index | archives | notes Friday, Dec. 09, 2005 4:11 p.m. << [ This is What You Died For ] >> Friday, the last period of the day. The teacher's spent all period talking about child molestation and I can't help but think that maybe he's done it on purpose, given the circumstances. He's the one I told. Me, I've got my head resting on my arms in a pantomime of sleep. I'm not tired, I just don't want to be bothered. "Hey, Amanda?" I sit up. "Yeh?" He walks over. The best-friend-turned-disgusted-spectator leans over, mouth next to my ear, and I turn to watch him. His eyes are red and he's sniffling. "Is it true? Did she say those things?" Me, I've got two choices, because there are always two choices, but I'm not in the habit of lying these days. "Yeah." "Alright. Thanks." He sniffles more, rubs his eyes. Tears? Before I can really tell, he's gone, bolting out the door, and before I can sit down and judge the situation, I'm following him down the hallway, running after him. I'm next to him, and he's breaking down sobbing into my shoulder, and he's saying, "I'm so sorry I said those things to you, Amanda, I just didn't want to believe it." We sit in front of the school, pouring out the mass of crap that the last three weeks has been. "Did you miss me?" "Of course I missed you, asshole. Happy?" "I missed you too, retard." << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org