I watched him as he pulled his pants down. I looked away quickly and blushed. Gym class always did make me nervous, especially dressing down next to your best friend that you have a crush on.

I wasn’t always gay. It started first when I was only seven. My parents were killed in a car accident. The police arrived at my house with the bad news, sending the babysitter away. I remember two of them standing around me, one fat and the other skilly. They were silent for a long time, probably wondering how to tell a eight year old that his parents were gone. Gone forever and never coming back, even to say good bye. I was sent off to an orphanage after that, where I did nothing but cry and keep secluded to the room I was given. After a while of that, I began to skip meals. Pretending to eat and then running to the bathroom to throw it up. I wasn’t anorexic or anything. I just couldn’t hold it down anymore. My eyes flooded with tears every time I found myself in the bathroom, puking out everything in my stomach. I wanted to eat, really I did, but my stomach always found a way to convince me otherwise.

I remember one time when sitting at the dinner table with all the other children, I couldn’t hold my food in any longer. I ran from the table to the bathroom, but not before my foster father caught me. I fought him, trying anything to get to the bathroom before it came up. Eventually I gave up my struggling and let it go out, all over the carpet. I felt his hand on my back, rubbing it soothingly. They had always been kind to me, but I never wanted to talk to anyone about my feelings. No one. I regret now not talking to someone sooner.

My foster dad rushed me to the hospital, thinking I had become deftly sick, but I wasn’t sick. Not physically anyway. I was however mentally sick. My mind racked me. The thought that my parents were never coming back was always on my mind.. I had no fever and my inside’s were functioning normally, according to the doctor. My broken heart was filled with sorrow however and my thoughts were filled with death.

In the middle of this horrible life of mine., I met someone. I sat at the bottom of the stairs as Pat, (my foster father) opened the door. Standing in the door way was the skinny police officer. The same one that had brought me here. He moved aside to reveal a boy. He looked a year older than me, but I was young and I didn’t know much about how to tell peoples age. I later found out I was right. He was nine. He had short brow hair, much to the same color as my own and beautiful blue eyes.

He saw me sitting on the stairs behind Pat and I quickly turned away. Pat looked back at me, surprised that I was out of my room for once. I had actually come down here to get some food so I wouldn’t look suspicious. I peeked back around the poll I was clinging onto and I saw the boy smile at me. Pat smiled too. Pat and the officer continued to talk. The boy remained by the officers side. Listening closely I caught a few things about an abusive mother and an alcoholic father. I didn’t know what that meant, but I figured something had happened to his parents. I didn’t pity him though.

They finished talking and Pat invited the boy in with a pleasant smile. His name was Christopher Tripper. It was a strange name. My name was Alex, just simple Alex or Alexander as my foster parents called me. I didn’t care much for my last name, so I never really told anybody what it was.
Pat left, leaving the boy called Chris where he was and me sitting on the staircase with a shy look in my eyes. Christopher continued to stare at me. That silly smile never left his face. I wanted to run back to my room, but something compelled me to stay and return his crazy stare. It began to drive me nuts after a minute and I finally spoke up, something I hadn’t done in at least year.

“What are you looking at?” I said with a snotty tone. That smile of his suddenly went away. He looked hurt from my words, not that I cared. He looked away from me and starred at the floor. I got up off the stairs and went back to my room, ignoring him completely. I thought I’d been a little harsh, but I figured I’d apologize later. Maybe he had just wanted a friend. I was glad to have one to so I was all for it.

My miserable life went on. My stomach continued to refuse my food, no matter how hard I tried to keep it down. It was a custom now. Even when I would accidentally swallow some toothpaste when brushing my teeth, it would come back up. I began to dry retch when I had nothing in my stomach. I would have a serious of these fits when sitting in my room. Nothing came up, but it hurt and my throat got irritably dry. I tried to drink water to make my throat more moist, but that only made it worse. I could feel blisters forming in my throat and they broke open a lot, leaving me to cough up blood.

I sat in my room one day, not able to stop the dry retching. I tried to reach for the glass of water on my bed, but I ended up knocking it over. It hit the floor and broke into a million pieces. I sat up and slumped to the floor. I tried to clean up the pieces quickly, but not quick enough. My door opened and Pat came in. He looked worried and I looked scared. I pleaded to him that I was sorry. He only came over to hold me. He didn’t care that I had made a horrible mess on the floor and broken a glass, he was more concerned about me. I clutched at his shoulders, and cried into his chest, only to realize I had made a mistake. Upon holding me, Pat had felt my torso. My disgusting rib cage was sticking out of it like there wasn’t even any skin. Before I knew what was happening he had lifted my shirt to see the disturbing sight of my sickly body. I couldn’t do anything, but hold onto him as he rushed me to the hospital again.

The doctor immediately knew what was wrong with me. I had been placed in a hospital bed while he talked to Pat outside my room. I pulled the pillow over my face and cried into it. My secret was out and I knew I would be forced to eat now, but I was wrong, what I got was much worse. My eyes snapped open when I heard the door to the room burst open. Pat ran in and picked me up. He held onto me tight, but the doctors raced in after him and ripped us apart. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I knew it was bad because Pat was crying. I had never seen him cry and now seeing it for the first time, it made me hurt inside. I clung onto him, wanting the tears in his eyes to stop, but they continued as the doctors held him back. They dragged him from my room and I ran after him, but the doctor grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me back.

I screamed and struggled. I was being thrown on the bed, hands keeping my kicking feet still. My arms were pinned to the bed above me. I was still screaming, but never once was I silenced. I saw a needle, blue fluid within it. It pierced though my neck. I screamed louder, but still I was not silenced as I expected to be. My struggling turns more violent. Scratching and kicking hard at these horrible men and women. I know I’ve made marks on most of them even though I have no strength. My head is spinning. My eyes watering. My heart aching. Suddenly feeling very dizzy. Eyes drooping. Everything is blurring. Vision failing; going black...until...nothing...