Chapter 8
Gatsby
13 yrs old
I stared at the cut on my inner thigh. The blood dripped from the painful wound onto the computer chair I was sitting in. Inhaling deeply, I set the razor blade on the desk and tilted my head back, closing my eyes to focus on the pain.
I should have gone deeper.
A soft knock on my bedroom door brought me back to reality. I bolted up, grabbing for my jeans and yanking them on. I winced as the fresh wound rubbed against the material. I slid the razor under my keyboard and called out.
“Yeah?”
The door opened and my mom’s head popped in. She scanned the room.
“Hey honey, just checking in. Did Mrs. Verger leave?”
My stomach twisted. I wanted to vomit. I could still smell Mason’s mom’s perfume on me. I swallowed the nausea down. “Yes. She left five minutes ago.”
She opened the door wider and came in, rubbing her hands and smiling. “Good, good. And how are you on protection?” She went to my bedside table, opening the drawer. She pulled out the box of condoms and shook it. “Oh good. I was worried I’d have to go to the store again this week. We’re on a budget, you know.”
Oh, I knew. She never let me forget how poor we were. The only reason we had a roof over our heads was that the army was required to provide a home as long as Dad was doing his patriotic duty.
I stared at her, my mind going blank. I’d gotten good at shutting everything off. Going blank was the only thing getting me through each and every day.
“Honey? What’s wrong? Oh, come here.” She hurried over, shoving my head into her chest. Before, when I was a child, hearing her heartbeat was comforting. Now, I dreamed of the day it was no longer making noise. When it stopped pumping and I was free. How far away could I get before someone found her body? Before Dad was alerted. Before he came back from Germany, or France, or wherever he was stationed?
“It’s okay.” She placed her freshly manicured hand on my back and rubbed. Her touch disgusted me. She didn’t see me as her son. She saw me as a product. “It’ll be okay. Was there something wrong today? Did Donna have you do something different?”
I pushed her away and shoved my hands into my pockets. She walked over to the trash can and dug through it, pulling out the used condom. My face flooded in shame. She snickered and dropped it back in, wiping her hand on her designer jeans. “Seems like you had fun. I don’t know why you’re always giving me that depressing look. You’re such a beautiful boy, Emile. So handsome, so smart. You like having nice things, don’t you? I got you that computer you asked for. I pay for the best internet. Or all those expensive pencils you wanted. And the sketchpads you doodle on.”
Shame warred with guilt in my mind. This was how it always went. Guilt, then shame. Guilt, then shame. Then, once she left, anger and sadness. She told me boys don’t cry after, so I made myself wait until she left me alone, and then I would do it. I cried most nights.
“If you’re not going to use your words, then I’m not going to stand here. I only stopped in after my nail appointment to get the money Donna left and to tell you I’m going out with the girls for dinner. There’s stuff in the freezer, make something. I’ll be out late.”
I listened for the sound of her heels as she crossed the house. She grabbed her keys off the counter and then the front door opened and slammed shut.
While I wanted to feel relieved she was gone for a bit, I didn’t. I just felt empty. I always felt empty. I took a step and winced at the wound, still open, on my leg. I dropped my pants and sat on my bed to examine the cut again. It had stopped bleeding, but I needed to clean it up before it got infected. I went to my bathroom, grabbing an alcohol pad and placing it on the wound. I winced, but I liked the pain. It made me feel something. Pain was the only thing I felt these days, and I relished in it. Physical pain took my mind off what was going on inside.
I didn’t bother with a bandage. I wanted it to scar. I wanted to add to the dozens of other lines on my thighs. It was visual proof that this was real. That I wasn’t living in an eternal nightmare.
Eventually, I made my way back to the computer. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but most nights, I found myself searching through forums, searching for... something. It wasn’t like I could tell anyone about what was going on. But if I could just have someone to talk to at all...
I was scrolling through topics. Reading people’s confessions. Men cheating on their wives. Women with gambling addictions. People who stole things or lied to get a job. It was interesting what people could say when they thought no one knew who they were. I wanted to be that brave. I didn’t even have the courage to start an account.
A topic caught my eye, and I clicked.
I want to run away.
I searched through the posts, my interest piqued. These posters seemed to be teenagers like me. They hated their parents for all sorts of reasons. Divorce, favoritism. It was a place to vent. Was this the place I could finally confess what my mom was making me do with her army wife friends? I licked my lips. My breathing became labored as I weighed the risk. What if...
A new post popped up as I was thinking of making an account, and I clicked it, losing the courage in an instant.
Heavy shoes to fill
FadedDaisy says:
My parents died when I was little. I’ve lived my entire life in their shadows. They were famous, and my Nona wants me to be like them, but from the confines of our house. How can I be a famous ballerina if no one sees me dance? I found my mother’s old books from when she was my age. I started to read one called Flowers In The Attic, and I couldn’t help but feel like the main character. A ballerina, trapped in her grandmother’s mansion. I didn’t get to finish it. My Nona found it and took it. I think she knows, because now I’m not allowed to go outside much anymore. I miss the flowers.
I recognized that book title. I left my room, going to the bookcase in the living room. I scanned the shelves and found it, along with a few other titles from the author. I grabbed Flowers In The Attic , deciding to reply to her. But I needed to make an account, which would require a username no one could guess. I looked back at the bookshelf and grabbed the book that had been right next to Flowers In The Attic.
The Great Gatsby —we’d been reading it in school.
Daisy.
Perfect. I typed in SadboyGatsby as my username and hit Create Account. My heart was loud in my ears as I returned to FadedDaisy’s post. With a trembling hand, I clicked Reply. What did I say?
SadboyGatsby: My mom has the book. I can read it and tell you the ending if you’d like.
My palms were clammy as I waited for a reply. It came minutes later.
FadedDaisy: You have that kind of time on your hands?
I sighed, looking around my lonely room.
SadboyGatsby: I have nothing but time. I’m just as trapped as you are.
I considered my reply. It was true, in a way. Sure, I could go outside. I went to school; I was allowed friends. But I didn’t have time for extracurriculars anymore. My mom filled my schedule with ‘special visits’. Which created another problem. How could I hang out with my friends when I’d... done those things with their moms? I’d tried at first, but the guilt and shame kept making me physically ill. I’d thrown up at least six times at various houses, and of course, my mom heard about it. Her answer for that was for me not to go play with the other boys on the base.
I think that was what made me reply to FadedDaisy. We had different prisons, but the bars on the windows were just as impenetrable. My computer dinged with a reply, and my heart soared as I saw a private message from Daisy.
FadedDaisy: I’d love to know the ending, Gatsby.
I stared at it. Her request seemed to have a double meaning. Maybe I was reading into it more than I should have, but I was so desperate for someone to talk to, I couldn’t help but cling to the message for dear life. I looked at the two books again, deciding to read both.
SadboyGatsby: Me too, Daisy.
Please, let the ending be a good one.