He sat arm against arm with me in class, his I-dont-give-a-fuck-about-physics slouch veering him into my personal space.
At least shatter the silence and talk to me.
Why wouldnt he say anything?
Instagram / Alex Stoddard
The pessimist trapped inside me, kicking at my heart like a heavy bag, knew the truth.
He had touched me by mistake, a mistake so small he didnt bother to correct it.
The brunette with tan abs hidden beneath her basketball jersey.
The all-star sophomore with buckteeth that somehow made her more adorable, more approachable, more imperfectly perfect.
It left a harmless mark, a light scratch, a white line across the center of my wrist.
The line I would later use as a map.
Instagram / Alex Stoddard
As a dotted line for my razor to slip against in the tub.
I never felt the paramedics heave me up, just to rest me inside a black body bag.
I never heard the words of friends at the funeral or the cries of my cousins.
Instead, I saw my new reflection.
A brunette with bucked teeth and basketball trophies lining the shelves.
His journey to recovery made the family prouder than a wall filled with trophies.
Now, the mirror showed me puffy red eyes and arms still dotted with needle marks.
A blue chip swayed from the keys attached to my jeans, clanking against my thigh as I walked.
My parents liked to see it.
Proof of my sobriety.
To them, the chip meant six months of success.
Aunts, uncles, neighbors, old friends, the damn mailman they all praised me for my strength.
They told me how proud they were of my persistence, my will power.
But I knew what they meant.
They meantI never expected you to actually get your act together.
I tried to enroll in night classes to earn a degree, but fell behind in every course.
I knew my parents already considered me a success, just for coming clean.
But I longed for real success.
A rock star life.
The life where crowds chanted my name.
Where every girl wanted me.
Where every radio station broadcasted me.
The kind of music that could save a life.
I never heard them cry my name or curse at God.
Instead, I heard a crowd chanting my name.
Hot guys and even hotter girls held posters with my face plastered to them.
I could fuck any of them.
I could fuck all of them.
I could watch while they fucked each other.
For a while, that was exactly what I did.
I slept around, jumping from person to person, tasting everything my tongue could reach.
But after months, years, decades, I found a reason to settle down.
A pretty woman with a pretty mind to match.
I loved her so much I stayed faithful all the way until the divorce.
I discovered fame and fortune from a young age, missing high schoolmilestones.
I wished for the simplicity of teenage gossip and laugh-track TV shows.
I wished I spent at least a little time as a kid before jumping straight into adulthood.
