five years ago…
The red light on the camera blinks, and I sigh.
“I’m sure she hates me,” I say the moment it starts recording. “Not completely… but it feels like there’s a wall between us now. Ever since John and his idiot son, Tim, moved in.”
I set the camera down on the table, angling it so it catches me clearly as I start folding clothes. The room is cramped, barely enough space for the bed and wardrobe, but I move through it like I’ve done this a hundred times because I have.
“It’s funny,” I mutter, stacking t-shirts. “She chose Tim over me.”
I pause. My hands linger on a worn sweatshirt. The fabric is soft, familiar.
“I mean… I get it’s his graduation today. It’s a big deal or whatever. But I really wanted to talk to her about this.”
I glance at the camera now, straight into the lens. My voice is quieter, but it doesn’t shake.
“Do you think I’m being selfish? For wanting to tell her that Tim’s been bullying me? Not just at school—here, too. Whenever she and John are gone.”
I let out a bitter breath, shaking my head as I slide open the wardrobe door.
“I think John knows,” I say. “Knows what his son does. But he doesn’t say a word.”
My shoulders fall as I hang the last shirt. I reach over to the bed, pick up the slacks and crumpled suit jacket lying there, and start smoothing them out with my hands.
“She wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
There’s a silence. Not dramatic—just tired. A stillness that doesn’t need to be filled.
I tuck the pants neatly, trying not to groan too loudly.
“I don’t know why she keeps making me go to that church,” I mutter. “Evening Sunday school or whatever it is. It’s not even new, I’ve been going there since I was twelve.”
I look back at the camera, a small, sardonic smile tugging at my mouth.
“She says it’s to keep me out of trouble. Says I need to ‘look Christian’ so I don’t seem suspicious. So if I ever get caught selling joints, the church can vouch for me. Give me a good reputation or something since I have been going there constantly for three years now.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“It’s fucked up, I know.”
I pause again. There’s something almost… resigned about the way I sit down on the bed, suit draped over my lap, looking into the lens like it might talk back.
With a sigh, I tug on the slacks, fussing with the zipper until it finally gives. I mutter a soft curse under my breath—the fabric itches against my skin, too stiff and formal for someone like me. I pull on the suit jacket and immediately feel like I’m wearing a costume.
“This is so not my aesthetic,” I grit out through clenched teeth, smoothing the lapels. “But no—it’s compulsory. If you’rea guy at that church, you wear a suit. Especially for Sunday lessons.”
I run a hand through my curls, trying to tame them, flatten them into something that fits this version of me they want to see. Buttoned-up. Respectable. Invisible.
“Nate said he wants to meet at the treehouse,” I say, voice a bit lighter, then glance at the camera. “And no, not for a hookup, calm down.”
I pick up my strap-on bag and swing it over my shoulder, adjusting it so it sits just right across my chest.
“He wants to buy a couple joints,” I explain as I pocket the small ziplock bag. “And he said he wants to talk. Says he feels bad about trying to kiss me at school the other day… he said it wasn’t cool, and I think he means it.”
I grab the camera, still recording, and head for the door. Outside, the light is golden, that quiet kind of late afternoon that almost makes the trailer park look soft. Almost.
I lock the door behind me and head down the few worn steps. Tyler’s trailer is only a stone’s throw away. I barely get close to the door of his trailer before I stop short.
“Don’t you ever take my shit again faggot!” a woman’s voice spits from inside. Tyler’s mom.
