining. Surviving meant sitting here and defending his pain to the very people who had built it into him.
And God, he hated them for it. He hated himself for still breathing.
He hated the bullet that missed the right spot and kept him alive.What the hell am I supposed to say? That I tried to die because Dad is cruel? Because you’re useless? Because I feel like a splinter under my own skin every second of the day?
His pulse throbbed under the gauze, sharp, insistent.
Do I tell you I never fit here, that I thought maybe I’d fit somewhere else, in the afterlife, if there even is one? Do I say it was because I like a boy? Because wanting him, hiding it, watching myself from a distance every day until I couldn’t breathe anymore…it killed me before the bullet did?