What Are You Then?
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CHAPTER 0: a short story
What Are You Then?
The searing pain slowly drained out and down and onto the storm blue linoleum beneath him. The sensation of being suffocated was beginning to fade as his lungs were gradually able to take in a little more oxygen with each shallow breath. He dared not move for fear of the pain so he laid there, perfectly still.
He kept his eyes shut tight in hopes that he could stop them. But they wouldn't be stopped and he felt the sharp prickling sensation beneath his eyelids as the first hot tears escaped to fall sideways across his face, over the bridge of his nose, along his eyelashes, trickling after the pain, out and down and onto the floor.
If only it were that simple. If only the last three minutes could be left behind on the floor like a grotesque shadow frozen in time. He shivered slightly and drew his arms closer to his body. If only he and the Head Boy were still laughing silently, grunting and moaning for the benefit of the two in the hall, performing their invisible pantomime. He remained curled up, wishing he was home in his bed with the covers pulled over his head, wishing he was young again.
'Just give it a moment, pixie.' He nearly smiled in spite of himself, in spite of the Head Boy, in spite of them all, remembering his father whispering to him when he was very young, using the secret nickname. He'd been small for his age, a frail magical child with ivory skin and delicate features and eyes that grew brighter and seemed to change color when he was about to get up to some sort of mischief. Combined with his little pixie ears, the secret nickname was inevitable. There were photographs. Photos documenting the existence of a real live pixie, small and bright and bursting with energy. He nearly smiled again, allowing himself to drift away from the cold hard storm blue linoleum, just for a moment thinking about his mum, just for that one moment being a child again.
He knew he had to get up, he had to, he had to walk into the assembly hall, accept the bloody award and put this miserable day behind him. A slightly tattered sense of pride dictated that he at least finish off the day, go through the motions to show that he wasn't defeated.
Before all this... before all this things could have remained the same, everything would have been fine. Then this. The flame had gone out inside him as he was thrown against the lockers by the Head Boy, as he was kicked in the stomach by the Head Boy. But another flame was immediately ignited to take it's place. Not another soft glowing one but a strong clear one and he remembered it from before and suddenly felt reassured because it was fueled by the one thing in his life that he could trust completely, the truth. And someday he would tell it.
But not today. He was drained, exhausted. It was enough for today. Enough. He silently repeated the word over and over in time with his breathing until his pulse gradually returned to normal. The sharp pains began to flatten out, no longer raking through his body.
He heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway and prayed that they weren't heading his way. It was probably someone late for the awards ceremony. Linda, most likely, late as always. He managed a weak smile and it was a beginning. Linda. The truth had been shared with Linda and he would build on it someday. He'd already begun and he would work up the courage and tell the truth over and over and over again until everyone knew. Linda had seen the truth in all it's awkwardness, had steadied it when it tripped over it's own feet and had watched it grow into something extraordinarily beautiful. He would build on the truth from there someday. Then the words came back to him again.
'Queer bastard.'
The Head Boy had spat the words at him. In anger. The pain they caused wouldn't leave as quickly as the one in his gut. His body would heal, his bruises would fade. Even in this state, mere moments after it had happened, he knew that the anger wasn't really meant for him. He understood. But the words had wounded him anyway. And he knew that they would haunt the Head Boy for the rest of his life.
Far worse were the words that had come right before all of this. Because they'd left a strange dark question hanging in the air.
'Steven, mate, I...'
'I'm not your mate.'
'Well what are you then?'
What kind of question was that? It was as though they were suddenly speaking different languages. How had that happened? Exactly when were they thrown into opposing corners? Precisely how had they become different species? How had his Johnny disappeared into thin air right before his eyes, only to be replaced by the Head Boy? It had all happened so fast.
The person he was closer to than anyone else had asked this question, pretending not to know the answer, pretending not to know who he was, what he was, pretending not to understand something that had been perfectly clear an hour before. He lay on the cold blue floor, alone with the beautiful secret of who he was, what he was. It was a beautiful secret that would only be told to the right person at the right time. It wouldn't be wasted on people who might not be listening carefully enough, who might cover their ears, who might walk away and refuse to hear it. His beautiful secret wouldn't be wasted. It was far too important. At this particular point in time it was everything.
He slowly uncurled, wincing as the pain took a last few stabs at him before it settled into a dull deep ache. He carefully got to his feet, set his jaw and squared his shoulders against the tears that must stop now. It seemed like hours and miles away, the end of this interminable Prize Day. He stood before the mirror and saw that something had changed. The illusion had made him glow, the illusion that they could go on in secret, he and the Head Boy, that they could go on at all... that illusion had made him glow. But it's flame had been a weak one, far weaker that the one that now took it's place. He breathed in deeply and refused to wince as another sharp pain pierced his side. He brushed off his blazer, combed back his hair with his fingers and wished for an earthquake or a hurricane or news of a truly scorching royal scandal, anything to cut short this outstandingly horrible day. He spoke to his reflection under his breath.
"Let's get this fucking day over with then, shall we?"
He nodded slowly, still watching himself, still fascinated by the intangible change he saw when he looked into his own eyes. He finally left the changing room, trailing his fingers along the wall as he went until he came to the assembly hall door. He pushed it open and entered, hoping not to be noticed but he hoped in vain.
"Ah, the wanderer returns. Ladies and Gentlemen, Steven Carter."
As he approached the stage, putting one foot in front of the other, the applause that surrounded him seemed to come from far away. He felt somehow detached from his body which was performing as it should, carrying him up the aisle, across to the steps, past the Head Boy and up onto the stage. But his mind floated above it all, watching, bearing witness... to what? A stupid little acceptance speech? His hand was being shaken and he was being handed something and then he was being shown to the microphone.
As he stood before them they were absolutely silent, all looking up at him expectantly and he began to get the strangest feeling that they were waiting to hear something important.
concluded.
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