The dark years

Bathroom - Yesterday

He ran in, not wasting any time. Not a minute. He finds his usual cubicle, second from the end, and locks the door. His finger nail chips but he dismisses the sharp pain and grabs his notebook from under his school jumper. He sits on the lid of the toilet, feet buried in toilet paper. He opens to the last page and begins to write what he just heard. Remembering every word. He scribbles furiously, contemplating everything. Time is running out and he has to get back to class. But he can't leave. Not yet. He's too engrossed in the words on the page. Too deep in thought, pondering criticisms and observations.

Street – Later on Yesterday

Silver. Shining. Mesmerising. Reflecting all his feelings. The pain. The Yearning. The Will. He's waiting for the bus when a child jumps from his bicycle and runs into a store. It's left on the sidewalk. Mesmerising. The wheel is spinning in fury and speed. It doesn't stop. It's spinning. And he sees his face in the reflection. His empty eyes and drooping mouth. His skin stretched thinly over visible bones, and the acne painted red on top. He opens his mouth and the shine of his braces clashed with the bicycle. His life is spinning, too. Only the bicycle wheel has finally stopped. He wonders if he would ever stop. Or if he was at such momentum that he would always be spinning. Spinning around and around. Dizzy and also, shiny. Mesmerising.

Home – Midnight

The book is next to his bed. Philosophy. It messes with his head real bad. Confuses him. Occupies him. And again he struggles to sleep. The same argument inside his head. There's yelling, shouting. Everyone's against him, against themselves. Insomnia, again.

Then there's a knock at the door. It opens, creaking, scaring him even more. He realises his face is wet. His eyes are stinging and his cheeks are damp. He's been crying again. His mother walks in and sits on the end of the bed. Telling herself there's no room to get closer, but really, she's scared too. She tries to comfort him. She tells him possible solutions. And finally, she can't handle to curiosity. The not knowing.

"Jason", she says "Are you gay?"

And he doesn't hesitate to answer. The lying only makes it hurt more. He tells her, "Yes"

Bedroom – Half past midnight.

Her husband sleeps next to her. He snores loudly but pleasantly. She doesn't want to wake him, he has to work early. But she is crying. She doesn't want it to be true. She lists all the things he'll never have. She'll never have. She picks up the phone and wakes her sister. She'll listen. She'll comfort her. She'll understand. And she does. She listens. She comforts and she understands.

Meditation – Today

His hand is wrapped around the book so tightly. He now calls himself the crazy writer. And he means it…literally, crazy.
The meditation house is painted dark red. He walks through the centre, noticing everything. Deciding what to write about. What to exclude and what to leave hovering in the air. He walks past an unfilled room and smiles. He closes his empty eyes and imagines his furniture inside the empty room.

Bathroom – Still today

He can't understand why he's back. He doesn't find a point, and he spends most of his time on the toilet seat. Every class, back in the bathroom jotting his criticisms. His observations. Baring the stench of urine. He discovers more. He learns more. He's sick of the unflattering uniform, buttoned to his neck and tied with a navy tie. It's demeaning.

Home – Tonight

He crawls into their bed whilst they read. They think he wants to be ignored, so that's what they do. But they can't ignore his tears. Not when he's crying like he is. They put their books down and turn to him. He tells them he's moving into the meditation centre. They have agreed to give him the spare room. The mother protests, but the father understands. He puts his hand on his sons shoulder and agrees to pay. But she still protests. "What about school?" And he tells her he's had enough. But she knows his potential. She knows he's smart. But his decision is final. Her protests are useless.

Library – Tomorrow

The marijuana is on the floor, still lit. It rests in an isle on an open book. It doesn't do him any good. He knows that. And then he's running down the street, the bag of philosophy books in his arms. And he sprints, getting further away from his fears. His legs are aching and his back is twisting. A stitch is straining his stomach, but he continues until he's down his street and safe again. But someone is there, glancing at him. He's never safe. He never will be safe.

House party - Tomorrow evening

She drags him there. She's possibly the only one who understands. No, not understands. Bares him. Yes. She bares him and his chaotic ways. She said it would be fun. And he stands there with a beer in his hand, not drinking. He doesn't like the taste. He keeps his eyes low and finds another full cup occupying a bored hand. He slowly lifts his gaze and meets his eyes. Dark hair, Dark eyes. There is a tattoo on his upper arm. Enticing. The man walks over and introduces himself. He seems casual, unlike the son. He's nervous. His friend has gone and he's alone. The man is nice, a lot older though. He takes the sons beer and puts it on the counter. "Thanx", Jason mutters.

Bedroom – Next day

He sits on his bed, listening to the man on the phone. He has ambitions. And Jason realises that he, too, has ambitions. He has a passion. He subconsciously kicks the philosophy book under his bed. And he forgets about it. He forgets the madness. He knows it's too much for an impressionable young mind. And besides, genius is too close to madness for his liking. And he listens to the man. Really listens. Understanding. And the man understands.

Their house – Later that year.

He makes his bed in the morning and walks to the mans room. He is flicking though a magazine. Jason crawls into his bed and nibbles his neck. Satisfied. Happy. His family is coming over for lunch today. They will all cook together. And as he cooks, his notebook will sit in a dusty box buried deep in his cupboards. He hasn't looked back. He doesn't want to. And slowly he forgets. The Dark Years, as the family calls them, have shifted. His wheel has stopped spinning and he's steadied himself. He no longer writes or reads, but he thinks. Distant thoughts, happy thoughts. Simple and sane. Away from the genius, the madness.