Patrick
I hate puke.
Whenever anyone would puke, I would cover my ears because the sound bothered me the most. I didn't want to be around when somebody was about to blow chunks.
In elementary school, I remember this boy that nobody liked--Patrick. Nobody liked him because he was rotten. He wasn't a bully; his attacks were much more feminine. That is, cruel. He slung insults that hit home. He was a stone-throwing resident of a glass house, but as much as he hurt me, I never once considered lobbing any stones back at him.
One day in class, I noticed Patrick looked a little sick. I was worried he might throw up (honestly, I don't like the word "puke"). "Patrick?" I asked. "Are you alright?"
Silently, he shook his head "no."
"Are you going to throw up?" I was afraid of the answer.
Silently, he nodded "yes."
The memory begins to deteriorate here. I remember alerting the teacher, suddenly, to Patrick's condition. But I don't remember which teacher it was. I don't remember what I said exactly. I don't remember if I sprang up from my seat (likely) or just raised my hand and spoke out of turn (also likely). Nor do I remember if Patrick threw up in the trash can (likely) or if he ran into the hall to the boys' bathroom (no recollection of that).
What I find myself wondering at this moment is, for a fleeting second, did Patrick think I cared about him? I asked him if he was alright. I noticed him. I seemed concerned. Nevermind that it was out of my own dread of being around someone about to hurl; maybe it seemed to him that someone, for once, cared. And if more people cared about Patrick, he probably wouldn't have been such a rotten boy.
Whenever anyone would puke, I would cover my ears because the sound bothered me the most. I didn't want to be around when somebody was about to blow chunks.
In elementary school, I remember this boy that nobody liked--Patrick. Nobody liked him because he was rotten. He wasn't a bully; his attacks were much more feminine. That is, cruel. He slung insults that hit home. He was a stone-throwing resident of a glass house, but as much as he hurt me, I never once considered lobbing any stones back at him.
One day in class, I noticed Patrick looked a little sick. I was worried he might throw up (honestly, I don't like the word "puke"). "Patrick?" I asked. "Are you alright?"
Silently, he shook his head "no."
"Are you going to throw up?" I was afraid of the answer.
Silently, he nodded "yes."
The memory begins to deteriorate here. I remember alerting the teacher, suddenly, to Patrick's condition. But I don't remember which teacher it was. I don't remember what I said exactly. I don't remember if I sprang up from my seat (likely) or just raised my hand and spoke out of turn (also likely). Nor do I remember if Patrick threw up in the trash can (likely) or if he ran into the hall to the boys' bathroom (no recollection of that).
What I find myself wondering at this moment is, for a fleeting second, did Patrick think I cared about him? I asked him if he was alright. I noticed him. I seemed concerned. Nevermind that it was out of my own dread of being around someone about to hurl; maybe it seemed to him that someone, for once, cared. And if more people cared about Patrick, he probably wouldn't have been such a rotten boy.