TRIGGER WARNING: strong language, depersonalization/derealization, mentions of death, blood, bullying, suicidal ideation

3. Bind.

What do you remember about the first time you spoke to him?

Mid-fall, 2012. Eliseo never ate his school lunch. Middle school was a damning time for him, when he actually showed up, that was. Why he showed up on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012 wasn’t meant for Mason’s sake, but rather because his grandmother had died earlier the night before. Eliseo had never met the woman, but he had met the drunken fist of his father too many times before on such occasions. Death is a fact. Graves are paperwork. People keep breathing like bills unpaid.

Eliseo is rounding the corner of the lunch area, where the trashcans sit. The bustling of chatter was never overwhelming, he could distinguish the conversations between others if he had wanted, but he’d rather hear a symphony of dissonance than to ever give two shits about what other 13 year olds had to say. Eliseo is rounding the corner of the lunch area to dump his full tray of lunch food, a common ritual of his. He never cared to eat much at all, he actually preferred the burning in his stomach to keep him present enough to get through days like these. Eliseo is rounding the corner of the lunch area and he sees… what he sees is… 

Is everything alright Eliseo?

Eliseo never has enjoyed interruptions. Mason never interrupted him, only on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012 did Mason ever interrupt him. When Eliseo turned that corner, he was met with red. His ritual was forever severed when a boy with wet cheeks slammed into him, knocking Eliseo into the wall behind him and the sobbing boy into the floor, with an unreasonably loud smack of his glasses being thrown behind him. His oddly vibrant hair curled around his ear, which had hit the concrete cafeteria floors with enough force to cause it to begin to drop crimson.

“Hey fag, you going to say something now? Why the fuck were you staring at us? Who the fuck is this your friend?” One of them shoved forward; spit caught Eliseo’s lip.

Eliseo is looking at Mason’s red hair. A rush is building inside of him. He looks at the two guys who are staring back at him. They have no defining features, as a matter of fact, they are a blur. They’re faceless and nameless.

“Looks like you hit him hard enough already. Not sure what you need me for..what, afraid he might still be prettier than you?”

The words left his mouth before he could choose them. They sounded like someone else’s recital. Eliseo didn’t know what he was saying. Was that actually what Eliseo said? Eliseo does not remember. He doesn’t remember the red between his balled right fist and the space between the boys. He doesn’t remember screaming, like he were deranged, and he doesn’t remember trying to gouge the kid’s eyes out. Memory does odd things, like erasing the parts that could make him feel guilty. What he does remember is being dragged into the main office the next morning.

Eliseo’s dad didn’t show up. The school called him, but Eliseo figures he hung up on them. Sitting politely in a chair in the corner, head hung slightly with eyes peering at Eliseo, ashamed. 

Eliseo catches Mason in the hallway as he’s walking towards the front exit to begin his 5 day suspension. He doesn’t know why the boy was still staring at him, but he was staring back, at the still tender bruise around Mason’s ear. Curiously, he notices some potentially older bruises around Mason’s wrists, as well. Why will this take so much courage?

Eliseo forced a crooked smile because he’d learned early that performance kept teeth from breaking. 

“You’re pretty weak huh? Bruise easy? Can’t relate.”

“...”

“Okay? You’re Mason right, they held you back last year. You’re older than even I am, and you let them do that to you?”

“...”

Eliseo is a bit frustrated. Mason is staring at him but not into his eyes, almost rather through him. Mason sees through me. Or maybe Eliseo is the one looking through him. Either way, this is fine.

Eliseo puts his hand on Mason’s shoulder. Mason instantly pulls away. This is okay. Comfort is often a small, clumsy thing. It doesn’t always fix anything. Sometimes it just proves you tried.

“Anyways dude, even if you were..” Eliseo thinks for a second.. “..gay, I would’ve still beat the shit out of that guy. I could’ve killed him if I cared enough to. Shit, if I see someone do that to you again, I might have to. Physical death doesn’t mean all that much to me at all, actually.”

Why do you say that death has little meaning?

Eliseo writes “I learned about death when I found my grandpa cleaning out a dog lot in the beating heat of the summer morning. The pup was surrounded by his brothers and sisters, still hopping and snapping at each other, stopping occasionally to sniff the dull, matted black puddle of fur and bone melting into the ground. His carcass was an inconvenience to their play time. 

I asked my grandpa why the black one wasn’t playing, and why he didn’t wake up when he was trampled by the others. He took notice, then swiftly grabbed the lifeless body, observed the prominent ribs and sunken eyes, then tossed it in the dumpster with the flies and plastic and the things that weren’t useful anymore. “Probably had worms. Too late now.” 

I was six years old and I didn’t shed a tear. There was no pit in my stomach, there was no jump in my chest. I didn’t hurt, I understood. I understood that the puppy had existed just as I was doing, and that he had ceased to exist, which meant that I could too. 

That night, six year old me held a kitchen knife to my neck because he too wanted to know what it was like to be a thing that wasn’t needed anymore."