Thirty Two Faces - 4. Guilt

When you speak with your gestures, you leave no room for doubts. Unlike with words, it is very difficult to lie with your body. That’s why when we talk, Samuel’s face is animated, like how one speaks to a child. He uses big gestures to express himself so that I can follow his face easily.

I would imagine my clumsy kiss was a pretty big gesture that leaves no room for misinterpretation. The fact that Samuel and my uncle laughed has puzzled me. Shouldn’t they be upset that I’ve crossed the line? But then again, the rules say I’m not supposed to touch their privates. I don’t remember anything about kissing. The rules lie in one of those irritating grey areas where no one tells you clearly if kissing is allowed, but the result of doing so is one of those weird faces. I remember how Mom pushes me away when I try to kiss her before I go to school. I thought it’s something you do when you leave home. Dad does it to her every day.

Maybe Mom just doesn’t understand me like Samuel does. She doesn’t like a lot of things, as well, like me knocking on people’s heads, clutching at furniture, rearranging furniture, rotating the dishes, cutting my food into tiny pieces. Maybe kissing is okay?

“What was that about?” He rubs his cheek, half frowning and half smiling.

Since he asked, maybe it’s not okay after all.

“He’s still like a little puppy.” Uncle Rob smiles and pats my head.

Samuel eyes me with suspicion. Nothing I do is strange or random. He knows me as well as I know him. But the weird sequence of his faces made no sense to me. Throughout the afternoon, all I can think of is convincing myself that I am overreacting.

Mom sometimes kisses me on my forehead before I sleep.

Dad rarely kisses me, but he did once when I had a bad fall playing and had to stay overnight in the hospital.

Can a kiss change someone so suddenly?

That’s what I think when Samuel sits next to Uncle Rob during lunch. Both of them chat away; no one bothers to explain why they laughed at my kiss.

Was it inappropriate?

Was I being funny to them?

I wasn’t trying to arouse Samuel.

So why doesn’t he sit next to me?

I remembered Sandy from my class had this very big expression on her face when she learned that her friend had kissed a boy. Her eyes went huge like a fish and her mouth became an ‘O’, both hands cupping her jaws as if it would drop off if unsupported. I thought she was going to swallow something big, but apparently that expression means that kissing is a boy is a big deal.

Lunch is an officious drudgery because I don’t know what Uncle Rob and Samuel are talking about. Normally I am excluded from family conversations because everyone thinks I don’t understand what is going on. The only comfort I take is that at least they are not talking about my kiss. But I have a feeling that Samuel won’t let me off the hook so easily when we’re alone.

“Here’s your train tickets back home, son; it’ll be leaving at two.” Uncle Rob hands Samuel an envelope.

And my dreaded moment comes.

The trip back home is awkward and mostly silent.

Somehow he’s smiling and talking less. And he’s sitting further away from my body than usual. It usually means someone is uncomfortable with me. I’m not sure until I count the number of brushes our arms make during the train ride. It is the same train car, we are sitting the same distance apart, but there is no physical contact at all. Initially, I am afraid of a confrontation or more questioning, but his sudden withdrawal seems worse. Could he be scared of me now?

His eyes are closed as he leans his head on the train window.

He must be freaked out. Or he’s really tired.

When he turns to me, our conversations are polite and short.

Are you happy?

How’s the lunch?

Looking forward to the rest of your presents?

Are you excited about your second present?

It’s waiting for you at home.

I prepared it in case we failed at this mission.

I am only half listening to him, feeling my mind vacant as if it’s floating in a distant space. My replies are mostly nods and shakes or one-word replies.

Despite being an expert on his face, there are still faces that I can’t read, especially if he chooses to hide them by wearing what he calls his ‘poker’ face. Poker faces are blank, plastic expressions that people use to mask their intentions.

There are so many things I don’t understand about Samuel’s reaction. And I don’t dare to ask.

I stammer when the conductor asks me for my ticket. The napkin that I took from lunch is twisted over and over so that it looks like the Greek Gordian knot from my old picture book. My brother passes him the tickets, and we go back to sleep.

“Happy birthday, Babe!” Mom welcomes us home with a large fruit-jelly cake with candles on top.

That makes me smile. Then I see a whole bunch of strangers inside the house, and I feel anxious. My first instinct is to bolt for my room, but Dad says that’s rude. I think it is even ruder to put the silly party hat on me and invite so many strangers to my birthday party.

“They’re not strangers, Babe; they’re my friends,” Samuel says.

“Can I eat the cake inside my room?”

“No, you can’t. I invited my friends so that you can make more friends.” He points to me and makes sure I squirm before he says, “And you are not going back into your room.”

Just like new places, I take a long time to get used to strangers. Having them around makes my stomach tie up in knots, especially if I’m supposed to talk to them – guessing at what they are trying to say, worrying that I would say something wrong. When they laugh, I wonder if they are laughing at me. The moment Samuel is out of sight, I find a place to hide.

“Keith, why are you hiding under the desk?” Mom finds me under Dad’s giant oak table in the study room. There was nowhere else to go since I’m not allowed to go inside my room.

“Don’t do that in front of other people, you’re embarrassing your brother.”

I can’t understand her because if I hide, then it wouldn’t be in front of other people. Since going to my room is not allowed and hiding is not allowed, the only way left to avoid his friends is to stick to familiar faces. Casting a quick glance across the room, I manage to find one.

“P-Professor…”

“What did you get for your birthday?” Professor Hoffman asks.

I show him Samuel’s electronic photo frame and then Mom’s present. “She bought a collector’s edition of the comic series Zatoichi.”

Normally, I hate reading fiction. But I can relate to how the protagonist feels.

Zatoichi is a sightless swordsman. His world is dark; he can’t see a thing. Unlike me, he is alert to the intentions of people who threaten him. He is able to anticipate and dodge every slice, every cut of the sword. He uses his wits to compensate for his lack of sight.

“You can be like him, Keith.” Professor Hoffman nods and smiles.

I am not that brave.

“Oh, seems like you have more presents coming.”

Dad and Samuel come back to the room with a tiny gift­-wrapped box. When I open it, I am surprised,

“It’s a thumb drive.”

Samuel smiles and rolls his eyes around to feign ignorance. He wants me to guess the present.

“Is it one of your visual aids?”

My brother used to have a whole stash of them before he left for college. He used them to jack off. Dad gives him a look which flusters Samuel. Before I can say anything he interrupts: “I worked on it for six months. Plug it in and see for yourself.”

I do what he says – plug it into my Macbook Pro and see the thumb-drive folder appear. An unnamed .exe file prompts me to install it, and I click yes.

The screen goes blank, and a 3D blue face modelled after my brother appears.

I am astounded.

It is a game, written by my brother and developed by Dad. He calls it the Face Reader. It can take on any color and ethnicity, mimicking expressions and prompting the user to identify them correctly and respond appropriately to the context.

“Samuel asked me for references sometime back on treatment plans for Prosopagnosia, so that’s what it is for!” Professor Hoffman says to Dad. “I am very impressed. This is marvelous.”

I look at the screen and fiddle with the game. The 3D model changes into a generic face, it cocks its brows and smiles at a certain angle, and a dialogue box appears and says, What does it mean?

There are three options and my mouse hovers around the third one. I click flirting.

Wrong answer, the screen flashes.

Like all games, it has varying levels of difficulty. The harder it is, the more subtle and transient the expressions become. The face may remain the same, but the context will change the meaning entirely. As it gets more difficult, a shorter time to respond is allowed.

The best part of the game is that it allows Samuel’s face videos to be uploaded and synched with the game program. It will read his facial geometry, and the program will add it into its 3D face archive of expressions. The only thing needed is to tag the face videos manually, and I can update references whenever I come across these faces.

How will a frustrated look appear on an old woman?

Or on an Asian boy?

On my first try, I get the expressions right about 31% of the time, but that’s in an ‘easy’ mode. The result isn’t too bad. But nonetheless, it’s a safe way to practice without having to talk to strangers.

“Sneaky boy.” Samuel tugs my ear as Dad stares at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Go and mingle with real people. Now!”

“Yes, Keith, go talk to the other boys and girls. You can play the game later,” Dad adds.

Samuel practically shoves me back into the room – and not very gently. When I turn back and face him with pleading eyes, he points his finger at me. He means serious business. It will be an act of war if I don’t comply.

“I do not like talking to strangers.”

I attempt one last sulk. Strangers are difficult to understand, especially kids my age. It’s like the time when we visited Grandma in Sweden; no one understood us when we went into the shops. That was frightening.

“Go…” His finger poked my back like a gun despite my protests.

There are certain protocols that need to be observed before you can talk to a stranger. This is how I survive being in a classroom full of other kids in high school.

First, you need to see their pictures so that you don’t have to stare so much when they talk. Samuel added my classmates as friends on Facebook so that I can study their photos. They give you an idea what are some of their facial expressions.

 

Second, you need to observe them for a few days and discreetly watch them talk to other people so that you can follow their hand gestures, eye movements, their tone and what they say.

 

Third, if they are not hostile and if they speak clearly and slowly, then they are safe to talk to. Otherwise, I will just message them and use emoticons for class discussions.

 

Usually, I will warm to them faster if they are friendly, like giving me a hug. That usually means they are not nasty kids. If they approach, and I’m alone, and I’m very sure they want to be my friend, I’ll ask them all kinds of questions to get to know them. But they always look pissed or upset when I ask important questions like,

‘Can I hug you?’

‘Why is your face squashed up like that?’

‘Do you usually smell like this?’

Then they don’t want to talk to me anymore. In the end, I give up and watch the other kids in school from afar. They kiss. They hug. They hold hands and laugh with each other. Most of the time, I am grateful that they leave me alone. But sometimes, I want someone to touch me – and not in a violent way.

Boys are the scariest because they are more aggressive. They will sometimes hit me or push me around when I am being friendly. Like the times when I try to engage in eye contact. Or if I touch their body, they get really upset. They also get aggressive when they ask me questions, because I need to stare, and they hate people staring at them.

Even with the same sentence, I can’t understand what they mean unless I get some context from their faces. One of the things they like to say is, “Since when have they started admitting people like you?”

If they ask this with a raised eyebrow, most likely they want to know when the school policies changed. And I’ll answer them: after my parents donated generously to the school.

‘Since when have they started admitting people like you?’

If they ask this using a squished face and look at the teachers, it means they want to know why the school policies changed. So I tell them they didn’t; I passed the qualifying academic tests.

“Since when they start admitting people like you?”

If their faces looked pissed, it means this wasn’t a question. I am not welcome.

Samuel brings some of his friends and introduces me. It is awkward and uncomfortable for us, and my brother ends up looking embarrassed. Half of the time, I hear his voice more often than his friends.

Babe, look at people when they talk to you.

Babe, don’t stare.

Babe, don’t groan in that corner.

Babe, go talk to the other kids; they won’t hurt you.

His commanding tone always returns.

“Forget it, let’s take a picture of us together,” my brother finally says, heaving a sigh and giving up.

Normally, we take selfies with our faces plastered together.

But today, he asked Mindy to take the photo for us. And we stand apart – formal, cold and distant – like adults. Not even a hand thrown over my shoulders.

He must be embarrassed by me now – or very pissed.

After that, he disappears into the crowd, leaving me blissfully alone once more. It is almost nine, and I guess I won’t have to put up with this much longer. If I lie low enough-

“Hey, gorgeous.”

A red-headed girl comes up to me.

“Babe, this is Rachel,” says Samuel emerging from behind her. Before he says anything else, he dives back into the crowd and disappears.

Please don’t leave me alone!

When I’m shy, I stare at the ground, like most people do. But when I’m scared, I will stare at them like a cornered cat. Rachel has two white ribbons that tie her long, flaming hair into two pigtails.

Then she starts introducing herself, talking nonstop like a machine gun. Her expressions are animated, and her gestures are big. She flicks her hair, she punches her hands in the air, and she laughs loudly and swears loudly, too. Her eyes are large and brown, and her face is easy to read. She is pretty to look at, and after a while I relax around her. She hasn’t asked me any weird questions, and I like that.

Girls are usually safer than boys. And I like big gestures and animated faces. Without a warning, her monologue reaches a crescendo as she throws herself at me for a hug.

“Happy birthday!”

I like being hugged. It’s the fastest way to know someone is not hostile. And I can feel her soft squishy breasts pressing against my chest.

“Thanks, R-Rachel.”

I stare at the ground and suddenly feel a stirring in my crotch. Then she covers her mouth and giggles, I step back and press both hands down my pants.

“I’m flattered.”

She looks happy.

But I feel like running into my room right now and changing into my tight jeans. My face feels like it’s burning, and I want to put my head under a basin.

Why can’t I hide my excitement?!

Samuel taught me to control my woody by imagining all kinds of disgusting things. But it didn’t work because my imagination doesn’t come spontaneously. Considering this is my second time hugging a girl who’s not Mom, the reaction came much faster than I can visualize a flesh-eating zombie in my head. But unlike the first time, Rachel doesn’t hit me or anything. She simply giggles.

“Having fun, Princess?” A curly-haired boy comes over. His brows are tense. His eyes narrows further when he spots the tent in my khaki pants.

“Are you boning her?” His lips curl on one side, like one side of his face is paralyzed. But I’m not too sure if he’s pissed or happy. His eyes are narrow like he’s pissed, and only the right side of the face is smiling.

Then I notice the muscles on his thick shoulders tighten up and his body tilts to one side like how Bruce Lee does when he fights. The veins on his neck are showing when one of his hands is put over her shoulders. It seems like a sign of aggression.

“Look who’s jealous.” Rachel stabs her finger and pushes him lightly on his shoulder blades. She shouldn’t do that, pointing fingers is very rude.

Is he jealous that I’m boning her and not him?

I’m confused.

Now their eyes look angry, but their lips are smiling. She says he is jealous but she doesn't explain why. I’m afraid he might hurt the girl, so I have to say something to appease him. The boy looks like he can beat me up easily, so I try not to look at him when I say, “I can bone for you, too.”

I tug at the hem of my t-shirt and twist it into a knot. My eyes fix on my fingers. I look up when he exhales loudly and hunches over. His eyes widen, and his face turns red.

His body starts shaking.

My fist clenches into a ball, and I take half a step back.

Where is my pocket knife?

When he makes a sound, I realized he is laughing.

“This dude is bonkers,” he says.

I am confused again.

I gave him a tentative smile, still unsure if he’s friendly or not. We haven’t hugged or anything.

“Samuel did warn us about his brother. Be nice, Pete,” she says. Warn them? Does he think I’m dangerous now?

I shudder.

“See you around, kid.” He smiles and pats my face lightly. I think he is going to slap my face when his hands come close.

Then I watch them walk away. And I hear my brother say,

Thanks for talking to my brother. He's very shy.

My eyes follow Samuel as I watch him from afar and note the distance he stands from Mindy, their shoulders almost touching every moment. That is how we used to be: shoulders to shoulders.

You’re standing right at my spot.

The way they dance together, her legs between his legs like they are having sex on the dance floor.

Didn’t he have a girlfriend in California? I ask that vociferously to my Dad. Unaware that everyone hears my words loud and clear.

“It doesn’t count if it’s a different state,” my brother says and laughs. Everyone in the room laughs.

Is that a new rule?

I don’t understand why that is funny. I am very upset. Everyone knows that rule well; everyone in school talks about it. You are not supposed to sleep with two girls at the same time! It will cause her extreme distress and anxiety because he will have multiple child-rearing responsibilities with different females.

Does she even know that rule?

And I don’t even realize I am broadcasting my thoughts aloud to everyone,

Everyone seems to think I’m being funny, just like at the train station. It feels like I’ve wet my pants or had a public woody. The others continue to laugh, even Mom and Dad, but Samuel sees something in my face.

He turns serious and asks, “What’s the matter with you, Babe?”

I don’t know what his lying face looks like, but I know his wary face when he looks my way. His eyes narrow, and he takes a side glance, head tilted.

I am being careless.

All my questioning must look suspicious, especially after my kiss.

Nearing the end of my birthday party, I see him sneaking out of the house with Mindy. I look at the back of his shoulders disappearing into the garage, a hand thrown over Mindy. And he doesn’t come home that night.

No one sees my longing glance or how tightly I have gripped the edge of the table.

Better to keep my distance.

Over the next few days, I avoid him almost completely.

It is impossible not to bump into him since we share the same balcony and bathroom.

How’s your day?

Fine.

What are you busy with?

The usual stuff.

And that’s how I keep my responses to him, short and formal.

The moment he turns away looking dejected, I miss him terribly. It might be best this way for both of us. For him, he won’t get upset by how bad a person I have become. For me, it will be so much easier to get over when he's gone after the summer.

I haven’t seen you around lately. Is everything okay?

I cannot answer his question without lying, so I walk away without responding to him. Or even looking at him.

I do not lie.

Not because I’m a good person.

But because I do not know how to stop people from knowing that I lie. And I have to visualize very hard saying something which isn’t true. And I will have problems remembering what I’ve said. My emotions are displayed naked on my face, even though only my brother understands the thoughts behind these nebulous feelings. I know other people don’t think like me, and I secretly think my brother is like that, too, even if he won’t admit it. I believe it because he wears his poker face more often when he is with others. That means he is trying to hide from them. At least he knows how to.

You learn how to lie from watching other people lie. And you think to yourself, I mustn’t look like this or that.

I have no way of knowing that because I don’t know what a lying face looks like. I know people might avoid your eyes, but people do that for many reasons. Samuel doesn’t have a problem saying to my face that aliens are invading or zombies have taken over the world when we’re playing under the blankets. Those are obviously lies because they are not happening.

Intricate facial contortions are hard to follow, much less to imitate consciously. And since I can’t lie, I must stay away from Samuel.

Stick to the rules.

I love you Samuel, but I can’t tell you that.

The suspicious look always returns. One day when I am practicing with the Face Reader, he stands at my door, looking at me. I know that look immediately.

He has been staring while I am typing away on the keyboard, and when I suddenly look up, there it is: narrowed eyes, leering into my mind without my permission.

I feel naked.

He flashes a crooked smile when he catches me peeking at him with my side glance, pretending not to notice him.

No point hiding now, his smile seems to say.

Even my face and posture tell him everything he wants to know. My only defense is to stay away and deny everything. I bury my face into my laptop, ignoring his stares.

Inside my head, I curse myself for kissing him. For a moment of stolen intimacy, I am paying such a heavy price. I can’t even look him in the eye now.

He must have noticed I am frightened of him. He approaches me like he’s approaching a timid mouse, no sudden movements, small gestures, gentle touches. He’s not in a hurry to expose me. Instead, he asks: “What are you doing, Babe?”

He can see the Face Reader active on my screen. It means he’s asking a rhetorical question, which means I don’t have to answer.

But somehow the guilt inside me coughs out something scrambled and incoherent.

“Nothing.”

He stares.

“Really, nothing.”

Silence.

“Just playing games. The game you made.”

He is still staring.

“I am telling the truth.” I shut my mouth before it gets worse.

He goes over to my bed, picks up an old teddy bear and whispers something to it. Turning it to face me, his voice altered, he says,

“What’s wrong with you? You don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

And my response gets even more incoherent: a mix of groaning and a philosophical rambling about the thesaurus definition of friendship. The more I try to hide my secrets, the more it threatens to spill. I don’t even understand what I am saying anymore.

“Don’t bother to explain yourself. Just get yourself changed, we are going swimming together.” He looks angry. And his tone isn’t a request. It is his commanding tone.

Obey me, Babe.

“Swimming? But I'm practicing reading faces now.”

“You can practice all you want after this summer.”

He takes out a pair of swimming trunks from my drawer and tosses it over.

What if I get aroused by him, his naked skin being so close to mine? A brush, a touch, and my body will disobey my will.

I can imagine numbers, I think.

Work on the toughest equation I can find on Harvard website and that will provide some distraction during the swim.

Samuel is still standing at my doorway, refusing to move until I get up from my chair and start getting changed.

Our pool isn’t really large enough for a proper swim; a kick on the edge, a few more strokes and you are already on the other side.

That’s why I’m worried. He didn’t ask to come here to swim, he wants to talk. He must have suspected something and planned to entrap me. If my woody pops, there will be no uncertainty as to who has excited me. He is like Sherlock Holmes when it comes to cracking my head. Even Dad asks him at times if he can pry something out of me.

His eyes always glance my way for the brief moments when we are in between laps. I have a feeling that he is glaring behind the goggles.

It’s like we’re playing catch. I try to swim away from him as far as possible, and he tries to catch up. He’s definitely wearing me out – until I am utterly exhausted and have to catch a breath at the edge of the pool. When he takes off his goggles, I can feel the full weight of his glare.

Right now he looks really mad.

“Why are you acting so weird?”

I tried to swim away.

He grabs my arm before I can kick off for another lap. Don’t look at his shoulders. Don’t inhale him in. Look away.

I remain silent.

The goggles hide that involuntary clandestine look at his sternum and dark nipples. I yank my face away to stare straight ahead.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” He presses on, tone gentler this time. But his hand isn’t letting go.

I swallow and bite my lips. They are trembling.

“You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

I try to wrench myself free and start to groan.

“I’m not letting go until you answer.”

He looks really angry, his voice slow and stern. He corners me at the edge of the pool, trapping me between both his hands.

He imitates Dad’s firm tone. He usually speaks to me like this when I get out of control and smash things or hurt people.

Usually I listen, but right now he is making me even more anxious. And the worst thing is the more I get scared by him, the more turned on I get. My trunks are already tight and throbbing; he would’ve seen everything if my body wasn’t underwater.

I shut my eyes tightly and started counting prime numbers aloud, using my own voice to block out his words, and my head threatens to shut down with every word he said.

Stop making me worry, all right.

I submerge myself. It is the only place I can hide.

His voice doesn’t reach my ears under water.

I am safe.

Bubbles blow from my mouth. His voice is a muted, vacant cry from afar.

But I am running out of air.

He’s pulling me up by force. And I struggle and kick him away.

My chest feels like its burning.

His arm reaches for my shoulders again. I kick harder.

My head feels dizzy.

I lose count of the numbers, and I can’t breathe to calm myself. He mustn’t see my face, and I mustn’t see his face. I struggle to get away from him, turning my back whenever he comes near.

I feel like exploding.

First, I see nothing but white.

And then complete darkness.

I stir.

The first thing I feel is the hard ground beneath me.

Then I feel his face close to mine, warm breath on my face.

His lips are on my lips, I feel his breath pushing into my lungs. His hands are pumping down on my chest.

And I feel his lips again, pressing down on mine. The brushing of his stubble, his bristling chin; I feel his warm cheeks.

Then there is nothing again.

A momentary flick of his tongue against my tongue. Then his wet bare chest.

Then silence.

I think I feel his crotch, brushing against my thighs.

Then I cough up water.

He lifts my body up to a sitting position. His knees are wide apart, trapping me underneath his crotch.

“Are you okay?”

I am not okay.

I want to go back into my room now. Chlorine, Musk. Shoulders. Swirling blue eyes.

I try to push him away but he pulls me in for a hug instead.

“It’s okay, Babe; it’s just me.”

His voice is gentle, but his grip is strong. My arms are too weak to break free of him, and I am breathing rapidly. His bare skin presses against my pounding heart. My cheeks feel his beat as well.

It is the only time in my life where his embrace fails to make me feel safe.

I struggle and wrestle, resisting his hug, resisting my urges to yield to him.

For two and a half seconds, our crotches came into contact, and I feel throbbing. My body is set on fire.

A moan escapes my lips.

I look down at my body, and I am horrified.

Not only am I fully erect, milky white semen seeps out from my trunks.

He must have felt it, too, because he looks down at my trunks and then back up to my face. What seems to be an apologetic look appears on his face.

There is no escape now. He knows. There is no gesture as ostentatious as this to declare my forbidden desires.

This guilt is irrevocable.

My hands push him away, and my legs carry me back to my room.

I feel disconnected to my body, like I’m watching myself turning into a puppet.

His footsteps are close.

“Babe!” he yells.

I lock the balcony door, my bathroom door and my room door. I bar them with chairs and tables and close the blinds and curtains. I mustn’t let any light come in. No one must see my face.

It isn’t enough that my room is dark – pitch black. The pounding on the door intensifies. It looks like it’s going to fall down anytime soon.

The thick duvet on my bed. I can hide myself under it.

It’s not good. I can still hear his fists pounding and his muffled yelling.

BABE!

OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW!

The door shakes, like it is going to be kicked down any moment.

Loud noises, knocks and yelling; it feels like my head is trembling.

I grab the duvet and hide myself inside the closet, shutting the door tightly. Play dead, don’t make a sound. Just like the zombie movies.

Stay still.

Stay very, very still.

Wait for the silence.

My heart paces madly.

And after a while, my mind clears up.

Wrapped under the duvet, as if the darkness of the closet is not enough, I close my eyelids and press my palms over my ears. The room is silent, but a disembodied voice keeps chanting,

He hates me now.

And a stinging ache grows in my chest like it’s being hollowed out. The full consequences of my actions hit me like a train.

He is my only friend; why do I have to screw this up? Why won’t my body listen to me?

I remembered the disgust on his face when I asked if I could take a picture of his erection. I was eleven, and I didn’t know what it was. He snatched away my camera and told me it was sick. It stung me for a long time, because I had never seen him disgusted at me before.

I hate myself for feeling this way about him. There will be no one to hide behind when I’m scared. He used to say he’ll take care of me when Mom and Dad grow old. Those were the days when we still lived in Portland. But I haven’t heard him saying that these days. And now that he knows, there is no way he would let someone like me stay near him. I am terrified of being alone.

The air is heavy and stuffy in the closet. My skin is damp, and I can smell my own sweat.

Rule 654:21:3.

That is my last thought before I fall asleep in the closet.

I wake up, still completely in the dark, still inside the closet, and I hear some soft voices outside.

What did you do to agitate him?

It’s my father’s voice.

Now everyone knows. I pull the duvet down over my face even more.

I don’t know. I just asked him to swim, and he suddenly goes under the surface and almost gets himself drowned.

That’s my brother’s voice.

“Babe?”

His voice is very close. I pull on the duvet, wrapping my head completely under it.

He doesn’t knock or shout. Not forcing the closet door open, either.

I hear some pages flipping outside. Then he speaks slowly and softly.

“If A, B, C are the points z1, z2, z3 and the angles B and C are each pi-alpha/2, then what is the value of (z2 – z3)^2?”

My head churns as I listen to his soothing voice.

4(z3-z1)(z1-z2) sin^2 alpha/2

Then silence for a while. And he speaks again,

“What is π(1025) − 1025/ ln(1025) ?”

My thoughts focus again, I feel my hands and legs more acutely as I work out the numbers in my head.

3, 128, 516, 637, 843, 038, 351, 228

After a minute, he speaks again.

“Babe, list out the prime numbers below one hundred.”

“2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97,” I find myself rattling out in one breath.

“Name three things that make you feel safe?” He said.

Darkness, silence and warmth.

And more silence.

“Name three people who have kept you safe before?”

Mom, Dad, and… Samuel.

He pauses for a minute, and then I hear movements outside the closet.

“I know you must be hungry. Mom cooked you dinner. It’s on the tray outside your nightstand.”

He says. “I’m going to leave you alone now. Come out and eat whenever you are ready.”

After a long while, I hear nothing but the growling in my stomach. I push the closet door open slightly and find that everything is dark – except for the sliver of light below my room door.

I risk a bit of light by turning on the lava lamp.

Everything is still safe and quiet except for the stinging ache in my chest.

The food tray lies on the nightstand: a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, kept warm by a thermos cup; a plate of falafel and quinoa salad, and a small cup of yoghurt. There are also two blue tablets and a glass of water on the tray.

Silently, I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. Everything sounds quiet outside. Samuel must have left the house or have fallen asleep.

My attention turns to the floor when I feel my bare feet stepping on a small piece of paper.

It is a piece of square white paper, like from a Post-it pad except that it’s not sticky. I pick it up, but it is too dark to see anything.

Moving closer to the lava lamp, I hold up the paper and read its content, written in colorful ink.

It says:

I’m so sorry for freaking you out. Just want to know why you’re shutting me out. I guess I know now.

Please forgive me?

Your best bud,

Samuel

PS: I like it better when you do this instead =>