Brandon. Yes, THAT Brandon.

What Did You Expect?

         "He didn't even want to sleep with me." I hear Christina's voice from somewhere in the crowd.

         "Made out with a boy at the party!" Janie whispers to someone.

         "I don't know him at all." Logan's voice sticks out. I can't even see him.

         I push past everyone and sprint to the bathroom. My reflection shows that I've been crying. I try to wipe the tears away, but my duplicate shifts into two figures: my mom and dad. Shaking my head, I back away. This isn't happening. How does my body know it's a dream, and not shake it?Wake up!

         "How could you?" my mom cries. "Such a disgrace!"

         "You're a disgrace to this whole family. I hate you. We hate you." My dad shields my mother away from me as they walk away. I reach out to grab her, but all my fingers touch is the smooth, cold, glass of the mirror. Wake up!

         The bathroom door swings open and the lights go out. 'I hate you. We hate you.' echoing over and over again. 'Pedophile. Disgusting. Disgrace.' Maybe if I turn on the light--

        The room is pitch black as I sit up in my bed. I groan.  The clock reads 7:30. It's too dark for the morning...  I rub at my eyes and try to make my way to the bathroom when I trip.

        "Get up, Gay Boy," Mitchell seethes. I scramble to my feet. Mitchell and the rest of the team stand around me in a circle. They're all in tuxedos. Is this--

        "Your Fall Festival Fag this year is Brandon Owens!" Mrs. Evans announces. "Everyone give Brandon a nice congratulations! " I look at Mitchell with terror, begging him as he takes me by the collar of my shirt. That evil smirk creeps onto his lips and he raises an eyebrow.

        "Say goodnight, Gay Boy." The last thing I see is his fist.

* * * * *

        Please don't be dreaming. Please.

        It's the worst feeling, being stuck in your own head.

        Can I open my eyes?

        How long will you stay there? Can you get out of it? What if you've tried everything? Who knows how long dreams can last. Hours can feel like minutes, or days.

        Check your senses.

        I can smell something. Something sweet. A cinnamon roll. One eyelid parts slightly. Blue walls. Blue curtains. I'm safe. Sitting up, I check the clock to see 9:17 a.m. I hate nightmares.

        It wasn't even a reasonable nightmare. Just random and offensive. When other people have the dreams, you just think they're silly. Just wait until it happens to you.

        The cinnamon roll sits on a plate by my bed. Well, only for a short time anyway, before I snatch it up and devour it like I'd never seen food before. My mom must've been in my room recently, because it's still warm and soft. I relish the genuine flavor of it, savoring every piece although I eat it quickly. My mom always knows what to do, whether it's a glass of wine, or a cinnamon roll, or a hug. Just as I lick the last of the frosting off of my fingertips, on cue, she knocks on the door.

        "Come in," I sigh. She wears a smile. In her hand is another plate.

        "You were uspet last night. I could just sense it." She sits by me on the bed. "I couldn't sleep... worried about my baby boy. Tell me about it."