Submission: "Biography" - Justin

It was a simple day for me. I went through my day like it was butter. I was the knife, gliding through my classes with ease.


His day was not nearly easy enough.

He told me at great lengths about what had happened the day before. That Sunday while they were driving home from that trashy pancake place that pretends to be high class. Every few words he paused, as if to think, only to vomit out another two sentences immediately. His story came through as if they loved him. He almost felt at ease, I could see it in his face. But we both knew it wouldn't be that easy.

He told me the feeling of nausea that arose from the deepest pits of his stomach when he thought about the coming days, the coming weeks, the coming months and the coming year. Coming was all he did it seemed. He's paving a future but he can't see it. It's hard to see the walls have crumbled after you're convinced they're there forever. 

He spoke of the problems he in his classes, the inattentiveness and the "spacing out" that plagued his productivity. The pain he felt when the word God was brought up, and how it all made him felt. Like the fires of hell seared his feet as a reminder of his crimes. The pounding of his heart. The sweat of his brow. All during an American Literature class. I knew he wasn't scared for school. He had a reputation already. He was safe here, and it was peaceful. There was an occasional slur, but he considered himself lucky.

But that was then. We both knew he would have problems. Everyone did. We all congratulated him, but that only furthered his unease. The next few weeks were hard. Hard on me to see him, hard on him to BE him. They asked questions that really upset him. They said some things about God and how he'd smite down the unholy ones. They didn't take it well at all. I thought he would be fine, but here he is now, in my room. On my bed.

"I just lurched when she attacked me. My entire body ached as she said things a mother should never say. I was overtaken by rage. Rage that's been building for four years. Maybe even more. My entire body radiated heat and my skin was like a tomato's." He said, looking down. His eyes were bloodshot. "I felt like it wasn't her place. I deal with a lot of hate. A lot of ill feelings, just because I'm too short or too thin. I don't need my core attacked. My looks are transient. I would rather die the painful AIDS ridden death she threatened then to give up me as a person."

"Do you want to go back home? You can stay here if you need," I reminded.

"I can't stay here. There is no hope for me if I do. That means they won. I already missed a big performance because of their petty attacks. Their rage that could fuel entire cities. Their limitless hatred over one single facet of my life that they don't even need to know. I shared it with them as a choice. I could have gotten a beard and gone to my family events for the rest of my life, but I chose to be honest. They insulted who I was over missing clothing. It was a stressful time for me, right before a performance, and they provoked me into yelling and screaming right back."

"But what do you have to pro-"

"I have everything to prove to them. Staying here means that I've become less of a person. They'll take it as an attack on the family. I'm stronger and better than them. I'm not a racist prick, I'm not a bigot, and I'm not ignorant." He spat.

As he left my house he at me for a fleeting moment. It was dark and I knew he was leaving just to satisfy the questions his parents had. He opened his mouth only once more.

"Do not weep for me, weep for those who are set in their ways. They are unmoving and jaded to the world and its people."


- Follow Justin on Twitter at @Schmippo