Jack is back! The story picks up from where Part 1 ended in very dramatic and graphic circumstaces.
Please, if you are affected by any of the events in the story,
GET HELP!
All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at pjalexander1753@gmail.com
A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 2)
From Part 1, Chapter 13:
Also in front of me, on my desk, is my Saint Seb sketch book. Without any sort of logical thought process guiding my actions I begin to flick through it. There are all my initial thoughts and ideas, page after page of them and I'm turning each page, staring at every image of the dying saint, who's really not much more than a boy himself. Not much older than me. And in every drawing there's blood, blood pouring from every arrow, every wound. So much blood. And that's when I notice my craft knife which is sitting in the pot with my pencils and brushes. And then I see more blood. Blood is all I can see. Blood welling up on my wrists. Blood spreading over the desk. Over the sketch book. Over Saint Seb. Over .....
Chapter 1: The Saga Continues
And that's how I ended up there, in the psych ward I mean, via an ambulance (blue lights and sirens, the whole works) and the emergency department. All very dramatic and very, very not ordinary. It was Rosa who found me, when she brought up the food she'd mentioned. She did her normal thing of just barging straight in. (Hey, I've just had a scary thought. How is it, in all the years she's worked for us, that she's never walked in on me cock-handed? Shit! I'm never gonna be able to unthink that.) Anyway, there I was, slumped, unconscious, over my desk in "an ocean of blood". Of course, given her huge number of kids and grandkids, she's handled all sorts of crises and disasters in her time but never before, apparently, a "near death experience situation".
Mum and dad are both out -- I still don't know where and, to be honest, it probably wouldn't have made any difference to what happened even if they'd been somewhere downstairs in the house or the garden -- so Rosa calls the ambulance and comes with me to the hospital and stays there until the parents turn up from wherever it is they've been. It turns out that, apart from the initial emergency treatment -- stopping the blood and sewing me up -- they can't do anything else without parental permission, me being still, legally, a `minor', and Rosa having no parental rights. Naturally, faced with a fully qualified nut-job on a suicide mission, they're desperate to admit me but can't, not without the parents' agreement. What I wouldn't give to have been a hidden CCTV camera during that conversation - the eminent and highly-regarded child and adolescent psychologist being asked to explain how her teenage son has been allowed to get to the point of slashing his own wrists, with only the housekeeper there to stop him from succeeding. So much for all her talk of "independence" and "freedom" and "healthy teenage development". I bet the emergency doc thought she was just another uncaring, middle-class, career-focused mother who was happy to let her kid do whatever he liked as long as he didn't get in her way. And it's true, sort of. She is two out of those three things, but she's not uncaring. No, really, she isn't, for all the sounding off about her that I do. She just can't get her head around the fact that what I need from her is different from the needs of the kids she works with every day. It's different and, I suppose, more ordinary (how ironic is that?) -- I want her to see me for who I am and to show that she loves me for it. And that's without even thinking about the gay thing, which I'm 100% not thinking about and definitely not telling the waste-of-space psych doc who I've been assigned to, Doctor Hipless.
If I'm reading that look on your face right (which I bet you I am) you're asking yourself the sixty four thousand dollar question (the one that you'd really like to ask me out loud but daren't) -- did I actually mean to kill myself? And do I wish I hadn't done it? -- that's two questions for the price of one. Well, let's pretend you've actually had the balls to ask me and not wimped out `cause you're afraid it might upset me or set back my recovery. (That's assuming I am recovering.)
So, question number one: Did I actually mean to kill myself? Okay, answer number one: I have no fucking idea. I've thought about it a lot. The days are long and there's not much else to do apart from think, and Doctor Hopeless says I can't expect to even begin to get better unless I'm able to "articulate my thought processes up to the point I attempted to end my life." So it's simple, all I've got to do is make sense of what was going on in my head before I picked up that craft knife and everything will be sunshine and roses. What I can't get him to understand is that it's exactly because my head was all over the place and nothing seemed to make sense any more, that, at that particular moment in time, picking up the knife made complete and total sense.
And I mean, it wasn't all sunshine and roses back before then anyway, so why should I expect it to be so much better any time soon? I'd been raped and then rejected by my number one wank-fantasy, I'd been dumped by my two best friends, my mum and dad barely knew I existed and I was so far at the back of the closet there wasn't even the smallest crack to let the light in. And that moron of a doctor expects me to "articulate my thought processes". Joke!
And do you want to know the thing that really gets to me now, now that I've been doing all this thinking? I'm gonna tell you anyway. What really annoys the shit out of me is .... Me. Not Noah, not Dyl or Si, not my dad, not even my mum. No. It's me, Jack Pathetic Smith, that's who's really bugging me. Don't look so shocked. It's obvious. I bet even Doctor Useless has realised. Of course it's me. If I'd just had the guts to stop hiding and come creeping out of the closet, none of the other rubbish would have happened. And I was, hiding I mean. I know I said I thought it was unfair and didn't see why gays and lesbians have to admit' to liking other boys or girls. And it's true, I do think that -- but saying it was mainly a way of keeping the secret tight and staying hidden in plain sight. Cause coming out would have caused me all sorts of grief, right? For starters, for all that they were my best friends back then (how can you think in terms of the good old days' when you're only 17?), I'd no idea how Dyl and Si would have reacted to being landed with a bouncing, newborn baby gay-boy? Chances are - certainly as things have turned out -- they would have dumped me, quick as. And then there was the likely reaction at school. Coming out would have given all the Greenside goons a perfect reason to beat the crap out of me and make my life a total misery. Well, that's a laugh cause it looks like I managed that all by myself -- didn't need help from anyone to turn my life into a complete fuck-up. So much of a fuck-up in fact that the best thing I could think to do with it was to end it. Prize-winning or what?
You know, I've been thinking about what I said earlier, about wanting my parents (I `spose I mean my mum mostly) to see me for who I really am. And I suppose that it is pretty unfair of me considering the fact that I haven't officially let them in on one of the most important things about me. Not just haven't let them in on it but, for years, have gone out of my way to make sure that they've been kept totally and absolutely in the dark about it. So, yeah, pretty unreasonable of me. In fact, you'd be right to think I was being 100% hypocritical, trying to blame them for something that's nobody's responsibility but my own. Oh shit. It's all so fucking complicated and difficult and confusing and piss-offing and ... and ... everything. Aaagh!
What's that? The other question? Oh, yeah. Do I wish I hadn't done it? Well, I've done a lot of thinking about that one too, and the answer I've come up with is that there is no answer. No, I'm being serious, and, no, I'm not trying to dodge the question, honest, I'm not. But it's impossible to answer it, and I'll tell you why. I could only have known if it would have been better not to have done it if I'd known two other things first. Number 1: What's it like to be dead? I mean, for all anyone knows, being dead may be way better than being alive. At least, better than being alive here and now. Perhaps the - what do you call it, the after-life? or the next life? -- perhaps that's way better than this life. And if it is, well, of course I'd wish that I'd done it and that I'd finished the job without Rosa barging in and rescuing me. Face it, if you knew that what's waiting for us when we're dead was way better than what we're getting now, you'd be reaching for the knife too, or throwing yourself under the next passing bus. I'm right, aren't I? A few minutes of pain now in exchange for non-stop coolsville somewhere else. Like your best ever wank experience for eternity. It's a no-brainer. Admit it. Maybe the God squad have been right all along. Hey, that's a thought. Maybe the reason good old Saint Seb always looks so calm in the paintings is because someone's given him the nod that things can only get better. Shit! I wonder what Doctor Brainless would have to say about that. But the trouble is, without knowing what's on the other side', why take the risk? So that's part of why I can't answer the "Do I wish I hadn't done it?" question, cause I don't know whether the here and now is better or worse than the there and then.
And the other part is because I don't know how it's gonna be from here on in, my life I mean. Okay, so things are pretty shitty now, in fact, like I've been saying all along, most of my first seventeen years have been, at best, ordinary, and sometimes seriously crap. But who knows, perhaps it's all good from now on. You know, non-stop cool and gay-boy dreamland come true -- with the emphasis on the cum, naturally! So, if I could do a fast forward through the rest of my life to find out how stuff happens, then I'd know whether it was worth sticking around till its natural end, or better to have locked my bedroom door before doing the bloody deed. Old Joseph Heller had it totally right when he wrote Catch 22 (awesome film, by the way. Have you seen it?) -- basically you just can't win and you're fucked whichever way you jump. Or maybe you're not. But until we find a way to see how sunny or shitty life is actually gonna turn out to be, we're never gonna know. And that's the other reason why it's impossible to answer the question about do I wish I hadn't done it?' All majorly fucked-up, yeah? Just like me! And so much brain ache cause of so much thinking. Sorry.
But, hey, you keep coming around so things can't be all bad, right? And my dad's been great. I think he really gets it, keeping the gay thing secret I mean. It turns out he had a secret of his own when he was a kid -- told me about it when I was in the hospital. The story goes, Grandpa Smith wasn't whiter than white -- shock and horror! Was mixed heritage in fact. Turns out he had Caribbean ancestors. Way back, getting on for a hundred years ago or more. His great granddad or something. Yeah, I know, so what? Who gives a stuff? In fact, seems pretty cool to me. But apparently it wouldn't have gone down well in the classy area where he lived as a kid. He was convinced that all his friends would take the piss out of him if they knew. Or dump him. Or worse. So he kept it to himself. My dad told me that his dad was too ashamed and worried to tell Granny when they were dating, even though they were totally loved-up and obviously made for each other. Wouldn't ask her to marry him cause he was afraid she'd drop him like he was toxic once she knew. In the end she got tired of waiting. Knew he wanted to ask her but something was stopping him so she had it out with him. Told him he either had to come clean or she was out of there. Well, that totally spooked him so he told her. And that's when the brown stuff really hit the fan. She laid into him saying he wasn't worth the time of day cause he obviously didn't love or trust her enough to tell her, didn't believe she loved him enough to ignore any other shit, thought she was prejudiced and closed-minded. It was all an act, of course. She did it to make him think she really was gonna walk away, to scare him into proposing. And he did. But even after they were married he still wouldn't talk about it, not in the part of town where they lived, so when my dad found out -- accidentally overheard Granny and Grandpa discussing it one day when he was a little kid -- he got the feeling it was something bad, something to be ashamed of, so he kept it to himself too, just like Grandpa had. Said it screwed him up for a long time, in his head, you know? Reckoned it was meeting mum, a trainee psychologist, at uni, that finally turned things around for him and gave him the "necessary perspective". We've never talked like that before, me and my dad. It was nice. He even told me that he was sorry about walking in on me that time when I was mid-wank. He admitted that he had seen what I'd been looking at on my laptop and that it had made him wonder whether I might be gay. He'd never let on to my mum though. Said he thought it was no-one's business but mine, but how he regretted not talking to me about it at the time, thinking that, if he had, all the recent "unpleasantness" might have been avoided. He even said he felt guilty and totally blamed himself and thought, if he had talked to my mum about his suspicions, then she would have known how to handle it, you know, with her being a really expert mental health professional. And she is, and she's really proud of all her professional qualifications and the framed certificates she has up in her office, but, like I said to my dad, I sometimes think she could do with going on some sort of basic parenting course to help her switch on the ordinary mum function button and switch off expert head-probing mode. And then I told him something I've never said to anyone before. I said I often wonder if she didn't want to have me cause having me had got in the way of all her big career plans. But he said I wasn't ever, EVER to think that cause she hadn't left my bedside when I'd first been admitted to the hospital, had cried for hours until I'd woken up and was forever telling him how proud she is of me and how I'm the greatest achievement in her life. So I said I wish she'd tell me that some times and he said that, yeah, it was a shame. And we both cried.
Afterwards I began to wonder if what he'd said was some sort of criticism of my mum. You know, saying he wished he'd talked to me, hoping to get me to open up about being gay. Because, of course, that would have been the opposite of her belief in a `hands-off' approach to parenting, that kids, and me in particular, needed to be given time and space to "discover my own path in life" and that parents are there to "facilitate, not impose", to "provide a necessary but invisible safety net". So I'll probably never know if it would have made any difference, you know, if he'd told her about him thinking I might be gay. And, yeah, that does make me feel sad, but as long as I've got you to talk to -- and not just Doctor Clueless -- I reckon I'll be okay.
You know, thinking about it, the time I spent in the hospital wasn't totally bad. In fact, I quite enjoyed it in a weird sort of way. It was easy you see, cause there were no decisions to make -- nowhere to go, nothing to stress over, no-one to worry about. Well, apart from Rosa and Granny Smith that is. At the start, once they'd got me stabilised' -- that's physically stabilised, we're still working on the mental stuff -- the two of them went into total hyper-caring overdrive. Wouldn't go home. It was like they were in some sort of competition, each trying to prove who loved me the most. I mean, I know it's only natural with Granny cause I'm her favourite grandkid. What do you mean, only cause there's no competition? I bet I'd be her favourite even if she had as many grandkids as Rosa and not just me. Anyway, if one of them brought in something -- like Rosa'd bring in a pile of her brownies -- Granny would come in the next day with a great heap of art magazines (cooking's not Granny's greatest strength), desperate to convince me that she was the best and could outshine Rosa in every possible department. So, of course, I sat there lapping up all the extra attention (not to mention the cookies) and enjoying feeling extra special for once, that was until one of the ward staff said they were probably only visiting me in the hope of catching sight of Bruno, one of the nurses and seriously good looking. And then Doctor Spineless told them, Granny and Rosa I mean, that he thought all the visits and special treats weren't good for my recovery and that they needed to scale it back. What a douche!
And there's something else that's weirding me out -- hard-ons! At least, the lack of them. I haven't had one since the camping trip with Noah. Not a proper one, anyway. Yeah, I've had the usual morning wood, who doesn't?, but that always goes away as soon as I've pissed. And besides, apart from proving that everything down there is still in working order, there's nothing sexy about morning wood. But even when I've thought I might be in the mood and have tried rubbing myself or imagined the Dan, Milo and me scenario that I told you about before, even then -- nothing, zilch. Doctor Boneless (there's a joke in there somewhere) says a "temporary period of erectile inhibition" is only to be expected after my recent "unfortunate first time experience". (And what an embarrassing conversation, that was.)
And it's not as if there wasn't plenty of stimulation while I was in the hospital. That nurse I mentioned, Bruno, you know, the one Granny and Rosa were scoping out, well, believe me, he was seriously fit. In every sense of the word. He obviously worked-out cause you could see the shape of his chest through his scrubs and Michaelangelo would definitely have appreciated his butt. And nothing about him was too muscly. No, just enough so you knew he was built and wanted to stay that way. Well, Bruno was one of my regular nurses, he'd come in most days to give me my meds and, like I say, he was quite something to look at; tallish, say 5-10 or 11, light brown hair and dark brown eyes and just a little bit of stubble, but nothing too aggressive-looking. I kept thinking he could have been the model for a new Saint Seb picture I found when I was on-line. This one isn't very old and Italian like most of the others I've told you about. No, this one isn't even a hundred years old and was painted by a Swedish guy called Owe Zerge. I'd never heard of him but he must have been gay cause what he painted is one seriously hot martyr.
Sorry, another one of my `you didn't need to know that, me going off the subject' moments. What's that, is Bruno hot? Well, like I say, he's great-looking, friendly and had lots of completely professional reasons for touching me. Yes, really! But even when he's supervising me in the shower -- a must for nut-jobs in the psych ward - no reaction from me in the cock department. Nothing. Not even when he's soaping my back. It was like being six years old again, you know, before you have any idea just how much fun can be had from that piece of flesh hanging about between your legs. And, if I'm honest, it's been like that since I've been home too. I haven't looked at porn, not once. It's like my hand has forgotten where my cock is. And what makes it worse is that I'm totally not bothered. Yeah, it's a bit of a worry, and, you're right, I probably shouldn't be getting stressed about it, not after what happened. But can it really be completely normal, like Doctor Knobless says it is, "considering the traumatic events experienced with a, supposedly, close friend"? I bet he would just love to get his teeth into it. No!! not like that. That's a disgusting idea. Time you went home. See you tomorrow?
As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out there who are taking the time to read what I've written, and then bothering to send a response. So please, do feel free to write to me at the email address given at the top of the chapter. I welcome all comments and guarantee to write back. PJ
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