Sherwin was never fond of wishes. He thought it made him weak.
Why would you plead to someone (or something) (he didn't know the specifics) to grant your wish? Why would you beg on your knees, bow your head, and wish? Why wouldn't you just stand up, brush the dirt off of your clothes and make your 'wish' come true yourself?
Sherwin can admit that, at one point, he wished.
Every year, on his birthday. He would blow his candles out, and hope that the gods above would be listening. Every year, he would wish for the same thing.
Every year, it wouldn't come true.
In retrospect, Sherwin could have realized that it was just a scam. He could have just stopped wishing completely.
But he didn't.
He kept on wishing.
He never told anyone his wish, of course. When his parents or older brother would ask him what he wished for, he would deny their requests and simply say that it wouldn't come true if he did so. In actuality, he really couldn't tell them.
I mean, how could you tell your family that you've been religiously lusting after your next door neighbor for your entire life? And it wasn't just that, how could you admit that it was a boy?
It was the day after his eleventh birthday. He was in his bathroom, holding a razor. Everything was piling on him lately, in ways he couldn't describe. Everything felt heavy.
He had wanted to cut his hair off.
He hated it. He hated his crimson hair. He hated his stupid brown eyes. He hated his big freckles that exploded on his cheeks, and he especially hated how it always made him look like he was blushing.
Sherwin had put down the razor and slid down the wall of the bathroom, with his back against it. He had clutched his unruly flaming red hair and pulled, his heart beginning to beat at a worryingly fast rate.
He hated that he was so scrawny. He hated that he had terrible vision. He hated that he was always picked as the smartest in his class, yet, when asked a question, wouldn't be able to answer. He hated that he looked smart, and he hated that he wasn't.
Sherwin then dug his nails into his scalp, his breath and pulse quickening. He was so angry, at himself, at everyone. He tried to calm himself, but it was all for naught as a single tear fell.
He hated that he liked a boy.
He hated Jonathan. He hated what the sight of him did to him. He hated how a simple smile or glance from him could make his knees go weak.
But most of all, he hated how he was attracted to him.
He heaved a deep sigh and forced himself to not cry, something he was doing frequently for the past month.
It was then that he stood up and carefully placed the razor away.
He stared at himself in the mirror, then. A light giggle escaped his lips, and he had to cover his mouth to prevent himself from laughing.
But when he pulled his hand away, he realized he had been crying.
