Silence

He was a knife to my chest that kept on bleeding. I glued the wounds with all the Pritt Stick I could gather but the blood never ceased to flow. Every laugh ripped the gashes apart, and as the memories seeped out the joy I felt for a fleeting ignorant second was laced - laced with the toxic poison of my grief. His ghost became my shadow, I couldn't escape it. It followed me always, and grew with the night, stretching and stretching until the sun ran from it. The light kindly left me to be alone, to pull my self together and carry on; but I never was, and so I never could. The silence screamed at me - the deafening scream of absolute nothing. No breathing to punctuate it, no honey drenched whisper to weave across it. Nothing. In that silence his smile stayed. Its beauty corrupted by the mutating dark, twisting into a vicious snarl as my memory of its ethereal purity faded. Instead his smile mocked me, taunted me - hated me. My boy became a cancer. His memory fed on me until I died. He killed me a thousand times a day. Every time I allowed myself to forget him, his memory would smirk and stab once more. My organs so mangled they healed around the knives, forming callus skin that could never be torn again. Except by him. Always by him. So I will be forced to breathe through my trauma, until he wrenches my injuries apart for the final time. Then I will claw into my skin, shred it to the bone and as I am drained of life, let my own smile transfigure -as I finally join him in the silence.

Tick

The clock is mocking you. Daily it glares down at you, challenging your optimism. You turn to look at it and it cackles back, providing evidence that barely two minutes have passed since you last gazed at it. It knows its winning. It felt like hours. Every time you spin your chair around to engage in war with it, it's poised for attack. And with one slow ebb of the second hand it's launched, sent puncture wounds into your already battered psyche. Tiny lesions where your ambition can seep through. You've been bleeding for years. Ever since you left university. Before then you were titanium. Failure an impossibility. Then the rejections came, so many of them endlessly streaming from corporation after corporation. 'We thank you for your application but we're afraid we are not hiring currently' Yeah, right. Your back's to the clock now, but you can still hear it, every tic another assault to your raw injuries. The first hits, they hurt the most, the first steps away from your dreams, they stung with a power like you couldn't comprehend. But back then you believed you would heal. They were only obstacles and you'd recover, right? Yeah, right. You kept the dream in sight. But you were getting further and further away, more and more hurt. You started to substitute your ambition in lay of money. That's all work became to you then, money. You lost that edge that you held throughout education, your lust for debate and knowledge. So much so that by the time you were shown to your seat behind the glass here, you could barely even remember what your dream was. You were so hardened by rejection that your skin was thick, layers upon layers of scar tissue protecting you from the pain of the world. Even the clock didn't really hurt anymore, transiency was ripe in this wool padded chair facing the station. You remember what the wizened guard had said to you after your orientation, after you were taught how the ticket machines worked. 'I think you'll enjoy it here'. Yeah, right. That was twelve years ago. Even in your own mind you're not sure why it's been that long, you blame the economy, unemployment, but truthfully it's you. You got so comfortable here, and you were so afraid of failing again. Terrified, even. Despite your thick skin you're a coward. A worthless servant. You don't even lie to yourself in the mirror anymore, whisper to yourself in the dark. What's the point? Every time your mind adopts its peppy cheerleader status and tries to restore morale you scoff. You tell yourself it'll get better, you dust off that old dream and you swim in its glory. You'll quit tomorrow, you'll do it, you'll chase that dream and you'll catch it and ravage it so hard it'll be limping for weeks. Yeah, right.

You're impotent. Your dreams limp. Worn and old, nothing but sinew and pain. Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding - the tick of the hand just waiting for you to clot. But you'll be okay, right?

Boring

It's healthy to want to fuck yourself. That may seem like the stupidest thing you've ever heard but I have the evidence to back it up. Stats and research, a whole bunch of it in a power point on my laptop. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. If you wouldn't even fuck you then how do you expect anyone else to? They probably have higher standards than you too. I think it was J LO that said 'If you don't love yourself, you can't love anybody else' and that's true for fucking too. This may just seem like an elaborate way for me to tell you to go fuck yourself but I'm talking about it in the metaphorical sense. Basically, self appreciation is a good thing. You’re probably wondering where I'm going with this, and honestly I don't know if this was the best way to start but I'm writing in ink and I don't have any tip-ex so it'll have to do. But really I want to tell you about Mr Candy.

I suppose I should start from the beginning, but there was no beginning. Mr Candy was my English teacher last year. We'd gotten on well, as students and teachers do, joking conversation and stuff, but nothing more than that. So when he killed himself and referenced me in the note, no one was more confused about it than I. The way Candy had seen it was we were in love. He stated in vivid detail being tormented by dreams of me and my "perfect form". Now I'm not gay. I don't think I am anyway. I'm sixteen years old so I haven't really had time to decide yet as I live in a town where everyone's in a relationship with God until they pass the baton on to their spouse in marriage. But as far as I knew, I liked girls. I don't have anything against Candy's preference, and in actuality I suppose I was rather flattered; no one ever likes me like that ordinarily. But it's difficult to not be a bit angry at someone when they've unlawfully outed you to your entire town. Even if they are dead.

I'd be a lot more appreciative of the attention if it wasn't for this place. I can safely say that the temperature I am currently sweltering through must be the hottest since records began. Of course, I said that last summer, and the summer before - and I'll probably say it next summer too. It is often easy to forget the former year's discomfort in the new, pressing existence of ongoing unease, and it's really hard not to wallow in self pity when your exterior somewhat resembles slow roasted pork.

This place feels to me as if it is full to the brim with people who missed their escape, who are hereby entrapped here in dire contentment. But mutually I also feel the town holds ghosts, long gone whispers of those who had managed to liberate themselves from it's crushing hold, and go on to thrive outside it's borders. Constant reminders of my ineptitude in the fight against monotony. It is easy to say which bothers me more, because even as the ghosts strike me, remind me of a life I doubt I’ll ever experience - it is not them I am stuck interacting with day to day. No, instead I am forced to coexist alongside throngs of people in denial, repressing their feelings of a claustrophobic deadlock and instead plastering on their 'Little Miss' pageant smiles and politely continuing to fight the suicidal urges. 

'An exciting place to call home' it reads across the border sign welcoming you here, right underneath where 'Boring, Oregon' is printed in an oppressive grey font. I dare never link the two within an utterance. I know the rest of the people in this town are accustomed to adopting a false pride with their situation. And pride, as a result of a cold denial, can imbue in people a very protective rage and I am not about to suffer another beating due to unimaginatively noting the comedic correlation between the name of my home, and it's most accurately descriptive adjective. 

As a child I'd cherished this land, basked in the wide open spaces for running and jumping and pretending. But as my imagination fades and all I am left with is a bitter sense of tedium, I can't help but curse the endless advance of fluctuating greenery. I am living a ground-hog existence. The only difference between today and any other day is this essay. The title, as you know, is 'un-knowable truths' - I suppose most kids in here will be writing about God or, whether or not child birth hurts more than a kick to the gonads; but I thought it was about time everyone knew my truth, because that is knowable. Even if some of the explanations aren't. 

The expression 'I remember it like it was yesterday' is grossly overused but I can definitely sympathize with the truth in it - because I do. Most poignant days in our lives are more profound in our memories than the insignificant ones so I suppose it's a logical statement. No one ever says 'oh that day I sat on my ass and did fuck all, yes, I remember it like it was yesterday.' No it's all first kisses, graduations, weddings, and in my case teacher suicides. Listlessly gazing out the window I saw the police car first. I was allowed a few more minutes of blissful ignorance and meagre curiosity before the mousy receptionist scurried into the room flanked by two officers and I was asked to join them out in the hall. At first I thought maybe my parents were dead, or my dog. But other than that I couldn't fathom what I was being requested for. The officers were looking at me uncomfortably. They started mumbling about sexual assault and my eyes widened in fearful shock thinking about all the girls that could have accused me of assaulting them, all the girls I’d ever gotten close to; the list was very limited. 

'I'm sorry but who am I supposed to have assaulted?' I rasped, my throat bone dry. I swallowed loudly as they looked awkwardly through me. 

'No son we're referring to your assault, we're referring to Alan Candy.' 

Things got weird after that. I had to be checked for signs of sodomy because despite my insistence that I had never been touched inappropriately or otherwise by Mr. Candy no one seemed to believe me. Everyone these days is so knowledgeable about the infinite amount of psychological ailments a person can hold that instead of believing my virginal status they preferred the deduction that I was repressing the incidents. I was forced to sit through hours of scrutiny by countless numbers of 'professionals' who all seemed to be arriving at the same conclusion; I was gay, gay, gay. They kept telling me it was nothing to be ashamed of. I kept telling them I was aware of that. It was an infinite tedium. I think the worst of the bunch of sympathetic adults was my mother, she was distraught at first, naturally, but in time she began to adapt to my suggested sexuality in an unnecessarily obnoxious way. Her bumper sticker that previously read 'My child is a BA High honor student' now declared 'Honk if you support marriage equality' in an aggressively rainbow font. She slipped countless pamphlets, with titles such as 'What does it mean to be gay?' and 'Am I normal?', into my clean washing. I stopped trying to argue with her and instead begrudgingly accepted my situation. I'd seen my dad hide his fitness magazines from me, I suppose so I wasn't tempted. He wasn't speaking to me that much. I wondered if maybe I could do it. I mean I'd always appreciated the beauty of Johnny Depp, maybe that was something to go on. One night, clad with my laptop I attempted to explore the depths of the internet and try and assess my suitability for a homosexual lifestyle. It didn't go well. At the first glance of cock I slammed my screen down angrily and decided people could think what they wanted but I am categorically not attracted to men. 

Life went back to normal mostly thereafter. I carried on being secluded, but I was no longer invisible. What had been inferred between me and Candy wasn't exactly confidential - and even if it was nothing stays that way in high school. People stared at me as I passed in the corridor, girls giggled behind their hands, the reaction from the guys differed; one had pushed me against a locker as he passed snarling 'queer' as he did so, a few others had 'innocently' asked me over for study sessions. About a month passed before I received the letter. 

I never get mail. I think I signed up to a free trial of some gym which I never went to and they occasionally send me letters generally telling me i'm fat and I can't survive without their service, but aside from that the only letters my house gets are for my mum and dad. That's why when the envelope arrived with 'Nate Astera' scribbled on the front my parents were suspicious. I tried to act blasé when they handed it to me but I ran to my room with it clutched tightly in my sweaty fist. Originally hoping one of my rich removed relatives had died and left me all their money, I was more initially disappointed than confused when I realized it was a letter from Candy's girlfriend. I had to read it multiple times to confirm it. Girlfriend. Surely there was something awry in that. She was asking me to meet her at her home that coming Saturday. She said she'd be there all day and if I could 'pop over' that would be great. That was it. No mention of Candy other than to reference who she was. No agenda. No anger. She invited me over like she was a friend's mother, or a potential date. Against every howling warning brewing in my mind, I knew I had to go. 

The house was like every other house here. Small, one storied, chipping paint and dead bugs liquoring it. I took a moment to assess myself in the blacked screen of my phone before tentatively knocking on the panelled door. The door opened instantaneously, as if she'd been waiting on the other side, eye to the peep hole, for hours. That however was not what stunned me. Long red hair falling in cascades over ample breasts, freckles, the kind you long to kiss, dotted over a perfect nose and across her angled cheeks, eyes of a deeper blue than any ocean on the planet, widened and fringed with lashes of a delicate impression. She was beautiful. This confirmed it, or at least the rush of blood to my crotch did, I definitely liked girls.
'You must be Nate' she smiled, but as she surveyed me tears came to her eyes and creases formed in the area between her eyebrows. She really was lovely. 
'Yes' I said, 'Trista?' she smiled sadly as confirmation and gestured for me to follow her inside. The interior of the home was flawless. Everything matched accordingly, the pallet one of both soft hues and rich colors. Even the lighting seemed to compliment the furnishing. 'You have a beautiful home' I added, manners were not alien to me. 
'Oh, Alan designed it all, i'm useless with things like this - not the creative type.' she sighed. I looked at her apprehensively, not daring to be the first to address the subject. 

She sat down on a red leather love seat positioned to the left of the glass coffee table. So as not to imply anything, I sat on a separate leather foot stool opposite her. 
'Being gay in this town isn't a crime.' her face flushed as she looked at me, then she turned her gaze towards her hands, now cupped in her lap, and continued; 'I've actually looked into it. You can't be married, obviously, but you can be in civil partnership. There's even a whole section on Oregon.com about gay-friendly hotels and stuff. I think that just means you can share a room with your partner, without discrimination - I doubt they have gay themed activity nights or anything that flowery. I don't mean flowery, I just mean...' she trailed off, distracted by a dislocated section of the thumb nail her hand had been trailing, she began to pick at it. The silence became unbearable, with just the methodical ticking of nail-against-nail. 
'I'm not gay Trista.' she continued to pick at the hardened skin beneath her nail, it had grown raw and flushed as darkly as her cheeks when I spoke - it took a further minute of silence for her thumb to start to bleed. 'Trista?' I enquired, flinching at the sight of her mutilated cuticle. She looked up at me again, her expression one of desperation.
'Please don't lie to me Nate.' I began to argue back, a tedious feat I'd grown accustomed to of late, but she cut across me; 'I have HIV, Nate, he gave it to me. You probably have it too. I don't know how it happened. I remember being really sick, I just thought it was flu, about a year ago, and then it was gone. I didn't think anything of it. But I didn't know about Alan then, about you... I just didn't think anything of it.' She began ripping at the fly-away skin, she pinched it between the thumb and forefinger of her opposing hand and began to drag it towards her. The skin tore easily, like a rake through sand. She didn't flinch. Her eyes were fixed wide onto me. Her breathing was jagged. 

'He brought me soup Nate.' She began crying, silent tears cascading down her flawless skin. Her jaw was clenched in hostility but her tragedy shone through. 'The man I loved, as I lay in my sick bed. He brought me soup and watched as I drank it, possibly aware that he was essentially sitting by my coffin - the pistol that shot me concealed beneath his jeans.' She edged along the loveseat, edged closer to me. Her manic expression was distorting her doll-like features. She was a horror movie embodied, the sinister transformation of innocence. I was ashamed to see her like this, this woman I didn't know, in this moment of emotional nudity. I looked away from her. She rose her voice, demanding my attention back - I complied. 'That's not even it though Nate. I hate what he's done to me. What he, did to me. But that's not it. I don't hate him for killing me, I hate him for killing himself - for leaving me. I don't hate him for you, I don't hate you either, more than anything I hate myself for not being good enough.' she began shaking, her sobs erupting from her chest and hitting me like ejaculated rocks from a live volcano, her fiery hair a symbol of that flame. Like a broken record, an obedient parrot, I sang my familiar song;
'I'm not gay.'. She rose to her feet in a flurry of anger and launched herself at me. I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt her weight on top of me, her fists colliding with every part of me she could reach. I felt her teeth sink into me roughly and tear at my flesh. I felt her sharp nails across my skin, I felt her hands tangle through my hair - pulling it roughly - I felt her furry, but more than anything I felt her grief - for the lives Candy stole from her; for his present, and her future.

I waited until her fit died, she slumped over me and sobbed as the fury drained from her, replaced instead by a heavy despair. She crushed me with her delicate form, the way she lay across me tense and awkward. Our bodies not made for that kind of jigsaw. I couldn't bare to move her, worried that dislodging her would also dislodge her repressed rage, force it back onto me. Not that her punches hurt, but the pain of her misery bruised me deeply. The weight of her was paramount because of the added mass of her loss. She rolled from me and turned in on herself, like a flower wilting in an unforgiving heat. She lay there shaking, a pill-bug in the path of a predator. The only other time I'd seen a woman cry was when my grandfather died. I hid when mum cried though, excusing myself with homework and deadlines - I even went walking alone simply to pretend I was out with friends so I didn't have to be around her sharp mourning. 

I decided I couldn't do that to this woman. I lifted my arm, and extended it shakily to her shoulder. But just before I could make impact I froze. My quivering limb osculating above her trembling body. As if I was controlling her anguished convulsions. What a cruel puppeteer. I clenched my fist painfully. Turned on my heel, and ran out the house. If I'd ever been to a gym in my life I probably could have run all the way home, but instead I collapsed in a burning sweaty heap about a block from Candy's place. I started regretting not keeping that gym subscription. That's when the guilt set in. I suppose it never really left either. 

But that isn't why I chose this as the subject of my essay. I suppose it won't be long now until the symptoms set in. The doctor who tested me said it usually takes about a year or so after infection and I ran away from that house roughly this time last summer. So before I'm tarred with the same old brush, this time with a more acidic and condemning poison drenching it, I thought i'd make it clear for once and for all; I never slept with Alan Candy - but thanks to his frivolity, and his debauchery, I'll probably now never sleep with anyone. Because, as I said it's healthy to want to fuck yourself. But no one wants to fuck someone unhealthy.