Not Who You Thought (BxB Drama-Romance)

Sunday School

"What happened to us when we were kids?" I beg for an answer. "I always remember you with freckles. I thought you had freckles when you were nine, at little league. You didn't have freckles when you were nine, did you? You had them when you were six."

I can see his breath quickening, his chest heaving underneath the embroidered sweatshirt he's wearing. Stay Groovy, the sweatshirt says inside a circle of embroidered daisies. It took Charlie several hours to hand embroider those flowers. He had sat on the floor of my bedroom, his brow furrowed in concentration and his lips pressed firmly together while he created the daisies. When he was done he was incredibly proud; he begged me to let him embroider one of my t-shirts and when I relented spent another hour creating flowers for me.

"Don't worry," he says. "I always protected you."

The worm in my brain wriggles, bites harder than before. A memory of Charlie's hands, so small. A memory of his voice before it dropped with age, telling me to hide. A memory of plastic toy animals from a nativity set, scattered across a carpeted floor.

"Charlie, look at me. Please," I croak. "Don't go home, stay with me. You can be yourself here."

"I love you so much." He looks at me. "I'd rip my heart out for you."

"Then stay!" I burst. "He hits you! He molested someone! Rip your fucking heart out here, not at home where no one loves you like I do!"

"Stop yelling!" Charlie's face is pale in the lights from my front porch as he shouts. He tells me to stop yelling, yet here he is screaming at me in a way I've never seen him do before. "Nothing is wrong! Nothing happened to us! You're fine, Lucas!" His face screws up. "I made sure you were okay. Look, you're normal. You never ended up like me or Joshua."

"Who carved that word into your arm, huh?" I demand. "Was it him?"

"No, it was me."

"No, that's not true." I shake my head. "You couldn't have done that to yourself."

"I did it last year at conversion therapy," his voice is haggard. "They sent me home because I tried to kill myself. I'm not lying about that, I was too ashamed to tell you. "

Faggot.

"Don't go," I repeat. "I don't want to be alone. Something is wrong, and I don't know what. Let's run away together. You're happy when you're with me."

"I'm sorry." He's turning away. "I'll come over tomorrow, I promise."

The problem with Charlie is that he always leaves.

Inside my own home, I ghost from room to room. I am afraid to sleep, afraid of closing my eyes and succumbing to darkness. I try to draw instead, but my drawings become twisted. They are of hands desperately reaching out to no avail, a storm sweeping over the countryside, Charlie's blemished arms and his mouth twisting into a grimace.

In the bathroom mirror my face looks different than usual, and I forget how old I am. I am almost eighteen, eagerly awaiting the birthday that signifies my adulthood. I am twelve, seeing Charlie play in the marching band. I am nine, watching Charlie run around the baseball field. I am six, and I am hiding from something monstrous. I am born squealing and red-faced, thrust into the arms of a young mother and a father who never intended to have me.

It does not take me long to conclude that I have gone crazy. I am having a mental breakdown, and I have no idea how to stop it. I try to call Charlie several times and then eventually my sister, but neither of them answer.

I finally end up laying on my back in my bed, staring at the ceiling as I try to calm myself. I'm fine, Charlie is fine, Joshua was never molested and he was only moved away because his parents wanted to live somewhere else.