He/They

Megan Apostol, Interlochen Arts Academy, graduating in 23' May 10, 2023

"home" artwork by Yuri "Ticket" Lee, Del Norte High School, '26

HE felt far, but too close. He stalled behind me, too slow, his shadow still ahead. He hunched over with the curve of his stomach holding a bundle of secrets, carefully. He is keeping something to himself, I think, it’s hard to tell under the drug influence. He’s going somewhere, holding something not knowing that I’m watching him. He looks in his pockets, too many times. He rocks side to side, the scent of pot and alcohol rising with each stuttering step. He rolls his eyes up with the churn of his upset stomach, to examine my body again. He spills out his hate and regrets he’s been holding back, suddenly. His relief, I can feel it with his heavy breaths, and straight posture now. He has nowhere to go, holding something carefully. He’s bored. He rambles about his exes, parents, his abandoned self. He quickens his step, locks his eyes, on me. He breathes hard, I can nearly feel the heat of revenge on my skin. He’s closer and closer. He pounds his fists on the wall of the ally way, his shadow jerking along with his motion. He wants to splurge his pain on someone with what’s in his pockets and what he is holding, carefully. He catches my glance, increasing with anxiety. He relaxes his shoulders and the sweet smell of revenge sneaks over the pot and alcohol. He looks from me to what he holds, to his pockets. He smirks. He coaxes me back inside the house. THEY keep drinking. They keep laughing, too loud, killing themselves out of habit. They seem not to notice my winding steps matching the rhythm of the staggering lights. They don’t notice me monitoring my own safety as I approach the counter for help. They’re all too drunk, it’s no use. They cluster in groups like clotting blood, forcing me around. They sit on the stairs, glasses in their hand as they try to toast with my glass-less hand. They hardly notice my urgency in getting to the room. They see him running up behind me, so fast, it seems that the blood has thinned instantaneously. They clot upstairs too, but I manage into a room. They don’t even drop their smoke to help me as I struggle to close the door. They laugh, again, as his hand suddenly blocks the door from closing. They clog their ears with the music to block out my scream. They don’t care. Their smoke, second hand, as he pushes me onto the bed. They keep laughing as he pulls out a gun. They keep smoking as he jams himself against me. They keep drinking as he pulls the trigger. He dropped with a bang. They danced in smoke. … … … A fatherless child, yet to be born.