life; the never-ending rollercoaster;3

CHAPTER 3

I stopped a few blocks down, and sat up against a tree in the park. No one was ever there. I was really going to catch it when I got home.
I had left my things in school, left school, and Mr. Groundland knew how many people were there, so they’d all know someone was in school and left. He’d know it was I, too, because of my stupid little mouthy escapade. He'd notice if someone recounted the class and I wasn't there. I bet he was just itching for a reason to get me suspended. Unless, of course, I went back. I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t face Jason.
But wasn’t Jason following me? I asked myself.
No, you idiot, he would have been here already! I answered angrily!
But, knowing Jason, he probably would want me to cool down first, so I didn’t murder him, the first voice came back.
Or, nagged yet another little voice in the back of his head, maybe he doesn’t give a crap whether or not you even come back.
No, the first voice said, he’s my best friend.
The third voice scoffed, sure…. Would you be your best friend if you said that to you? A bit of confusion winded through my mind after that.
One choice is left, on where to go , the second voice said.
I’m not going home, the other two chorused.
SHUT UP! I cut into my own thoughts. But, they (I?) were right about one thing: No way was I going home. No way. Not ever, no way, no how. Not if I could help it. Not if I had a choice. There was a rustling noise somewhere behind me. I whipped my head around. Ouch. I had a cut where my shoulder and my neck met, kind of deep, and it had been just beginning to heal. I had just ripped it back open.
“Dang!” I said in an angry whisper. I looked to see what had made the noise as blood saturated the collar of my shirt. Just a squirrel. All because of a stupid squirrel. I thought ‘Dang!’ One more time, before returning to my other thoughts.
I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. No matter where I went, or what I did - one way or another, my stepfather was going to murder me. Oh, well. I’d let him. I’d welcome him with open arms. What in the name of the devil did I have to live for, anyway. Then I silently yelled at myself for even thinking that. But the truth remained, like it or not: I’d lied to Jason and he knew it, and knew I’d gotten myself killed before it even happened; why couldn’t I ever do anything right? I put my arms on my knees, put my head down, and stayed there, waiting for my head to stop swimming with dizziness and worries.
Several minutes later, something brushed up against me, but I stayed where I was. A stray animal, the police, or Jason. They looked like Jason’s shoes. I could sense his eyes on my spine, studying the way it stuck out. Then I heard him speak again.
“Jamie?” He said quietly. Ha! The first voice was back, and I shook my head inconspicuously to rid it. Can you shake your head inconspicuously? Guess not.
I acted as if I hadn’t heard him, and I felt Jason kneel down next to me, now that he was sure that I could hear him. All because I have stupid arguing voices in my head that I can’t get rid of.
“Jamie?” He asked gently. I took no notice of him.
“I’m sorry.” But he sounded distracted, and I could tell that he was looking at the sudden part of my collar that was wet with blood. He touched my shoulder, and I jerked away from him in pain.
I had gotten that when step dad burned me with a fire poker. It wasn’t exactly a dull fire poker, either, if you catch my drift. That’s how I got the cut there. Man, did that hurt. Good thing he was drunk, because he had been aiming for my eyes. Wait a minute – did I just think ‘good thing he was drunk?’ Am I crazy? Maybe I am.
“Are you alright?” I moved my head farther into my arms, because the only thing keeping me from letting everything out was my not looking at Jason. I didn’t respond; partly because I didn’t trust my voice, and partly because I didn’t know the answer. An ordinary person would give up then, but not Jason.
“I believe you, okay?” Jason hesitated. “And I’m sorry for what I said about your dad –” I looked up sharply at Jason when he said ‘dad’, then cut in sternly, my voice quaking, and my eyes flashing. I got a major head rush from snapping my skull around, and a major pain in the same cut I ripped open five minutes ago.
“He’s not my dad!” The barrier containing everything I felt shattered, and anguish, confusion, worry, and fright poured out from all sides. I couldn’t hide my emotions anymore; it all burst out it that one sentence, and continued to leave as I continued speaking. I could feel the ‘busting-at-the-seams’ feeling leaving, very slowly. I was loosely surprised at how much anger I had hidden. How could he consider him my dad? Jason almost fell over. I guess he wasn’t expecting that.
“He’s not even my step dad – I don’t even know who the heck he is! He’s not my step dad, so who in god’s name is he? Can you answer that question? My dad’s dead! My mom died four years ago. And my stepdad died six years ago, okay?! Bet you didn’t know that! Bet you don’t care, either. My dad died before I was born, so that guy’s sure as heck not my father, or my stepfather, so who in the name of Jesus is he? If you can’t answer that, then leave, because I have no need for you to come and tell me that everything I do is wrong, or stupid, even if it is, all right! I can figure that out myself. So, just let me deal with this nightmare on my own!” I swore so loudly that a few birds above my head flew out of the tree. Lucky no one was on the street, then.
The way I had spoken looked like it had either deeply disturbed Jason, or froze him to his core. It kind of scared me too, actually. And, as I continued, the next the next batch of sentences looked like they stung even more with each word. And, even though I said them, they stung me, too.
“I though that you were my friend. I thought you were the only person who was on my side in the world. The only person who would ever believe me when no one else would. And a lot of people don’t believe me when they blame me for a bunch of stupid graffiti on their garages or stolen gnomes and stuff when I say that I didn’t do it. But, I guess I was wrong about that too. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Man that sounded like some Lifetime movie script. I no longer looked at Jason. Instead, I stared off somewhere – anywhere – else. “My existence ruins everything ‘cause I can’t do anything right, and the world just keeps rubbing that in my face.” That’s better.
I stood up, tearing my dirt tracked, bloody shirt, on a rather sharp stick that stuck out of the tree. “Dang!” Man, I thought, I’ve got to stop saying dang.
My words, (not the ‘dang!’, the other words), appeared to shock Jason. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jason look at my face. About a week later, when he told me (from his point of view) what happened on our first day of high school, he said something like this. I think it might help explain things a little better, since I’m notoriously bad at that. He said something to the sort of:
My eyes, which were once so happy, were empty, as if a door behind them had closed. Then, a moment later, it was as if a dam had broken and my eyes let Jason see everything. The eyes that once lit up, showed sorrow. The eyes that once held love, showed pain. The eyes that once illustrated mirth, showed fear, and anxiety. They showed Jason things that I endured, which a boy should never see.’
Whoa, can you say ‘cheesy and poetic’? I sure can. That’s what I told him when he said that. He slapped me in the back of the head.
But what he left out was this: That they were the same eyes that burned as I turned away and swung myself into the old oak tree. The same eyes that shed a tear eight feet to the ground.