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Saw my stats the other day online. God-like.
Do I remember any of it? Not a damn thing. Mom told me Carl was a dickwad and when he found out I’m gay, he called her up and told her that I had to go. Convenient that he called Mom up after I led his town’s team to an undefeated season. He told her they don’t roll that way in Alabama—no surprise. Seems like it was pretty shitty, so I guess it’s good I don’t remember.
I’ve felt tempted once or twice to check out social media. Try to figure out who I was hanging out with down there. See if “Miller” matches up to someone. But what’s the point? I’ve never been close to my dad. Honestly, I barely even know the guy. I don’t give a fuck about Alabama. There’s a guy from football that I might look up. Marcel Dubois. Seems like we played well together. He got some of the same scholarship offers I did. But…I guess I just don’t give enough of a shit.
I feel like I always do from all the meds I’m taking—like a piece of furniture. Life’s just boring. I’m so tired, sleep is honestly the best thing. I don’t feel like killing myself, so I guess that’s something.
College football was always my goal.
Mom said I told her the only thing I liked in Alabama was playing. I’m sure that’s true. I guess I must have gotten down there and gotten immersed in the game. Otherwise I would have fucking hung myself. That was the plan last year, I remember. I have memories from a few weeks before I went to live with Carl.
I step into the bathroom that’s attached to my room. Pull my dick out to take a piss. I squeeze it a few times, confirming I can’t feel a thing, but I don’t care. Who am I gonna get with? No one wants me. I don’t want that shit either. I’m too fucked up.
All I’m interested in right now is this fucking mystery shit on my chest.
I lift my shirt up, frowning at the tattoo in the mirror. Yeah—I got a fucking tattoo at some point. I don’t know when. I damn sure don’t know why. I haven’t shown it to my mom because I fucking hate her.
I rub my hand over the little symbol. It’s a little black infinity symbol, but the weird thing is, it’s not symmetrical. Looks like someone drew it on there with a pen or some shit—but it’s permanent ink. I frown at the thing, wishing I had some way to find out where I got tatted. I have a debit card and online bank account, but I don’t remember my password for either. It’s pretty weird the way I don’t remember anything.
But I don’t give a shit. Not really. What am I really missing? Other than this weird-ass tattoo.
It’s a blurry weekend. Maybe it’s the pills, but I feel sped-up. Panicked. When I get in bed at night, I can’t sleep, and I end up playing on my new cell phone for hours. Mom says I must have lost the old one. We can’t find it.
I can’t remember login info for any of my shit except Snapchat. I haven’t used that in a long time—since before Alton.
I make a new Instagram and look at football shit. Planning for next year. It’s weird, but it doesn’t bring me much joy.
I can’t get to sleep until the sun is almost up, and when I do, I dream of four dark walls and my handwriting and the whispering of nurses. Wake up screaming, and after that I get a shower. When I wake up screaming, no one ever comes. My mom pretends it didn’t happen. That’s because she feels like shit about it.
Two nights of dreaming, and shit’s worse for me on Sunday. I get the clawing feeling again, like my whole body is coiled up, desperate to grab onto something, stop the panic, but there’s nothing I can hold onto.
I take a walk around the neighborhood around sunset, checking out all the shiny new SUVs and big-ass yards with ivy-covered brick mailboxes, the status houses that look like mini-mansions.
I try to think about football. That’s always helped before, but this time it doesn’t do it for me. I still feel coiled up, a sense of panic just under the surface.
Back home, I take some pills I found in my old hiding spot. Couple Xanax and I’m nodding on my bed, looking at the glow stars I put on the ceiling back in eighth grade. Eighth grade, man. Nothing but football.
I fall asleep with my hand over the small tattoo. Wake up screaming at 3:20. This time, shit turns into crying in the shower.
I hate crying. Makes me feel so stupid. Helpless. I get out and wrap myself up in the covers—like a damn burrito. Then I watch the sky outside my window. When that’s not enough, I push the pane open and wish there was a little roof outside it that I could climb out onto. I don’t like a dark room. I don’t like the walls around me.
