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It's really bad in the bathroom. Even after I get out of the small space, I can't breathe. The clawing feeling. Like I need to do something but I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT.
I lie on my bed wrapped in a towel, feeling like I might sob or howl like a wolf. Fuck! I'm going crazy!
I watch TV. News. A big-name pastor has come out. It's Luke McDowell. I'm surprised that dude is gay. I wonder if his famous megachurch will kick him out now.
I make tea, but I can't drink it. I can't swallow.
He doesn't want you, Ezra.
Doesn't know you.
He doesn't want you and he doesn't know you and he never will. He goes to Auburn.
I spend some time in the bathroom, on my knees with my arms propped up on the toilet.
Maybe all of this is PTSD. From what happened to me. I'm shaking, and I can't stop. I take a Xanax and lie on the bed.
No one wants you.
Just delete your Snapchat, moron.
So, I do.
I delete the fucking app, and he posts them on Insta stories. They're in a dark car that has orange lights on the dashboard.
They're smiling at the phone's cam.
They're not driving to the gas station to get an Icee. They're not driving to an old house with a cemetery or a ballpark to get blow jobs. There is no ivy-covered wall where they might kiss.
I can't breathe.
"Oh God."
I take the whole bottle of Xanax.
It takes a while for it to feel wrong. But by then, I'm just too sleepy. I don't even think I care.
Ten
Ezra
I have to hang in till the semester’s over.
Practice is good. I sat out the day after taking all Xannies, but the other days—no fucking problem.
I’ve stopped jerking off since nothing gets me there except for thinking of my stepbrother sucking my balls. Pushing a finger into my hole. Taking my dick deep into his throat.
He’s dating someone. Someone who leaves black lipstick kiss marks on his freckled cheeks. Maybe it’s the guy from Tuscaloosa. I don’t know who. I deleted Snapchat and Instagram.
I should meet someone. Can't come out, though. People at this school would fucking crucify me. I would lose the starting job—that’s for sure.
One night when I can’t sleep, I look up that pastor. Luke McDowell. Is he really gay? There’s this video—some secret viral video—of him with his boyfriend. I watch the two of them together, and it gives me the tight, clawing feeling in my chest. There’s no more Xanax to take.
I add Snapchat and Instagram back, mostly just to torture myself.
The only thing I can choke down besides milkshakes is pizza. At least I’m eating the kind Josh likes.
That thought comes to me when I’m in the booth at Mama Ravioli’s one afternoon after practice, eating a medium pizza alone. As soon as my brain processes it, I start freaking out—like fucking losing it and shaking.
There in the booth, I check my phone’s archive of his stories and snaps. Does it say he likes ham and pineapple? Do I know that from his socials?
But it doesn’t say.
So I ask. I ask him on Snapchat. ‘What’s your fave pizza?’
He replies to me—within five minutes. He says ham and pineapple and asks why I’m asking.
I can barely make it home without losing my mind again. I get a bath and cry in the steam. That’s something college guys do, right?
Maybe we were friends, and maybe I’m remembering. But I can't ask him. Maybe I should talk to my dad.
I don't know.
I don't feel hungry after that.
There’s only one more practice before we have four days off.
I start planning, but there’s nothing I can commit to. The thought of smashing into the ground from way up high has started scaring me. I don’t like guns, either.
Josh is joining a fraternity.
It’s almost August.
I have dreams about the shock stick. I think of those cool hands on my legs, all those hands on other parts of me.
I could have done a lot of things, but I got on a bus. This is what they want me to do. Everybody good who loves me.
If somebody loves me.
No one kills themself on a bus.
There are all the hairspray smells. The talking about nephews. Birthday presents. I’m just one of many.
He’s staying in this weekend. He’s reading a book. I haven’t seen the spine yet.
I bought some pills from someone in Cottondale, but I’m not using them.
That’s not what people like me do.
People like me.
Everything feels like a joke, but I’m not laughing. I can’t sleep. I only have two bottles of water.
It’s a long ride. Longer than I thought it would be. Sometimes when we stop I want to get off and walk away, but I’m too scared of walking when I don’t know where I’m going.
Every road leads to the old, pale prison. Every road leads to those woods.
