Story
Rebel
The story I would like to tell starts in a really strange place - psychiatric hospital. I come here every week for psychotherapy since my parents have divorced. That day, and it was as usually Monday, I got out the bus with my head bowed. Actually I had to raise it quickly, because of group of patients, who went for a walk - I didn't want to hit anybody. The few of them waved to me. I faked a smile and - how strange - I felt better.
I opened the heavy door and flinched. There was a boy standing behind a huge wardrobe. He was smoking a cigarette - stank terribly. I looked at him with contempt, but my heart has trembled when I saw his face.
I knew him...
***
I was coming back from a shop week ago. I live in quite unpleasant district, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a bunch of teenagers in front of me. I raised my head and I wanted to overtake them indifferently, but one of them said something really vulgar about me. I got mad. I stopped thinking, I strongly stepped on his foot. I grabbed and yanked the sleeve of his leather jacket.
"Say it again!" yelled I. He was my height, so he could not look at me from above, but he smirked and pulled the sleeve out of my grasp.
"Watch out, baby..." smiled another one.
"Stop" broke the quiet voice. He belonged to a high boy with blue eyes and blond hair.
"Oh, Rebel spoke..." with a bit of respect in his voice commented one of ugly guys. Rebel didn't honor him with a look. He turned his head and looked at the one who accosted me. If I had not trembled with fear, I would have hissed; his gentle, almost girlish appearance was spoiled by ugly scar, running through the right cheek to the eye.
"Say sorry" ordered quietly.
"Are you mad?!" vulgar individual, unscrupulous, roared on half the street.
"Say sorry, buddy" slightly sharper said Rebel.
"Sorry..." reluctantly and clearly insincere hissed second idiot, not looking at me. Gang boss nodded. I managed to catch a glimpse of him. Icy dispassionately.
They left and I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling my knees are trembling.
And now, with a cigarette in hand, Rebel stood in the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.
"Well... hello" said I shyly. He nodded. His eyes were cold.
But all that changed after a few weeks, when I realized that the Rebel will spend some time here. I decided to treat him like the rest of my friends - with sympathy.
I do not know when our knowledge grew into a friendship. But I felt like with every visit to the hospital we both became truer.
It was an amazing feeling. New feeling. We trust each other and as we spoke I smiled more and more often and thought less and less about my own problems.
His ones were actually even too serious for me. He told me why he's here and why he has this horrible scar. He said that ...
... "They recognized my rebellion as a disease. They said that I was sick, that healthy people do not try to kill themselves."
Our relationship was strange, I admit. Aroused in me strange feelings - whether you can really trust someone enough to talk about his illness, and do not tell your real name?
Rebel ...
On the last day when I talked with him, he was very kind to me. Warm. Really alive - like he finally broke out of this nasty half-living with thoughts of death. When I said that I have to go home, he hugged me and said:
"I'm glad you're so special."
Then it turned out that he was not happy. He was joyful because he finally was able to develop a final, almost perfect plan. When I came back a week later, he was not alive.
Fortunately, he was not dead.
I sat with him and with horror I thought about what he said about dying: "When the disease makes it becomes the target of death, dying is simply not very pleasant, but necessary step in achieving this goal."
The doctors said that his condition improves. That he certainly will wake up.
But he was a rebel. He was not going to wake up.
"Watch out, baby..." smiled another one.
"Stop" broke the quiet voice. He belonged to a high boy with blue eyes and blond hair.
"Oh, Rebel spoke..." with a bit of respect in his voice commented one of ugly guys. Rebel didn't honor him with a look. He turned his head and looked at the one who accosted me. If I had not trembled with fear, I would have hissed; his gentle, almost girlish appearance was spoiled by ugly scar, running through the right cheek to the eye.
"Say sorry" ordered quietly.
"Are you mad?!" vulgar individual, unscrupulous, roared on half the street.
"Say sorry, buddy" slightly sharper said Rebel.
"Sorry..." reluctantly and clearly insincere hissed second idiot, not looking at me. Gang boss nodded. I managed to catch a glimpse of him. Icy dispassionately.
They left and I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling my knees are trembling.
And now, with a cigarette in hand, Rebel stood in the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.
"Well... hello" said I shyly. He nodded. His eyes were cold.
But all that changed after a few weeks, when I realized that the Rebel will spend some time here. I decided to treat him like the rest of my friends - with sympathy.
I do not know when our knowledge grew into a friendship. But I felt like with every visit to the hospital we both became truer.
It was an amazing feeling. New feeling. We trust each other and as we spoke I smiled more and more often and thought less and less about my own problems.
His ones were actually even too serious for me. He told me why he's here and why he has this horrible scar. He said that ...
... "They recognized my rebellion as a disease. They said that I was sick, that healthy people do not try to kill themselves."
Our relationship was strange, I admit. Aroused in me strange feelings - whether you can really trust someone enough to talk about his illness, and do not tell your real name?
Rebel ...
On the last day when I talked with him, he was very kind to me. Warm. Really alive - like he finally broke out of this nasty half-living with thoughts of death. When I said that I have to go home, he hugged me and said:
"I'm glad you're so special."
Then it turned out that he was not happy. He was joyful because he finally was able to develop a final, almost perfect plan. When I came back a week later, he was not alive.
Fortunately, he was not dead.
I sat with him and with horror I thought about what he said about dying: "When the disease makes it becomes the target of death, dying is simply not very pleasant, but necessary step in achieving this goal."
The doctors said that his condition improves. That he certainly will wake up.
But he was a rebel. He was not going to wake up.
No comments:
Post a Comment