It Gets Better
www.itgetsbetter.org/
I had to write this. It was getting to the point where I was crying whenever I thought of this boy - and all of the LGBT community who are in his situation. I was teased for my weight, for my acne, for tons of things that held little merit. But never for my sexuality. I am a pansexual woman, but no one ever knew that about me. It breaks my heart that all of these kids are made to believe they have no hope, and there's no joy in life for them.
I don't know what happens to Brian. I hope that someone comes to him and talks to him about how it does get better.
They held him down, and their voices carried on the night air. “Faggot,” they called him, before their fists were knocked against his face and chest and stomach. They spat on him, but he hardly felt it. He was blacking out, looking up into the sky as blood ran down his face and into his glazed eyes. Everything went numb. He felt one of his attackers send their foot into his ribs, spiking the agony briefly. “Fucking queer,” the assailant hissed, and he thought that was worse than their fists and their cheap sneakers smashing into his ribs.
It was worse. And he did not know why. Only that the words caused anguish in a place he had never known before. He was crying, and they laughed at him, mean and pitiless laughter. Distantly, the realization that his life would know no joy dawned on him. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it on his face and running into his eye. No joy, his mind echoed, There couldn't be any for you.
“Stop crying, faggot,” one of the boys told him, and that was when he went down into the darkness, hoping that he would never leave it.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
Bruised and aching - though he reflected, the ache in his body could not come close to the ache inside of him - Brian Miller looked at the bottle of pills in his hand with apathy. He drew in a deep breath, and winced as his ribs flared. Three broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a busted nose and missing teeth. That had been the least that those boys had done to him.
His mother had cried and held him in the hospital, as delicately as she could. His father had stood in the corner and looked at him with a mixture of pity and anger. Brian had not seen love there, he had seen a dark pleading. Why don't you just change, those eyes had asked him, Why don't you just stop it?
But he couldn't stop it. He couldn’t change his sexuality, any more than his mother could change the blue of her eyes; anymore than his father could change being a southpaw.
More than the abuse, more than the taunting and mocking and sneering, more than the isolation of being so - what seemed to him - glaringly and disgustingly different; those eyes were what had forced him to this decision. He could find a way to live in a world where strangers hated him, or in a world where people hit him and spat on him for a reason they themselves did not understand.
But he could not live in a world where his own father found him with such eyes.
He popped the pills open, poured them out into his palm, and looked at them. His heart shuddered, his vision trebled. No joy, his mind repeated, and that voice inside of him sounded almost tired. No joy for someone like you.
Yet he had seen people, out in the city. Men eating their meals together in restaurants, their hands briefly touching on the table. Women shopping together in malls, arms looped around each other’s waists, lips pressing together softly and naturally.
But he had also heard the stories on the news. A transgendered person, beaten to death. A gay boy - like him? - beaten so badly he had been paralyzed from the neck down. A lesbian who had been forced to move when someone had sent her death threats. A million more that tore at his heart.
He wondered if their father's had watched them with cold eyes. He wondered though, if their mothers had kissed their brows and held them and rocked them in her arms.
Brian looked at the pills, cradled in his palm. He stood and walked to the bathroom mirror, studying his beaten face, watching his tears slowly trail down over stitches and bruises.
No joy lived in his eyes. No joy lived in his heart. But he wondered if hope could live there.
He closed his fingers around the pills. From down the hall, he could hear the ticking of the clock. The minutes dragged on, and Brian did not move.
I had to write this. It was getting to the point where I was crying whenever I thought of this boy - and all of the LGBT community who are in his situation. I was teased for my weight, for my acne, for tons of things that held little merit. But never for my sexuality. I am a pansexual woman, but no one ever knew that about me. It breaks my heart that all of these kids are made to believe they have no hope, and there's no joy in life for them.
I don't know what happens to Brian. I hope that someone comes to him and talks to him about how it does get better.
They held him down, and their voices carried on the night air. “Faggot,” they called him, before their fists were knocked against his face and chest and stomach. They spat on him, but he hardly felt it. He was blacking out, looking up into the sky as blood ran down his face and into his glazed eyes. Everything went numb. He felt one of his attackers send their foot into his ribs, spiking the agony briefly. “Fucking queer,” the assailant hissed, and he thought that was worse than their fists and their cheap sneakers smashing into his ribs.
It was worse. And he did not know why. Only that the words caused anguish in a place he had never known before. He was crying, and they laughed at him, mean and pitiless laughter. Distantly, the realization that his life would know no joy dawned on him. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it on his face and running into his eye. No joy, his mind echoed, There couldn't be any for you.
“Stop crying, faggot,” one of the boys told him, and that was when he went down into the darkness, hoping that he would never leave it.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
Bruised and aching - though he reflected, the ache in his body could not come close to the ache inside of him - Brian Miller looked at the bottle of pills in his hand with apathy. He drew in a deep breath, and winced as his ribs flared. Three broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a busted nose and missing teeth. That had been the least that those boys had done to him.
His mother had cried and held him in the hospital, as delicately as she could. His father had stood in the corner and looked at him with a mixture of pity and anger. Brian had not seen love there, he had seen a dark pleading. Why don't you just change, those eyes had asked him, Why don't you just stop it?
But he couldn't stop it. He couldn’t change his sexuality, any more than his mother could change the blue of her eyes; anymore than his father could change being a southpaw.
More than the abuse, more than the taunting and mocking and sneering, more than the isolation of being so - what seemed to him - glaringly and disgustingly different; those eyes were what had forced him to this decision. He could find a way to live in a world where strangers hated him, or in a world where people hit him and spat on him for a reason they themselves did not understand.
But he could not live in a world where his own father found him with such eyes.
He popped the pills open, poured them out into his palm, and looked at them. His heart shuddered, his vision trebled. No joy, his mind repeated, and that voice inside of him sounded almost tired. No joy for someone like you.
Yet he had seen people, out in the city. Men eating their meals together in restaurants, their hands briefly touching on the table. Women shopping together in malls, arms looped around each other’s waists, lips pressing together softly and naturally.
But he had also heard the stories on the news. A transgendered person, beaten to death. A gay boy - like him? - beaten so badly he had been paralyzed from the neck down. A lesbian who had been forced to move when someone had sent her death threats. A million more that tore at his heart.
He wondered if their father's had watched them with cold eyes. He wondered though, if their mothers had kissed their brows and held them and rocked them in her arms.
Brian looked at the pills, cradled in his palm. He stood and walked to the bathroom mirror, studying his beaten face, watching his tears slowly trail down over stitches and bruises.
No joy lived in his eyes. No joy lived in his heart. But he wondered if hope could live there.
He closed his fingers around the pills. From down the hall, he could hear the ticking of the clock. The minutes dragged on, and Brian did not move.