How to Keep a Secret

Chapter 17- Hysterics

"Gracie," Cam choked out as he quickly stood up and walked towards me. "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry... please forgive me, you have to forgive me, I had no choice," he sobbed, embracing me in a tight hug, clutching my head to his chest.

I stood silently in his arms, trying to banish from my mind the memory of him hurting me. He didn't have a choice, just like you. He didn't have an option.

"It's okay. I understand. I had to do the same thing," I said quietly, gently putting my arms around him.

We were silent, just hugging for several minutes. "How did you do it?" I finally asked him.

"What?"

"How did you flip a switch so fast? One minute you were in tears at the thought of hurting me, the next you were the angriest I've ever seen you."

He took a deep breath as he broke the hug, leaning back against the table. "You have to promise me this is strictly confidential. No telling anyone about this, alright?"

"Of course," I said instantly, although internally I was hesitating. What could he have to say that needed to be top secret?

"I told you my family and I kind of had a history, right? Well, it all started in middle school. I was going to a new school, and at that age it was hard for me to make friends. People weren't always the nicest to the smart kid with good grades, you know? When I finally did make friends, I didn't quite realize that... that they weren't exactly the good sort," he said shakily.

"They were older, in high school, but I felt like I could talk to them. They were nice to me, made me feel like I was part of their little family or something. That never happened at home-- my parents were always working, so I was always alone. It wasn't for a few months until they invited me to... to 'hang out' with them. It turned out their definition of hanging out was stealing and bullying. They taught me to be mean: they taught me how best to channel my anger at life in order to terrify people."

"The worst part? I actually liked it. The part of myself that told me this was wrong was silenced by my desire for friends, for my desperation for any sort of companionship. So I went along with them, doing what they said. It didn't get serious until-- until--"

He broke off, looking at the floor. "They started hurting people. For no reason. And I... I helped them. One day I came home late at night after helping them, and for the first time ever, both of my parents were home. Imagine their shock when they saw their only son walk in, blood spattered on my t-shirt. The first thing my father did was walk up to me and scold me about being out late doing God-knows-what..." he paused and took a deep breath.

"I don't know what got into me, but I had had it. I was done with being neglected by them, and so... I... I punched him. Hard. Hard enough to snap me back into the reality that no matter how shitty a person he was, I owed him the smallest bit of respect for keeping a roof over my head. So I went into my room, and from that day on, I learned to control it, like an on-off switch. At school and home? Lively and cheerful. With my friends? Angry and cruel."

He looked downwards, as if he was in a daze, reliving memories from his past. "A year or two later I stopped... helping them, but that side of me never quite went away. The side that almost... enjoys it. Hurting people."

He raised his head and met my eyes. His green eyes, so lively at breakfast, had turned dark and broken. "You must think I'm a monster," he said quietly, not breaking our gaze.