The boy sat in the corner and scribbled in his journal. After each entry, he carefully ripped out the page, crumpled it, and lit a small fire to burn it. The thoughts would never escape his room.
If anyone knew the truth, he was sure they would hate him. Which wasn't to say he didn't want to tell. He desperately wanted to tell someone about it. But he couldn't. Because if people knew the truth about him, if they knew what kind of freak he really was, they would hate him. And so, being alone and unjustifiably liked was better than being alone and justifiably hated.
At least that's how he rationalized lying to everyone.
People walked by him and talked. Their mouths opened and closed and sounds came out. He would open and close his mouth to emit sounds in reply. Everyone saw this layer, this barely opaque crust of who he was. And to each friend, his sister, his parents, even his best friend, he was lying the whole time. He led them all to believe he was human. But he was a freak. None of them would ever know. And so his only solace was to write in his waning journal his sin, his freak, his evil. The lined page was not judgmental. It was smooth and silent and simple. It may never love him. But it could never hate him. And that's all he ever wanted.
1 comment:
Interesting. It's true -- we're drawn to the things that give us comfort. We're not necessarily drawn to the chance for love because that could be a lot more risky and painful.
I'm curious if these vignettes are part of something more.
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