So Much Closer:

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You were lying beside me when I woke up that early morning. You were on your side, your head propped up by your hand, just staring at me. You’d think waking up to a pair of eyes barreling into yours would be frightening, but not your eyes. Everything about them screams comfort…security.

It was dim in the barn. And the air felt thick. It was going to be hot that day, I could already tell. I sat up at first, getting my barring straight as to where I was, and more importantly, why I was there. My head started to ache, and I felt the swollen slit in my lip. I remembered what had happened.

“’Morning.” You said to me. I looked down at you. I hunched over my legs, pressing my forearms on my stomach.

“How did you know I was here?” I had asked. You sat up and gave me a pouty face.

“What? Were you trying to hide from me?”

“No.”

I rested my head on my bent knees. I didn’t know what I was feeling then. Rejection, I think. I probably didn’t know it then, but I think I know it now. Rejection, abandonment, the overwhelming sense of being lost. I felt your hand rest on my back.

“You okay?”

I shook my head, rubbing my forehead against the denim of my jeans.

“Who hit you?” You had asked me. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I guess saying it would make it real.

That doesn’t make any sense, does it?

“Are you hungry?” You changed the subject.

“Yeah.”

You stood up first and climbed down the ladder. My head felt lolled on my shoulders, my whole body detached. I wasn’t whole. Something was missing. I didn’t know what it was. But I finally came down, and you were there waiting. I brushed the dust off of my body. It made me feel dirty and it was gritty on my hands.

We walked to your house in silence. I wanted to know what time it was, but I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t feel like talking. Talking seemed like such a chore, a task that required much more effort than I was willing to give. Looking at a clock in your house would be so much easier, less taxing on my lethargically self.

I was drained. I felt like someone had sucked the very essence of life out of my blood and spit it back on my face, knowing full well I wouldn’t even have the energy to wipe it clean. I would just sit there, dirty and embarrassed, exposed and lifeless. And everyone would be able to see it.

“Cereal?” You asked. I was sitting at the kitchen table. “Pancakes?”

“…’t’ever.” I muttered, kind of shrugging my shoulders. I dropped my head on the table. The cool surface felt good against my cheek. I closed my eyes, listening as certain sounds were amplified through the table. I listened as you poured something into a bowl, and then slammed a drawer shut.

“Here.” You pushed a bowl towards me. You slid me a spoon that ricocheted off of the bowl and spun on the table. Once it was still, I began to eat. You ate, too.

And all I could hear then was the loud crunch of the cereal between our teeth. And I liked that better than the hollowness of my restless mind, trying to sort out the right and wrong, good and bad of my split lip and headache. The uncontrollable urge to be wanted had almost taken over, but all I could really think about was the sting in my lip when the spoon hit it, and how we chewed rhythmically.

It was around nine forty. I had, at some point, looked at the clock on the wall above the sink and window. I ate slowly. I guess I thought I was stalling. I needed something to do so I wouldn’t have to go home. I didn’t want ‘go home’ to be the only option I would have left. I didn’t even think I could go home, even if I wanted to.

Not that I wanted to, you know. And I think you do know.

“Why are you up so early?” I said. I don’t remember why I decided to ask that. I guess that even though I didn’t feel like talking, I hated the silence between us more.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I just woke up. Didn’t feel like lying around.”

I nodded then, I think. You stood up and took my empty bowl. I watched you set them both in the sink. You leaned over and looked out the window.

“So who hit you?”

I wondered what was so interesting out that window until you said that. You had been contemplating whether or not you should ask me that question again. You weren’t looking at anything, you were thinking…should I?

Shouldn’t I?

I should, you decided. But you didn’t turn around when you spoke. You hands stayed stiff on the porcelain sink, you eyes fixated on something outdoors, and your voice was quiet. Maybe it was quiet because you were talking to the glass, but maybe it was quiet because you were scared. Scared of saying something wrong.

Scared of hurting me.

Scared of hearing my answer.

You finally turned around, dissatisfied with my answer, or lack there of. You looked at me. When your eyes hit mine, I looked away.

“You don’t have to tell me.” You reluctantly said. I knew that you wanted to know more than anything and my silence was like a parasite, eating away at your patience and your curiosity until there would be nothing left, and you’d eventually ask again. And when you would ask, I wasn’t sure what I would say.

If I would say anything at all. Saying nothing was so much easier than the truth. It almost made me forget what had happened.

But that’s impossible. I guess if someone’s grown up with loving, supporting parents, they might be able to understand. Growing up, I looked up to my parents as my support and, oddly enough, my strength. As a kid, though, I didn’t question the rules. I didn’t question my faith – constantly praying and going to church. I didn’t really care that I couldn’t watch bad movies or stay up past ten o’clock. I don’t know what made me stray away, but I finally realized that I had a mind of my own, and decided to use it.

My parents were always there. I lived with them. They provided me with a home and food. They supported me when it was absolutely necessary. I knew, as I got older, I could never talk to them about anything important, but nevertheless, everything was consistent. Mom and dad were always there. Food was always on the table…

I had my necessities.

Never in my life did I expect them to hurt me. But then again, I never thought I’d fall for another guy. I started trying to convince myself that I somehow deserved it all.

“It was my fault.” I said. We were still in the kitchen. I don’t think much time had passed. I remember thinking a whole lot, but you were still standing by the sink when I spoke up. You turned around and looked at me.

“What was?”

“This.” I spat, becoming upset as I motioned a swift hand to my swollen lip. “I deserve it.”

“No one deserves that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.” You looked at me with hard eyes. You sat at the table across from me.

“You don’t understand.” I told you.

“You’re damn right I don’t.” You had said. I think I may have smiled, but I shouldn’t have. That wasn’t funny. I looked over to you. I stared long in your eyes. You stared just as long in to mine.

“I can’t go home.” I told you. You just nodded your head.

“You don’t have to.” You said to me. “Stay here.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“I just said you could.” We argued back and forth. It wasn’t really arguing, though. You were just trying to convince me that yes, I could stay with you. I argued about what my parents would do, what your mother would say, wondering why she would ever want to have to ultimately provide for me and then maybe get in trouble for it. What about the law? Wasn’t I going to be some runaway? Someone would find me and make me go home and then things would be worse off than they already were. You told me not to dwell on the negative. I told you all of my things were at home. You said we’d get them back.

Thursday evenings my family went to church. From five to seven. I knew they would go. They never missed it. You said we would go get my things then. You’d talk to your mother, though you were sure she’d understand, and then you’d come with me to get my stuff.

I’m not sure what you said to your mother that evening. Your little sister and I were cleaning up the dishes from dinner, and you took your mom into another room. Your sister told me about her friend’s new dog, and how she really wanted a puppy. I told her about how I never had any pets. She said that sucked.

I slept on your couch again that night. You were on the arm chair again. We had been watching TV and fell asleep. I tried not to think about how I hadn’t been home for almost thirty-six hours. I tried not to think about what my parents were thinking, what they were planning on doing and when they would do it. I wondered what my sister was thinking about it all, and what my parents had told her. I wondered if they knew where you lived, and then I reminded myself that they knew absolutely nothing about you except for the fact that the entire town said you were gay and decided that it was wrong.

I ended up not sleeping too well that night. I stared up in the dark at the ceiling. I tried to find some morality in all of this. I tried to figure out why people thought and judged the way they did, but it just made me even more pissed off about the entire situation. My parents loved me. I mean, not just because they had to because they made me, but because I was a good kid. I did what they said. I questioned it, but not openly. I kept it all to myself. So one day, my father can just change every feeling he’s ever had about me and hate me? Just flat out despise me because I was some sort of embarrassment because I spent the night at your house? My sister went over to her friends’ houses and stayed the night with a bunch of other girls. Who’s to say they weren’t having a twelve-girl orgy or something?

I know that’s stupid to say, though. I eventually came to the conclusion that my family, and much of the fucking whole, is homophobic and afraid of anything that isn’t normal. And being normal is like walking on a tight rope. I’m certain everyone’s fallen off before.

But I judged people, too. I mean, those kids in the black clothes with fifty-seven piercings in their bodies scare me a little. But I don’t hate them. I would befriend someone dressed like that in a heartbeat if they were befriend-able. Ultimately, I mean, everyone’s worth my time. Honestly, though, I wouldn’t approach them. But I wouldn’t run away, either.

Now because of the way I was brought up, I do believe God created man. I just can’t shake that, oddly enough. But I was also brought up to believe that God loved everyone. It just baffles my mind that people who follow the Bible, word for fucking word and believe in everything that was written, how do they go about hating gay people? I know the whole thing about a man and woman, the whole idea that sex is for procreation, but come on, I heard my parents banging a few times, and I know that they didn’t plan on having any more kids. How do they go about fucking strictly for pleasure and then pretty much disown their own son when he stays over a friend’s house for the night?

Sure, said friend has already been labeled gay by just about the entire city, but that’s judging. That’s assuming that because the opportunity was there, I took it. I kissed you, I know that, but my parents didn’t. My father came in to me, enraged, and I guess decided right then and there that I was going to become some gay rights activist and God forbid, I stay in his house and be a part of his family.

To me, I guess, it made about as much sense as those anti-abortion activists who kill people who go to the clinic.

And it was my luck that the morning I woke up to was Thursday morning. We woke up to an empty house. It was nearly noon. Nearly Thursday afternoon. I was nervous. I think you could tell. I think a blind man could tell, honestly.

It made me feel sick, really. I mean, what was I doing here? I was going to take my things and move out. Move out into your house with you, your mother and your sister. I wasn’t telling my parents about this – I was going against them in every way, though initially, it was my father that kicked me out in the first place. I started having second thoughts as it grew closer to five o’clock.

But we went anyway. Fifteen after five we got into your mother’s car and drove to my house. I drummed my fingers on my thigh in nervousness. You noticed, I’m sure, but said nothing. I told you where to go. I noticed the car was gone from the driveway. Mine was still there.

You parked on the side of the road and made me get out. We walked cautiously around to the backdoor. Of course, it was locked. We climbed in through the kitchen window. I felt like a thief, breaking into my own home. I remember you said it felt exhilarating. I remember I felt like slapping you then.

“Nice house.” You commented. “Sure no one’s home?”

“I’m sure.” I said, walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I found it in the same condition it was when I had left. The house didn’t feel like home. I wasn’t comfortable there. I was on edge.

I found my wallet on my dresser, along with my cell phone. I thought about not taking it, considering the bill went to the house. But I figured my parents might keep paying for my line considering I was on the plan. Maybe they’d want to get in contact with me.

Maybe not.

I pulled a suitcase out from underneath my bed and piled my clothing inside. You helped. It felt weird. It wasn’t like I was packing for vacation or anything like that. I was packing to go somewhere, and I didn’t plan on coming back. I took the money I had saved from a shoe box in my closet. At the time, I didn’t know what I was saving for, but I figured it out when I put the box in the suit case.

I had tried not to think about what I was doing while I was doing it, but it ultimately caught up with me. I sat down on my bed during the end of my pillage and dropped my head in my hands. You sat down beside me.

You made me feel so good, you know? You somehow made everything easier. You made my load lighter, made my pain bearable – you brightened my day, as corny as that sounds. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about you that drove me crazy, though. It was everything. All of you. Your perfections, flaws, all of your loveable characteristics and unavoidable annoyances.

“You all right?” You asked me, your hand on my back. I wasn’t crying then. I just needed to sit for a minute. I just needed a second to take everything in slowly so it wouldn’t be so overwhelming.

At that time, we had been together for nearly three months. It’s not that long, but in retrospect, it was such a drawn out time in my life. Drawn out because I refuse to forget every minute I spent with you, and most of that three months you were right beside me.

You kissed my cheek lightly. I turned my head to look at you and you kissed me again. “Having second thoughts?”

“No.” I told you. Honestly, I wasn’t. I was just starting to think of all the consequences. I always have to think of every single little thing that could screw me over in the long run.

You kissed me again, and brought you hand up to my chin. I felt your finger run along my jaw to the back of my neck. I remember I shivered from your touch. Shivered in a good way, of course. And you barely had to push me to get me to lay flat on my bed. Your kisses were stronger then, I remember, but still gentle. And you brought your leg over to straddle me. You moved from my lips to my earlobe, and then down my neck, leaving a trail of saliva from featherlike pecks. My hands were on your hips, but I was undoubtedly in your control.

But you stopped. You sat up and rested your weight on my thighs. You had a weird smile on your face. “Wouldn’t it be funny if your parents walked in on us?”

“Oh yeah, so funny.” I said sarcastically as I propped myself up on my elbows. You got off of me then, though, and walked towards the door.

I hated how you teased me. You never went any further than that. You were usually the one to instigate, and then you were the one to break away. I watched you grab the handle of my suitcase. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” I replied, standing up. You walked down the stairs first and waited for me in the kitchen. We decided to use the door that time.

“You taking your car?” You asked me before I shut the door.

“It’s not mine.” I said. “It’s not in my name, I mean.”

You nodded your head, but I thought twice then, and went to grab the keys. I knew where the title to the car was. I grabbed that, too.

“I think I’ll sell it.” I said as I opened the driver’s side door. You were throwing my suitcase in the trunk. “And then I’ll get something else.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You told me, shutting the trunk. “See you at home.”

I smiled, watching you walk across the street. I stood there, the warm sunlight beating on my back. I turned and looked at the house.

See you at home, you said. I got into my car and followed you. I followed you home.