hidden by Tomas Mournian Read Free Book Online Page B

Diaries and journals being just so last (20th) century. Cool and kinda retro! I assumed they thought, no one as smart as our son would be dumb enough to write down his thoughts. Deep breath.
    four FUCKING words
    There. My hand feels looser now. I could never have written those words in the hospital. I could never have spoken those words. Deceitful notebook. I could rip this one to shreds and flush it, but I don’t because then I’d really be alone. I’ll vomit my thoughts and
use
this dumb-ass notebook—
then
I’ll flush it. Attn. notebook: You’re safe. But when I’m done with you, you’re D-E-A-D. Dumb-Ass Word Turd, I’ll LMAO and flush—
    forget it
    i have to forget the hospital for right now because i do not know—the silver door. i can see me. well, not really me. more, a dark shape in the surface. the blot is more like a ghost. i am the ghost looking at its reflection. startled to see how he looks. real but not.
    I reread the words. They make perfect sense.
    i feel—
    The pen stops. Feelings? Mine are global and quickly expanding. Chaos, soon to equal those of creation. Deep breath. My alma mater, Serenity Ridge,
remember.
There, feelings were like yesterday’s trash, a chore. Your job was to stuff them in a plastic bag, tie the top and take them out to the curb. Problem was, the psychic trash collector never showed. Budget cuts.
    I can’t write about my feelings, because there’s
one
feeling that makes sense. At Serenity Ridge, I was “taught.” Who am I kidding? I wasn’t taught; I was brainwashed. For months, someone told me what to feel. But here, alone in the women’s room, with a kazillion chaotic feelings (and germs), the real problem is feeling what
I
feel. Or … Everything. For a moment, I consider hopping off the seat, diving into the toilet and flushing myself.
    Get A Grip
    what do you feel?
    IDK. IDK. IDK. I. Don’t. Know. Answer Fail. I’m the one asking the question.
    FEAR.
i am afraid. what will happen to me? this is so damn scary. i am hungry. “wait.” but for who? “someone”
    Now I remember why I chose to use journals in the first place. Class assignment, one. But more, I needed to tell
me.
MyStory. I was both audience and actor. If I could make sense of my life, then … If I could—can—tell myself a story, I could—will—survive.
    BE GONE FEAR
    LOVE AND HAPPINESS
    i will write about serenity ridge. but I will write about middle school. i remember, I walked down the hallway. there were so many people. a blur. faces. all i had to do was get through the day and i would be okay. i am fourteen. i am in ninth grade at _______
    I pause. Write.
    i might be queer
    Tap tap, knock knock.
Oh, shit! I’ve been found! “Hey, you in there?” A girl’s voice. “Ben?” Ben? Who’s Ben? Oh, yeah. Takes me a second, then I remember.
    I. Am. Ben. Ben is me. The new me. The Ben Me. The Ben-E-me of Ahmed. Parry, thrust, Ben stands over Ahmed. Triumph! Long live Ben! Etc. I lift my shirt and slide the notebook underneath.
    “Yeah? Who’s that?”
    “C’mon, move it,” she says, “open up. We don’t have much time.”
    I lift the latch and open the door. Short and fat, Miss “C’mon Move It” wears Chunky, Nerd Girl glasses and rumpled clothes. She smiles. “Ben?”
    “Ah—” I catch myself, reminding myself to say my new name. “
Yes.
I am Ben.” I sound so FOB (fresh off the boat) but then, I guess I am. Except in my case, it’s fresh off the bus.
    “Hi, I’m Marci.”
    She turns and I follow her out the exit, down another hallway and into a stairwell.
    WAH! WAH! WAH!
    An alarm goes off. Except, I know it’s not a fire but me they’re looking for. I am the emergency. I was so close. I want to go back, have a moment with john. I really needed a private moment, to take a dump.
    “
C’mon,
” she says, calm, like she rescues runaways on a daily basis. Like a movie, everything shifts to—
    Slo-mo—
    Death—
    He’s farther back, as I—
    Pull out in front. I