Chapter Text
April 26, 1992
Dear friend,
I’m writing to you because I know that Charlie has been writing to you for weeks and you haven’t figured out who he is yet. He told me I could write to you too, but he asked me to promise not to tell you his real name, or even mine. I promised him, so I hope you don’t mind, but I guess I’m going to be as secretive as he is.
I didn’t write to you before now because I didn’t need to. But right now things aren’t going so well and I feel like maybe writing it down could make things a bit better.
I haven’t seen Charlie since Good Friday when we all went to Craig’s apartment and Charlie kissed Sam instead of Mary Elizabeth.
Sam’s been upset because Craig is angry about Charlie. I don’t know. I think that if he feels threatened by a fifteen-year-old, maybe there’s something wrong there. Although I guess anyone can see that Charlie loves Sam. Still, a kid like him. I don’t get why Craig’s so bothered about it.
I feel bad that I haven’t called Charlie again, or taken him anywhere, because I know he must be hurting. But I don’t really have room in my head for even one more thing right now.
Things have been bad with Brad, and I guess that’s why I’m writing this, really.
It’s holidays, so there’s no Friday night parties. His dad is at home instead of working all the time like usual, and Brad is so paranoid about him finding out.
It hurts, honestly. I try to pretend that I don’t mind, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
Love always,
Patrick
May 1, 1992
Dear friend,
I don’t know what to do. I thought things were going to get better, but right now everything is worse than I could have imagined.
Brad’s parents went away for a couple of days, so Brad said I could come over and stay the night at his place, just as long as I was out before they got back. It felt better to be with him at his house, to sleep in his bed afterwards instead of driving away from the freaking golf course. We were free, and we didn’t have to rush, didn’t have to feel guilty about being together. It was a glimpse of what it could have been like for us if people were different.
It was morning, and we were just lying together in Brad’s bed, half our clothes on and half on the floor. It felt warm and peaceful, and I could feel his breathing, slow and calm. Brad was looking at me, right at me without shying away, for the first time in a long while. And he was about to say something, I’m sure he was, but the door opened and there was Brad’s father.
We hadn’t heard him come in, because I guess a man doesn’t feel the need to knock coming into his own home. He was home early, and it was too late to hide anything, but Brad was scrambling to put his clothes on. I got dressed too, scared by the look Brad’s father had on his face. And then he started yelling, so loud that I couldn’t understand the words, didn’t want to. Brad was shaking and still trying to put his shirt on, and I reached out to help him. That’s when Brad’s father took off his belt and started beating him.
I was so shocked that I just froze. I was expecting him to stop, to realise what he was doing. But he didn’t stop. He kept on going, red-faced, whacking his belt-buckle against Brad’s bare back, over and over.
I wanted to hurt him then, more than I’ve ever wanted to hurt someone before. I wanted to scream at him until he stopped, scream at him until I had no voice left. I wanted to yell at him for hurting Brad, yell at Brad for letting him.
But Brad shouted at me to get out, and I did, because there was nothing else to do. I was crying by then, and I probably looked more scared than angry.
But God, I was angry.
I don’t know what to do. Brad still hasn’t come to school, and I’m so afraid that they’ve sent him away. I’ve had the awful thought that maybe Brad’s father just kept going and hurt him really badly. I’m trying not to think about that, because it makes me feel like panicking.
I tried calling once, but Brad’s father answered, so I just hung up.
I really don’t know what to do.
Love always,
Patrick
May 2, 1992
Dear friend,
I feel like I’m falling apart.
I’ve heard nothing this whole weekend. I tried calling again even though I knew it would be useless. There was silence on the other end, and I think Brad’s father knew it was me. I put the phone down. I thought about driving to his house, but I knew that would be a bad idea.
Sam saw me pacing up and down, and she sat me down on the couch.
“What if he’s not okay?” I asked her. “What if he’s in the hospital right now?”
She shook her head. “He’s not.”
“If they’ve sent him away –”
“Patrick. Patrick, listen to me.” She waited until I met her eyes. “Do you know what Brad’s parents care about? It’s not their son, that’s for sure. They care about what other people think. They care about their rich fucking neighbours, with their plastic smiles and their plastic hearts.”
I just looked at her until she said, “They wouldn’t send him away, because people would ask them why. Nice boy like Brad, all set to get a football scholarship? Why would you send him to military school?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“They’re going to keep him here, but you can bet they’ll be watching him the whole time.”
Her eyes got sad. “I’m sorry, Patrick, but I think the worst thing isn’t going to be them hurting Brad, it’s going to be Brad hurting you.”
She walked away then, and I wanted to call after her, but I didn’t know what to say.
I guess I know now that she was right. I called Brad’s house again tonight, and I was so relieved when I heard his voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Brad! Are you okay?”
He didn’t say anything, but I could hear his breathing. Then, from another room, “Bradley? Who’s on the phone?”
There was a rustle as Brad turned around, and then he called, “It’s no one. Nobody important.”
There was a click, and the line cut out.
Love always,
Patrick
May 7, 1992
Dear friend,
I think I’ll have to keep writing these letters, because things keep happening to me. I feel like I’m being crushed. Crushed inwards. This is my life.
Is this really the best I can hope for?
On Monday, Brad came back to school. I was looking at him to see if he was hurt, and he was. Not physically; you couldn’t see the welts beneath his shirt, but there was something in his eyes. He looked down at the floor, and when he saw me walking down the corridor, he stared anywhere else but at me. His friends were around, so I just kept walking.
At lunchtime I went up to him at his locker. I didn’t care that there were people in the corridor, I didn’t care that Brad probably didn’t want to talk to me.
I spoke quietly to him with my head bent. “Brad, talk to me. Please.”
He just kept shoving books into his locker, not even turning his head to look at me.
“I’m sorry, Brad. I’m sorry that happened to you. But I don’t care what your dad thinks. He doesn’t control you. Brad?”
He stopped with the books, but he didn’t say anything. I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw while he stared straight ahead.
I don’t know what I expected. Not a warm welcome, that’s for sure. But not silence, either. I closed my eyes for a second. Because nothing hurts like nothing at all.
“Brad...” Then I said something I’d never said before, because I thought it might scare him. “I love you.”
He closed his locker and walked away.
I went outside and took out a cigarette, trying to stop myself from shaking. On the second try I lit it, sucked hard. I breathed out slowly, but I wasn’t relaxing.
Brad’s voice: “Nobody important.” Brad’s back, walking away down the corridor.
I was gasping, gasping, the cigarette forgotten in my hand. I started crying hard, struggling to breathe.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
I took a long drag on the cigarette, pulling the smoke into my lungs. The tears started to drip onto my collar, and I walked away, not even looking where I was going, because I couldn’t go back in there like that. I couldn’t let Brad see me, because I didn’t know if it would hurt him to see me like that, or if he’d ignore it. And I didn’t know which would be worse.
For the next few days I walked around, I went through the motions, but I felt like I was barely there. I didn’t tell Sam what I said to Brad, and I tried not to let her see how much I was hurting. But I think she knew anyway.
Then, yesterday, I saw him sitting in the cafeteria with his buddies, and I just couldn’t walk past.
“Brad. Brad, talk to me.”
His friends were kind of laughing, and he looked away like I wasn’t even there.
“Brad!” I was starting to get angry. “Don’t ignore me, Brad.”
He glanced at me, then away again, fixing his eyes on another table. I stepped closer to his seat. “I’m not nothing!”
I walked away, wanting to get out of there, away from Brad’s friends who were staring at me like I was crazy.
“Faggot!”
It can’t have been that loud, but it echoed in my head, over and over. I froze where I stood, then turned and stormed over to the table. Brad’s idiot football buddies were laughing, but Brad wasn’t smiling.
“What did you call me?” I demanded.
Brad hesitated, but his friends were laughing and pushing on his shoulders. He looked up at me, straight into my eyes, and said quietly, “I called you a faggot.”
The laughing cut off when I threw a punch at Brad. It was as hard as I could manage, and knocked him backwards, off his chair. I was vaguely aware of the swell of noise around me as Brad picked himself up and threw himself at me. His fist pounded into my jaw, my guts. But I was angrier, so I hit back faster, harder. He shoved me in the chest, my fist grazed his ear, I felt his elbow connect with my nose. I could hear blood pounding in my ears, and when his foot slipped I followed him down, rolling and hitting. There were tears on my cheeks as I struck into him again and again, as he slammed his forehead into my nose and I felt it crunch.
I felt a boot imbed painfully in my side, one of Brad’s friends. Another one pushed me off of Brad, pulled him to his feet. I looked up and there were five of them standing over me, Brad looking half-scared, half-angry. I struggled up to my feet and launched myself at the nearest boy. He was a lot bigger than me but I didn’t care; I was past caring by then. They were everywhere at once, and I felt pain explode in multiple places at once. I sank down to my knees, then gave up and rolled into a ball on the floor, sobbing and trying not to choke. They buried their kicks in weak places; one got my head, my stomach, my nuts.
It stopped, but I kept my eyes closed, waiting. Was there a teacher in here?
I opened my eyes, and Charlie was standing with his back to me, punching, swiping at one of their faces. Jake, I think. Another one was on the floor clutching his knee. They stopped and just stared at Charlie, who was still holding his hands in tight fists.
After a moment Charlie seemed to relax a bit, and he turned around, reaching a hand down to me. I took it and stood up even though it hurt. I leaned on Charlie, and he glared at Brad.
“If you ever do this again, I’ll tell everyone. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll blind you.”
He pointed at Brad’s friend who was holding his face. I could see Brad’s expression, and I knew he believed what Charlie said.
People started backing away then, moving aside to let the security guards of our school take us all out of there.
They took us to the nurse and she went straight to me even though that guy could barely walk on his knee. I guess I looked pretty messed up, blood and snot and tears everywhere. She did what she could to clean me up, and she said that my nose wasn’t broken.
Then she went over to check that Jake’s eyes were okay, and I just looked at Charlie. He looked back at me, and I said, “Thanks, Charlie.”
He nodded, and even then I couldn’t stop crying. Charlie looked like he might be going to hug me, but I was glad when he didn’t because I’m sure it would have hurt quite a lot.
They took us to Mr Small’s office, where they told me that I’m suspended for a week for starting the fight. I didn’t argue, because I don’t think I would have wanted to be at school anyway. I asked if I could leave right away, and Mr Small looked at my face for a moment and then nodded.
I got out of there as fast as I could, without looking at any of them, even Charlie.
I guess Sam had already heard what happened, because she was waiting for me outside. She hugged me, which hurt, but not as much as I thought it would, because she was careful. She told me she loved me, and I cried a bit more.
Then she led me to the Girls’ toilets, “Because who cares, really?” Sam said. “Everyone’s in lessons anyway.”
I looked into the mirror and saw that my face didn’t look too bad, apart from a bit of dried blood here and there. Sam helped me clean myself up, and she smiled at the result.
“Handsome as ever,” she told me, and I laughed a little bit.
She drove me home in her pickup truck, and she turned the radio on so that we wouldn’t have to fill up the silence by talking. I sat quiet and tried to focus on all the places on my body that hurt so that I didn’t have to think about the bigger hurt of Brad walking away.
Love always,
Patrick