“Return” - Music Composed by Byron winward
I composed this song as a tribute to the enduring impact of a good father-son relationship.
Ezekiel’s wheel - Episode 2
A SCREENPLAY IN EIGHT EPISODES
Synopsis: Ezekiel is an eight-year-old autistic boy living on a farm in the Summer of 1980. After he disappears without a trace during an electrical storm, his mother befriends a local high school math teacher, while his father confronts a strange event in his own past, leading both parents on very different, but parallel paths in an effort to solve the mystery of their son.
ezekiel’s Wheel, Episode 1
A SCREENPLAY IN EIGHT EPISODES
Synopsis: Ezekiel is an eight-year-old autistic boy living on a farm in the Summer of 1980. After he disappears without a trace during an electrical storm, his mother befriends a local high school math teacher, while his father confronts a strange event in his own past, leading both parents on very different, but parallel paths in an effort to solve the mystery of their son.
The Gardener and the Seed
Dedicated to my father, a master gardener who provided well for his family of millions of seedlings, including the six he created himself.
The gardener held a tiny seed up to the sunlight and said:
“Okay little seed, this is your chance. The one who made you spent a lot of time ensuring your existence. He began in the earth and now it’s your turn to continue the cycle. In order to bask in this sunlight again and know your true worth, you’ll need to grow. Otherwise, you’ll remain complacent and never bear fruit. I’ll give you the start you need. I’ve prepared this special patch of soil for you. It’s rich and full of goodness. I’ll plant you here, safe and snug. I’ll provide you all the water you’ll need every day without fail. That is my promise. But it’s up to you to grow.”
The seed was eager to please and replied excitedly “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m ready!”
The gardener tucked the seed gently into the earth and covered him up. It was cold. It was dark. The little seed couldn’t tell which way was up or down. He didn’t know how long he would be there. But the water came, as promised. He soaked it in and made up a mantra to chant: “Sun! Fruit! Know! Grow! Sun! Fruit! Know! Grow!”
The little seed had no idea how many days had passed in the dark, wet ground. He felt bloated and ached all over. His insides were squirmy. “Sun. Fruit. Know. Grow… Sun. Fruit. Know. Grow.“
More time passed and eventually the seed‘s impatience overtook his hopeful outlook. He felt awful. He yelled into the darkness “I don’t want any more water! I already feel like I’m to going to burst! Sun. Fruit. Know…Whatever!”
He sat there in the darkness, waterlogged and defeated. The gardener hadn’t warned him about feeling so terrible. He had seemed like such a nice man, but doubt was quickly replacing hope. “Why did you put me here?” he cried out. “And what does it mean to be complacent?“ But there was no answer.
As he dozed off to sleep again, he sensed movement in the darkness. A slimy, squirmy looking thing broke through into the seed’s space.
“What in earth are you?” exclaimed the seed.
“Well I’m an earth worm, of course.” replied the squirmy monster.
“Weird! Can I ask you something? Do you like being here in the earth?” asked the seed.
“No place I’d rather be!” replied the worm.
“Mr. Worm, can you tell me what complacent means?” asked the seed.
“Complacent? Oh no! No time to be complacent. Gotta stay on the move! Move the earth, that’s what I do. No use in staying put all day!” replied the worm. “You look as if you’re ready to move the earth too!”
“What do you mean? Can I move the earth too?” the seed asked with excitement.
But it was too late. The weird, wiggly earth worm was gone, and the earth was quiet again. The seed was very lonely. He had enjoyed the worm’s company, if only for a few seconds.
“No time to be complacent. Move the earth.” thought the seed. "What does that mean?" He was tired of being here, alone with his thoughts, waiting for water. He couldn’t imagine being happy staying here in the earth like the worm. He remembered the sun, flickering on the gardener’s face while the gardener comforted him. He sighed and thought to himself “Well, no use in staying put all day!” He looked around and found that the worm had created a bit of extra space in the earth as he passed by. Maybe the extra space would give him an easier start.
“Wait up, Mr. Worm! I’m right behind you!”
The seed winced, squirmed and held his breath for extra power.
Shplack!
“What in earth was that?” exclaimed the seed. “Was that…me?”
“Excuse me.” the seed offered up sheepishly in the dark, hoping no one had heard his embarrassing noise.
Suddenly, the seed was squirming all over, in multiple directions.
“Wait, am I moving?” yelled the seed.
He couldn’t tell if he was going anywhere, yet he could feel himself spreading in two directions. He felt the earth move on either side of him. He still had no idea which way was up, which way was down, which way was forward. But it felt good. He enjoyed a satisfying stretch and yelled out “Move the earth, that’s what I do!”
The seed stretched and wiggled for hours, feeling parts of himself reaching further and further away in both directions. After a while, he became extremely thirsty and realized he had taken the water for granted. He thought of the gardener and wondered when he would fulfill his daily duty. “He would be so proud of me, if only he could see me” he thought to himself.
The seed finally felt the cool, wet sensation he longed for. The water surrounded him, making the earth loose and even easier to navigate. Feeling refreshed, the seed resumed his journey outward in whatever direction he could. “Move the earth, that’s what I do. Sun. Fruit. Know - Wait! What? Fruit? What exactly is fruit?” he wondered. He continued with all his might, when all of the sudden, to his surprise, a part of him burst through the earth. He immediately winced and shrieked. It had been so long he had forgotten this strange sensation. It was so warm, so bright.
“The sun. It’s the sun! I made it back. I grew!”
He adjusted slowly, stretching out to enjoy the newfound space. He could feel other bits of himself wriggling around below in the dark. Somehow, it made him feel stable and safe to know he was still part of the earth. The warmth of the light was intoxicating. He felt like singing a song to announce his return. He looked around and saw awkward, skinny little creatures poking up out of the dark. Looking down at himself, he realized he looked like them. He was no longer a seed. He was much more than a seed!
“Pssst! Hey you over there! How long have you been there?” he whispered out to the green, skinny thing closest to him.
“I just got here myself. Isn’t it beautiful?” replied the thing.
“It certainly is. I’m so glad to have some company!” said the much-more-than-a-seed.
“Any idea what we are?” asked the thing.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely not a worm, because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than out here!” answered the much-more-than-a-seed.
“We’re called seedlings.“ said one of the other things matter-of-factly from the next row over. “I heard it from one of the tall ones over there.“ She seemed very sure of herself.
“Seedlings? Huh. Sounds like much more than a seed to me. I’ll go with that.” said the now seedling.
A shadow blocked out the sun, followed by a familiar voice.
“I knew you could do it. Well done, little seedling. Well done indeed.” said the voice.
The seedling recognized the voice and looked up anxiously. It was the gardener. His big, square fingertip came down and gently patted the earth, tightening it around him. He had never felt more safe and happy.
The seedling grew taller each day. He grew outward as well, branching off into many directions to ensure his proud presence and impress the gardener. He learned many things from his surrounding friends, especially the know-it-all girl on the next row over. She explained after a few days of stretching and growing, that they had become “full-fledged-plants”. She taught him to space out and spiral his leaves just so, to ensure that each of them would have a fair opportunity to receive the gift of water and sun. The sun visited often and so did the gardener. Every once in awhile, a raggedy looking bully would appear, growing next to him, threatening to take his space and block his view of the sun. But the gardener, ever caring, would kindly remove the bully. He felt safe and loved. He wanted to be all he could be and show his appreciation. “But how?” he wondered.
The answer came one day when he noticed a brightly colored something-or-other sprouting out of him. It wasn’t green like the rest of him. It scared him a bit.
“What is this thing? Is this supposed to be here? Am I going to die?” he asked dramatically.
“Relax. It’s just a flower. It’s not cancer!” replied the know-it-all.
“But why is it on me? What purpose does it serve?” pressed the full-fledged-plant.
“It’s the beginnings of your fruits, dummy. It looks like your flowers just came in a little faster than everyone else’s. Harumph!” pouted the know-it-all.
“Fruit! I forgot about the fruit!” exclaimed the full-fledged-plant. “This is what it’s all about!”
He was euphoric. He was accomplishing what he had set out to do from the beginning. He was grateful to the gardener for helping him to become such a fine plant. His heart was full and his flower seemed to cry sweet tears of joy. Within days, all his friends were in full bloom as well, and they received other visitors from the sky. They were fuzzy-buzzies that hovered and landed on them gently and momentarily, collecting bits from their flowers. It tickled a bit, but as the know-it-all explained, he needed the fuzzy-buzzies as much as they needed him. It felt good to be needed.
In the following weeks his flowers turned to not-so-delicate, tumor like monstrosities that began to weigh him down and make him even more thirsty and impatient.
“What on earth are these things? Am I going to die?” he asked dramatically.
“That’s fruit, you silly seedling!” exclaimed the know-it-all.
“I am not a seedling! I’m a full-fledged plant I’ll have you know!” he retorted.
“Then start acting like one!” spouted the know-it-all.
The full-fledged plant realized she was right. It was time to suck it up and fully realize his potential. Enough with this irrational fear. He flexed his stem, puffed up his leaves, holding himself stout and proud. He was going to have the biggest, brightest, best fruit possible, whatever it was!
Days passed, and his fruits grew. Pretty as they were, the burden was heavy. He drooped a little, but only in areas that weren’t producing fruit; a compensation to help him focus his energy on his goal.
One day the sun didn’t visit as it should have. It was gray, gloomy and the sky was full of booms! The gardener didn’t visit that day. And yet, the water came anyway, fiercely and from all directions. The wind was almost painful. He and his friends shivered and struggled to keep ahold of their prized fruits. The earth beneath them slopped up onto their leaves more than usual. It was a long, cold day that stole away his pride and hope. He wondered if the sun and the gardener were okay in this horrible mess. For a moment, he wanted to just give up and allow it all to wilt. It would be so easy. Just a little nap. Just let it all down.
Just then came another familiar voice from below:
“Well done, little seed. Well done!” exclaimed the voice.
“I’m not a seed, I’m-” the full-fledged plant countered, stopping short.
It was Mr. Worm. He had come out of the earth and was frolicking in this hideous mess of a day. He was giddy, squirming shamelessly in the mud.
“Just popped out to enjoy the rain for a bit. Looks like you’ve really made something of yourself!” said Mr. Worm.
“Thank you, Mr. Worm. But why are you here? Don’t you prefer the earth?” asked the full-fledged plant.
“The storm is a gift. You should be enjoying it.“
“A gift? Are you crazy? This is chaos!” the full-fledged plant yelled, trying to hear his own voice above the storm.
“You can’t truly appreciate peace without experiencing a bit of chaos. Look around you. You are a fully fledged plant with enormous, delicious fruit to bear. Revel the rain, wiggle in the wind and make a merry mess in this mud!” yelled Mr. Worm, slopping up onto the full-fledged-plant’s leaves and fruits.
And with that, he disappeared back into the earth with a hearty laugh.
“There’s no mud in my mantra, Mr. Worm!” screamed the fully fledged plant. “Sun! Fruit! Know! Grow!” He chanted at the top of his lungs.
He heard giggles around him. Giggles amidst the scary chaos? How could that be? He looked around and saw his friends laughing as they shivered. He realized they were laughing at him.
“There’s no mud in my mantra, Mr. Worm!” mocked the know-it-all. More giggles rose above the wind.
The full fledged plant blushed.
“Actually, that’s brilliant.” giggled the know-it-all. “If there’s anything we could use right now, it’s a reminder of our purpose.” she relented.
Then something amazing happened. A murmur of mantras rose up through the mud and the wind.
“Sun! Fruit! Know! Grow!” they repeated over and over. It seemed the whole garden had joined in. The full-fledged plant felt a second wind of his own coming on. He puffed himself up and joined in.
“Sun! Fruit! Know! Grow!” It carried on, into the wind, blocking out the beating of the storm. Everyone held strong, into the night, giving it all they had. The garden was a chorus of wind, rain, mud and mantras for hours.
Finally, that familiar flicker washed over them. The sun was returning. They looked around at each other. They were disheveled. Their leaves were tattered. Their stems were weak. But their fruits held strong.
“Hip hip, hooray!” yelled one of the full-fledged plant’s friends. “We made it!”
They celebrated in the sun. They laughed at the mud splatters on their leaves and fruits. They complimented each other’s courage and strength. Then another friend returned.
The gardener looked down at the full-fledged plant and the others and smiled. He crouched down and began to clean them up gently.
The full-fledged plant looked up to the gardener with admiration. “I did what you said. I grew. I grew so much that I was able to make these for you. They’re a little muddy, but I hope you’ll enjoy them.“ said the full-fledged plant, offering up his fruits.
The gardener looked proud. “You did good, little plant. You did really good.”
“You did well.” said the gardener’s wife, gently correcting him as she approached to admire the beautiful fruit.
The full-fledged plant beamed, and continued to produce fruit for weeks, offering it up to the smiling gardener. It felt good to be appreciated and to be able to return the gardener’s favor.
As the weeks passed and the air cooled, the fruitful plant began to droop, no matter how proud he felt. Bits of him wilted more each day. Eventually, the gardener crouched down and surveyed his leaves with a humane look on his face.
“I’m sorry. I tried to make more, but I’m just so tired. I hope that you have enough fruits to last you.” said the full-fledged plant weakly.
“It’s okay, little plant. You’ve worked hard and given me and my family much to be happy with. I’ll tell you a secret. I kept a bit of some of your fruits. Look, they’re here in my pocket.” said the gardener.
He reached into his overalls and pulled out a handkerchief, unfolding it gently. It revealed a small pile of little things the plant recognized from his childhood.
“They’re seeds, aren’t they? Seeds like I use to be.” whispered the full-fledged plant, so as not to disturb the sleeping seeds.
“That’s right, little plant. But not just any seeds. They’re seeds from the fruits you gave me. I‘ll take good care of them for you and when the time comes, I‘ll give them the same opportunity I gave you. An opportunity to make you proud.“ whispered the gardener.
“My seeds?“ asked the full-fledged plant, a glimmer of pride in his voice. “I did good, didn’t I? I did really good.”
Satisfied with their lives of courage and fruitfulness, the full-fledged plant and his friends gave in to the sleepiness brought on by the crisp air of Fall, and the gardener politely helped them return to the earth, making it rich and full of goodness again.
Time passed, and many generations of the seed graced the earth, fighting the good fight to bear their own fruits. With each seed, the gardener relayed the story of the one who made their existence possible, instilling a sense of pride and purpose as he tucked them into the earth.
After several years, the gardener too became tired, but was happy with the life of abundance he had provided to his plants and his family. When the time came, his wife helped him grace the earth as his plants did. She planted the descendants of the full fledged plant in his grave with him. Together, they made the earth even richer and full of goodness.
“You both did good. You both did really good.” cried the gardener’s wife quietly.
The Boy Who Implied Wolf
As he regained consciousness in the hospital bed, shaking off the weight of anesthesia, he looked around for the familiar face of his husband but was instead met with the furrowed brow of a stranger asking him if he would like to press charges. A wave of panic washed over him as he recalled the vivid details; events of his childhood excavated from a rift in his mind while unconscious, then blabbed to anonymous nurses while he fought his way lucid, post-surgery.
It was dark outside the room’s window. He had arrived early that morning, entered surgery around 10 a.m. and was told that the discectomy would be finished by early afternoon. Bypassing the chance to assess any improvement in the pain of his lower back, he turned his attention to the stranger. Holding an open file, she explained her presence. “I’m a case worker. According to the nurses, you were distraught while awakening from anesthesia. You said that you saw everything he did to you. When they asked who you were referring to, you told them ‘Mr. X’, your scout leader. I’m here to create your case if you would like to press charges.”
“Who the hell is this?” he thought. “Doesn’t she know I just had surgery?” Averting his eyes downward, he shook his head to dismiss her. She pressed him in an effort to be sure he knew the choice he was making. He gave no answer, staring away in silence, fighting the tears welling up from the embarrassment of being caught in such a vulnerable state. Shortly after she exited, his husband appeared, having been asked to wait nearly three hours longer than expected, presumably to allow enough time for the case worker to show up and interview him before he talked to anyone else. He smiled back at his husband, relieved to have something comforting to focus on, and the cringe-inducing memories were momentarily tucked back into in the rift with a shallow hold.
Peering out the window of his second story bedroom, a sense of dread crept into his throat as a vehicle full of boy scouts pulled into the cul-de-sac. The boy cowered in the corner, tears welling up in his eyes. His parents appeared in the room to see him off. His mom tried to comfort and coax him, while his dad took a sterner approach in a lower than usual tone.
“Come on, they’re all waiting for you. You need to toughen up. This will be good for you.”
Such an overly sensitive, fragile boy. A different kind of boy, some would say. He showed kindness to all creatures, including the creepy crawly ones. He was creative and intuitive, with an appreciation for showmanship and drama. He could sing, dance and emulate. He listened to instrumental orchestral music from films, of all things. He loved to perform and be adored. There would be none of that where he was going for the weekend. As they drove to their destination in the mountains forty-five minutes from home, he fought back his emotions so as not to incur the wrath of the other boys. It would be two days of masculine, competitive activities he would never choose to do on his own but there was no getting around it. Their scout leader, “Mr. X”, was a plain, greasy-haired man, lacking in charisma or style; the apathy sewn onto his joyless face like a merit badge. He wouldn't be sweet-talked into letting the boy slough any of the activities.
The sleeping bag had been cinched around his neck as he fell asleep that night in the serrated mountain air, so it was a rude awakening to regain consciousness with the bag pulled down, his skinny, goosebump covered, tween body exposed in the dark. Mr. X straddled him, his face just visible in the darkness with an index finger crossing his lips vertically, demanding silence. The look on his face was almost as unbearable as the actions of his hands; a look of undeniable self-loathing and remorse that seemed to say “I’m really sorry. I can't help myself.” The boy obeyed, fighting the instinct to struggle and cry out for help, afraid of the embarrassment that would follow if he did. Instead, he tilted his head back far enough for the trees to appear upside down and tried to suppress any noise that fought to escape his mouth.
Upon waking in the morning, Mr. X cornered the boy immediately.
"Listen", he began, his voice gruff and unstable. "This is difficult, but I feel obligated to talk to you about it. The whole point of being a scout is to learn to become a man. That includes taking responsibility for your actions. What you did last night was, well...it was terrible. But...it's my job to protect you while you're away from home. Your selfish actions would make me look like a bad leader. I don't think you want to be responsible for getting me in trouble, do you? I don't deserve it. Besides, just imagine the bullying you'd get from the other boys if they found out. You know how mean they can be. So, if you're really good for the rest of the day and don't tell anyone what you did, I won’t either. It will stay a secret between you, me and Heavenly Father. It's his job to judge you for what you do and what you are. Is that clear?" The boy nodded, equally confused and ashamed. "Good. Go and help Jason with the pancakes. Some breakfast and fresh air will make us both feel better, then we can enjoy ourselves for the rest of our time here."
“It's his job to judge you for what you do and what you are”, Mr. X had told him. What did he mean by that? Had he singled out the boy because he was different, as if the boy might actually be receptive to his disgusting actions?
In the unfinished basement of their home was an old console TV. The plastic knob had cracked and fallen off over time and so in order to change channels, the boy had to turn the dial with a small wrench and endlessly adjust the antennae. There were about five channels available, most of them grainy from the poor reception. The only clear channel was number 7, PBS. The boy preferred the sugar-coated fluff of the other channels. PBS was mostly a drag, consisting of either Sesame Street or adults talking seriously about boring, adult things. The only programs worth watching there were the nature shows full of interesting animals, all of which he wanted to rescue from the ruthless jaws of predators. After that night in the mountains, the boy rescued himself from the jaws of a predator by tucking the whole experience in between channels, turning the wrench just far enough to lock it away in the noisy, indiscernible static. It remained there like a pile of filth swept under a rug, hastily dealt with until a later time when it would be inevitably discovered.
That time nearly came one day as a teen, while the boy raked leaves in the yard. Hearing someone pull into the driveway, he walked far enough to the side to catch a glimpse. As the visitor exited their car, the boy's jaw pushed upward into the roof of his mouth hard enough to make his ears buzz. Their eyes met and Mr. X walked to the edge of the grass about twenty-five feet from where the boy stood.
"Is your dad around?" he asked.
The boy didn't answer. Their eyes remained locked for what felt like an eternity, each of them gauging the other's next move. The look on the man's face once again became unbearable, except that this time, the remorse was replaced with a subtle, yet unmistakably smug turn of the lips, as if to say "Look at you boy, I was right about you all along. I know what you are." The boy's mind filled with brief flashes that made his blood run cold. Fear quickly morphed into anger. He suddenly hoped the man would come at him so that he would have a reason to defend himself, raking that goddamned look off his face right down to bloody bone. Mr. X must have sensed the power shift, quickly retreating to his car and driving away without fulfilling his reason for the visit.
The boy was unable to shake the feelings stirred anew by the event, though the flashes that caused the anger could no longer be recalled. Static. It was all static. He knew something had happened. He knew Mr. X had done something bad, but whenever he tried to tune in the details, the wrench in his mind slipped, leaving him with just hazy glimpses of the channel. Regardless of being able to recall specific details, he was disturbed enough to decide he needed to say something to his parents. As he worked up the courage to broach the subject, a chip began to grow on his shoulder, filled with a pus of infection in the form of shame. It left him defensive and unstable in his approach, ready to strike or retreat if he was met by resistance. He wasn't sure which way he would go.
"I need to talk to you about Mr. X", he began.
"Oh? What about him?" his mom replied nonchalantly.
"Have you heard any rumors about him?" he continued.
"No, honey, what do you mean? What kind of rumors?” replied his mom.
"I don’t know. That he’s…creepy. Kids have been gossiping about him for years now. I just wondered if you had heard any of it." he offered, averting his eyes.
"Well that doesn't sound very nice. Kids can be mean sometimes, you know. I try not to give much power to rumors." his mom observed.
His dad remained silent. The pus in the chip on the boy's shoulder began to bubble. He was already losing ground. He had to act quickly if he was going to go through with this.
"It's just that..." he blurted. "I think he did something."
His parents shifted from casual to engaged.
"Honey, what do you mean?" quizzed his mom with an earnest concern.
"I can't...I can't remember really, but he did something...and I don't know what to do about it." he choked.
"You can’t remember what he did?" quizzed his mom.
The boy felt a visceral hiccup in his mind; a speed bump followed by a brick wall. His mind went blank.
“S-s-something...” he stammered.
But it was no use. His memory was paralyzed by fear, grief and embarrassment. The 'something' was clear in its impact but beyond his grasp in recall, and if he couldn't get to it, he couldn't convince them of how terrible it was. Clawing at the air of his psyche, he lashed out desperately.
“Look, I know he did something and I know you don't care. Nobody cares!”
“Hey now.” countered his dad abruptly. “That's enough of that. I don't know what this is all about, but you can't tell your mom and I that we don't care. You know that's not true.” His mom nodded in agreement.
“You're obviously very upset and we just want to understand why.” she softened. “What can you tell us?”.
The television in his mind had turned off and all he was left with in defense were adjectives.
“He's not a good person. He's...bad.” exclaimed the boy in deflated desperation.
“I don't understand where this is coming from, honey. Have you even seen him lately? Is someone spreading rumors about him at school?” asked his mom. “Just take a breath and tell us what this is all about.”
“He came over to see dad last week...” began the boy.
“Yes, I just talked to him the other day.” interrupted his dad. “He seemed fine. He's a good man. There are a lot of good people in our ward. He's one of them. If someone's trying to convince you otherwise, you should be careful what you take to heart. Is it one of his kids? Adopted children have a lot of confusing feelings about their adoptive parents. They lash out sometimes. Is that what's happening?”
“No.” said the boy, wilting with no ammunition to continue.
The parents quickly dismissed the interaction as a mere bump in the night; no more than an imaginary monster in the closet. Oh how the boy loved his drama. They were well respected in the local church ward. Known as bastions of selfless service to others, they were not the type to make waves or perpetuate negativity. They chose to see the good in people. They believed the world was fraught with frivolous litigation. Their charming good looks, humble nature and seemingly sugar-coated life afforded them a pedestal of respect within the community from which they could sleep soundly at night. The boy's ill-defined claims could find no foothold in a climb to the top of their pedestal.
His mind fractured that day, taking his life in a new direction. Replaying the conversation over and over, the boy beat himself up with could haves, would haves and should haves. Weren't they curious to find out what he did? “To me…Did something...to me!”, he should have said. “But what did he really do to me?” he wondered. If only he could remember clearly. The elusive flashes in his mind seeded doubt. Maybe they were right. Maybe Mr. X was a good person. Maybe it was all imagined. Or maybe the boy really had done something terrible to disappoint Mr. X as he had suggested and he just wasn’t aware of, or couldn’t remember, what it was. Lacking strength in his conviction of events, the boy retreated, unable to fully recognize and convey the severity of his experience.
For most children, innocence is lost; sloughed off naturally with the onset of a hormonal catalyst and carnal knowledge. For others like the boy, innocence is stolen. Whether he remembered the events or not, he had been introduced to sexuality too early and within an unacceptable context, before his body and mind could understand that it was meant to be a positive and consensual exchange of power. It manipulated his impressionable young psyche, which countered with a powerful defense mechanism of deep denial. It created a tonal dissonance in which he experienced sexual feelings as a compound of both desire and fear. Because of this, he would go forward in life emotionally detached from sex. It would never be a fulfilling or healthy release for him.
He resumed his treacherous navigation of teenhood alone, knowing that he was different. He felt a deep shame, though he wasn't sure exactly what he had done wrong. He developed strong feelings of admiration and attraction for other boys and men. He tried to hide those feelings between channels, but every day presented a new barrage of sinful thoughts. He used girls as a shield, choosing a new girlfriend almost monthly to parade on his arm down the hallways at school. But as hard as he tried to hide his secret, his co-dependent relationship with showmanship and drama tried just as hard to expose him. His hair was perfectly coiffed every morning; his clothes desperate to stand out in the crowd; the lilt in his voice giving hint to a feminine side like fear shown to a rabid dog. During seminary class, the teacher talked about homosexuality being a pathway to unhappiness; a sin second only to murder; one that would not allow for heavenly rewards in the afterlife. Chastity was sacred for heterosexual children. “Better to be dead clean, than alive unclean” they taught. Still, with repentance they could be redeemed for any hormonally driven violation of that commitment. Homosexual activity, on the other hand, was a far worse transgression. Teased and taunted by the ever-confident jocks of school, he denied every accusation and let the verbal bullets of “faggot!” bounce off as much as possible, but after an egregious bullying episode he let the shame win. Leaving school midday without permission or announcement, he walked to a field, sat in an empty drain pipe and asked God to take his life, because he didn't have the courage nor means to do it himself and knew that he couldn't live the life his Heavenly Father and parents wanted for him.
But on that day, and each day after, the boy who was ashamed for the things he had no control over, received no answers to his prayers; no comfort; no promise of resolution. Did God want him to remain here, tortured as penance for his secrets? Why not send his irredeemable son to outer darkness now, knowing it was the inevitable outcome? The silence from God felt cruel and the chip full of pus began to form on his shoulder again. He began to question every aspect of the religious ether that permeated the life of his family and friends' existence. They had been blessed with a path to happiness simply for being born into the right circumstances, while many less fortunate people throughout the world were doomed to fail by a so-called loving god. The boy's path had unwittingly led him to the edge of a cliff. He wanted to know why and how he could have prevented it.
There is evidence to suggest that some left-handed children, growing up in such a minority, develop what’s known as “outsider’s mindset”; a tendency to have a self-image that’s individualized rather than group-oriented. The boy was both left-handed and same-sex oriented, all but ensuring a mindset of non-conformity. It did not mesh well with the mindset of his squeaky clean, straight-edged high school peers. He fumbled his way through those three years living his thinly veiled lie. He was given standing ovations when performing onstage but was often snubbed in-person in the school hallways. The family doctor, trusted by his parents for several years, misdiagnosed his depression as both a chemical imbalance and a spiritual void. He prescribed anti-depressants and, bypassing his Hippocratic oath, advised the boy that he must accept Jesus as his savior if he wanted to be happy. (The boy would later find out that the doctor's marriage fell apart amid claims of domestic abuse.) The little pills he took each day transported him to a land of fog, where extreme ups and downs were replaced by a plateau of apathy. He went to school. He went to work. He slept. A lot. The chip full of pus was still there on his shoulder, but it no longer dominated his behavior. His romance with drama flattened to an unsteady curve.
In the summer of '89 after graduation, he met a man seven years older than him while working at a local video store. He was an extremely shy, handsome customer with darting eyes that gave off a tortured vibe resonating with his own. Their relationship quickly blossomed into a love that they could only reveal to each other. They shared an awkward romance of drama, empathy and the same brand of shame. They kissed together and cried together, fantasizing about a big red button that when pressed, would cure them of the apparent flaw that kept them from being respected citizens and family members. Over time, the love and acceptance they felt led them to seek out others who shared their feelings. They knew others existed in the shadows as they did; a tribe of outcasts exiled to the novelty of freaks and tortured peripheral characters in popular sitcoms and films of the time. When the romance dissipated, they remained good friends on a quest for pride and further acceptance, knowing instinctively on some deeper level that they deserved more than the bad hands life had dealt them.
After becoming a legal adult, he decided it was time to leave the unwelcoming church he had tolerated for so many years. In order to do so, he would have to tell his parents the truth. He sat them down and made the same mistake of again leading with the festering chip on his shoulder. In a single breath, he told them he was gay, leaving the church and there was nothing they could do to change it. He delivered the news as an ultimatum, as if daring them to defy him. His parents responded accordingly, with anger, sadness and their own ultimatum that the boy would no longer carry their surname for as long as he chose such a lifestyle. He was secretly pleased they responded in such a way because it somehow justified his defensive nature and made it easier to leave.
The boy moved out immediately, running to the arms of his new boyfriend in the big city; an older, alcoholic flight attendant who became belligerent with the boy if he failed to wrap the cord around the hair dryer correctly, or did not face the cans and boxes forward when returning them to the cupboard shelf. He was miserable but trapped. After about a month, his parents called in tears to apologize and explain they should never have disowned him. They promised to love the boy no matter what may come. He returned home with his tail between his legs and the chip ready to lead him into battle again should a reason present itself. His relationship with his parents was a ballet on eggshells for the next few years. They blamed themselves and wanted to bring their wayward son back to the fold. The boy, however, became more defiant with pride in who and what he was. He felt on a deep level they owed him. The world owed him. The world owed people like him. He took advantage of their graces, living at home and plotting his future. He moved from one antidepressant to another and lashed out at them when the pills became no match for his chip. Even though he had a job, he took cash from their wallets and drove their car every weekend to the big city to be with his kind.
After a botched adult tonsillectomy left his throat badly scarred, his award-winning singing voice became easily fatigued. “No matter”, the boy thought. He had other talents and would make a way for himself in the film industry. In '93, he and his best friend became volunteers for the Sundance Film Festival, where they were presented a chance to hobnob with celebrities and other big players in the industry. There, an upcoming director named Bryan took a shine to the boy at a party, inviting him into his world. He was older than the boy, in his late twenties, with piercing eyes, epic vision and an east coast mentality that was foreign to the boy's sheltered bewilderment. The boy was lured by his confidence. When Bryan's film won the grand prize of the festival, he invited the boy to Hollywood a few months later to attend a celebratory party. The boy was excited to be brought along on his journey. He saw it as a chance at a big break, riding the coat tails of Bryan's success. Bryan did not see it that way. To him, the boy was a cute young trophy to hang on his arm; a sheltered but charming Utah hick who was a walking encyclopedia of film knowledge; a novelty. At the big party in Hollywood Hills, the boy met several celebrities and players. Some were friendly and gracious in their pursuit of a relationship with the talented new director in town. Others, like Kevin, were on the prowl for more than just professional connections. His eyes met with the boy's eyes, recalling the look Mr. X had given him years ago in the yard. It was the same arrogant, self-satisfied gaze a predator gives their prey right before they pounce. The boy, no longer a teen, was unsettled to find that Kevin’s leering caused as much excitement as fear. What exactly was his fascination with older men all about? he wondered. At one point the boy was introduced, tongue in cheek, as Bryan's “less than significant other”. Kevin and Bryan would strike up a professional relationship that night that would result in multiple film collaborations. During his brief stay the boy witnessed displays of power and manipulation under the guise of deal making. A few people in high positions warned Bryan of parading his lifestyle in public when he was on the brink of success. The town and its inauthentic people made the boy uneasy. They flaunted their secrets and lifestyle discreetly when the setting was acceptable, but when in the public eye they “played the game”, verbally cannibalizing other people who shared their same secrets. Bryan sensed the shift in the boy's energy and, having had his fun, sent him packing back to Utah. From afar, the boy would watch Bryan's rise to fame from east coast nobody to west coast director of Oscar winning films, making several blockbusters during his career and giving LGBTQ talent an “out and proud” path to success through his example of closet-busting. However, his career along with Kevin’s, would be cut short twenty years later when allegations surfaced involving the abuse of underage boys, after which they were both exiled from the business and the public eye in shame. Some part of the boy deep in his rift took satisfaction in seeing Bryan's comeuppance.
After the incident in Hollywood, the boy lost direction. There had been no plan B. He had been sure of his future as an entertainer. He floated for a while in the pill-induced fog, dating one older man after another, some twice his age and a few around his age who were less likely to put up with his unambitious spirit. Frustrated with his lack of offering and instability, he took the advice of a friend and tried weight training. It was like magic, a natural high that elevated his mood and had the side effect of a sculpted, desired body. The boy's physique finally lost its twink appeal, filling out and providing him a newfound confidence. He no longer needed the artificial, chemical-induced leveling of the pills. He held a job for more than a few years, rented his own apartment and began exhibiting a sense of personal responsibility. It did not translate to healthy romantic relationships, but it did give him a sense of pride in providing for himself after drifting in emotional and chemical dependency for many years. Living away from home, his relationship with his parents improved. He was able to appreciate the help and sacrifices they had provided him throughout the years.
He became comfortable with solitude, going to movies alone, dining out as a party of one and only being social once a week on the sweat-covered, strobing dance floors of Saturday night gay clubs. On one occasion, he was invited to stay for an after-hours party at the club after it closed down to the general public for the night. He awoke in a strange apartment nine hours later with no recollection of what had happened during the missing time. The apartment belonged to an acquaintance who had apparently brought him home to take care of him after someone had placed a date-rape drug in his drink. It left him physically ill for the better part of a week, and forever disturbed by the possibilities of what may have happened that night. Going forward, he was less trusting of the community he had fought for and longed to be part of. He still flirted every weekend on the dance floor in order to fulfill a need to be desired, but seldom took it further, avoiding sex in favor of music, movies and exercise for entertainment. It wasn't the life he envisioned for himself, but there was simple satisfaction in the act of surviving on one's own. Having won himself over for the first time in his life, he stopped looking for love in the form of father figures from whom he sought some sad, twisted form of acceptance. But a few years later, the universe decided to throw a curve ball in the boy's singular existence, in the form of another tortured but hopeful soul named Ryan.
Ryan was a kindred spirit who happened to be seven years younger than the boy. Their lives had intersected several times without their knowing. At long last, a geeky, mutual love for the emotional spectrum of orchestral film music brought them together. After their first face-to-face meeting and an epic date, they skipped the dating phase and moved in together, content to have clicked so well from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Each of them racked with debt, they were a Thelma and Louise financial disaster waiting to happen. It didn't matter to them. At the end of every stressful day they shared the comfort of “them”. They spent the next ten years pulling themselves out of their fiscal hole, defying all odds and debt collectors. They bought a house in a rough neighborhood on the west side and began fixing it up. Together, they learned coping skills and life lessons that had evaded them in their young adult lives. When the law finally caught up with compassion, they got married and became licensed for foster care, with the intent of starting a family.
The strength of their bond and hard work had brought them to an exciting and happy point in their lives. They were licensed and waiting for a child or two to be entrusted in their care. But once again, the universe had decided to throw a spanner in the works. The boy's lower back had developed a herniated disc from vigorous yard work and exercise. The pain shot down his leg in excruciating spasms leaving him with no comfortable position for relief and a deficit of sleep. After failed attempts to remedy the disc with injections and physical therapy, the boy was left with surgery; a procedure that would suppress one pain and resurrect another.
A recent scientific study suggests that when we remember something, we recall not the original memory, but instead the memory of the last time we remembered it. Those are the memories that wash over us, shaped over time like a stone in the ocean. But there are other memories that punch us right between the eyes with the visceral weight of truth, remaining unchanged over time. After surgery and the incident with the case worker, the vivid recall of that night at scout camp was locked in place, with no wrench deft enough to detune the channel. He saw every detail of the incident. It had really happened. He didn't ask for it. He wasn't to blame. Its effects had rippled throughout his life. He knew that now. In a way, it was a comfort to the boy to know after so many years, that his anger and projection wasn’t just that of a boy lashing out at others over his own failings. He was not inherently bad. He did not deserve the guilt and shame that clung to him like dead weight. But any comfort was overshadowed by the malice he now felt for the joyless, greasy-haired man who had thrown his life off course so many years ago.
The awakening and clarity demanded to be acknowledged as if to say “You can't banish me to the static between channels anymore. I exist. Deal with me.” If he was to do so, it would mean not only confronting Mr. X., but also attempting a reconciliation for the confusion he now felt regarding his parents' inaction. He immediately let Ryan in on his resurfaced trauma for support. Ryan made it clear he would advovate for him if he chose to address his parents, as difficult as it may be. They were sweet, good-natured people who loved him and wouldn't intentionally hand feed him to a wolf. They had offered endless assistance to him on his journey to adulthood and marriage.They treated his husband as they would any child of their own. And yet, the memories suggested that they may not have done all they could to defend him so many years ago when he had tried to let them in on his personal hell. He didn't like the feelings of resentment it created. At a family dinner shortly after the surgery, he found himself struggling not to recoil in his mother's greeting of a well-meaning embrace. An awkward lump of love and disgust for both her and himself had to be fought back in his throat. To complicate matters further, his now elderly father was head-deep in the jaws of his own predator, battling dementia. His mother was understandably near the end of her wits in caring for him. Dealing with his old trauma would mean bringing new trauma to their already dire situation, but it was clear to him he couldn't deal with Mr. X unless he also dealt with his parents at the same time.
The boy who had spent thirty-three years in need of release and healing, would find no outlet for it at this time; not if it meant destroying his parents. And so the channel stayed tuned, fixed to a high definition display of the predator and the prey. He would walk through life reliving the carnage helplessly on repeat, without the mercy of a subconscious suppression.
A few weeks before the surgery, another predator had entered the world stage, in the form of a newly elected President of the United States. He was a different kind of predator who flaunted his abuse of power publicly without a need to hold his finger to his lips to quiet dissent from his victims. Half the country had willingly chosen to elevate such a monster to power despite his obvious and unforgivable flaws. It was inconceivable to the boy. Coupled with the post-surgery revelations weeks later, it left him confused, furious and hungry for justice, but those feelings were about to be upstaged.
Just as the country began to split in pieces, he and Ryan rescued a tortured ten year old boy from his his parents, who themselves had fallen prey to a different kind of predator: addiction. The father was in prison; the mother homeless and chasing her next high. The young boy wanted nothing more than to be with his mom, even if it meant living in a car, drifting from motel to motel, needle to needle. She had dropped him off at his aunt's house, promised to be back for him the next day, and simply disappeared. The aunt, with children of her own, quickly realized she could not provide for him and dropped him off at the Christmas Box House. Understandably, it had broken the young boy. When they found him there, he was a sweet natured soul with a big smile that camouflaged his intense sadness and aptitude for meltdowns. The chip on his own shoulder was quickly recognized and met with empathy. The boy who was now a parent, along with his husband Ryan, devoted the next year of their lives keeping the fragile young boy safe, healthy and as happy as could be expected. The country began its shift into chaos around them, but they were distracted by purpose, existing in their own microcosm of instant fatherhood. They watched the young boy slowly emerge from his shell of distrust. They saw hope and direction in his intermittent charisma. The boy who was now a parent wanted nothing more than to save the ten year old boy from the predators of the world and the chip on his own little shoulder, filled with the pus of memories for a mother who never said goodbye.
But after a year of hard fought battles; of meltdowns and merciful victories; after the glory of turning the young boy's life around from daily trauma to frequent triumph, they realized that they could not fill the subconscious void in his life; a void that only the betrayal of a mother could have hollowed out, and only a mother’s love could once again make whole. They had planned to adopt him all along, but it had become apparent over time that the boy needed a mom in his life. A sizable percentage of the world had made their belief clear that homosexuals should not be parents; that they cannot provide the same benefits as a mother and father. Ryan and the boy wanted badly to prove that subset of society wrong, but instead had to think about this particular young boy's needs instead of their own pride. Fortunately, the young boy's school principal stepped up, expressing a desire to take in the promising soul she had gotten to know and love through his regular visits to her office whenever he was in trouble. He was adopted by her and her loving family, providing him with financial security, stable parental experience, a good education and most importantly, a mother who would stay. It was the most difficult, most rewarding year he could imagine. Keeping the young boy safe and bringing happiness to him was the biggest accomplishment of his life. Letting him go created another void that could not be filled by simply taking in another foster child.
Mercifully, the new parents insisted that the young boy still remain a part of their lives and allowed regular visits every few weeks. It provided them all with the comfort they needed for such an emotional transition. They watched the young boy slowly let go of the past and embrace his new family and new life. Life also changed drastically for the boy and Ryan too, who found their lives suddenly opened up. They were debt free for the first time. They had hours to spare and extra money to spend. They took vacations and made big plans for the future. It should have been the happiest time of their lives, but without the daily tasks of parenting to distract him, the boy turned his attention back to the ever-spiraling chaos of the world.
Leaders of the church he had abandoned so many years ago were still perpetuating the message that LGBTQ people were less than equal to their heterosexual brothers and sisters. It contributed to many suicides among LDS youth. Throughout the world, thousands of children went missing each year, disappearing into an unimaginable hell of human sex trafficking. Some of the rescued children had been violated thousands of times over several years. On the political front, the foxes had been placed in charge of the chicken coop and surprisingly enough, about half of the flock seemed okay with it. He saw predators in positions of power all over the globe, taking advantage of helpless people they were appointed to protect. He saw wolves hiding in Christian clothing, furthering their self-serving agendas of oppression and inequality in the name of God. It was an abuse of power and gaslighting that his own wolf had used against him as a child. And the victims, the citizens who deserved better, fell for it just like he had. When he looked throughout history, he realized that the world had always been this way. He felt helpless to do anything about it and it made him furious. It became more and more difficult to focus on the good in his life. The reward center of his brain had been remapped to seek out and exploit the injustice he saw everywhere. He screamed textually on social media, but only a few would listen. Most people were content to look the other way, just as the good people of Germany had done while their neighbors were carted off to the gas chambers during WWII. He was deeply offended that so many people he knew, including family members, would directly or indirectly support the injustice of the world in an effort to save face for their political party, even if doing so called for the demise of democracy right before their eyes. He called them out to their faces and disowned them, thinning out his “friends” list like a blood-thirsty Nazi hunter. He trolled online forums, berating complete strangers; calling them out for their hypocrisy. It gave him a visceral, albeit short-lived sense of control to do so. He craved the dark, negatively charged rush it provided. Oh how the boy loved his drama.
The boy had always been careful not to let Ryan be a hapless target of his anger for the world. Ryan provided a calming balance in their relationship. Their humane nature and like-minded humor played off each other in a magnetic volley, leaving them content and assured at the end of the day. Ryan undoubtedly shared the boy’s angry views about the unfair ways of the world, but was able to compartmentalize it and go about his daily life without letting it weigh him down. The boy, in contrast, had allowed the injustice of the world to fester in his chip, which soon became too large for those in his life to ignore. Ryan finally admitted to him that whether he realized it or not, he had led Ryan to a neglected and lonely place by his side. It became clear that his inability to reconcile his past had potentially dire repercussions for his future as a human and a husband. Still, the boy floundered, unsure of how to resolve himself. He shunned the idea of therapy, sure in his assertion that it was the world that was sick, not himself. He didn't want some stranger providing him tips for coexisting with such a world. He wasn't even sure he wanted to continue his human experience any longer.
In the Spring and Summer of 2020, a pandemic and a race war sent him to the edge of sanity, a familiar cliff he had found himself teetering on earlier in life. As the virus circled the globe, locking the world down in fear of death and uncertainty, the human race seemed for once in his lifetime, united against a common enemy. Until suddenly, it wasn't. While other countries locked down in an unprecedented state of sacrifice, political and tribal division brought out the worst in the citizens of the US, a once admired but now ridiculed and pitied nation. The President downplayed the severity to serve his own re-election agenda. Too many citizens were unwilling to do what was needed to ensure that the most vulnerable among them were protected. Many of them were quick to defer their responsibilities to God, content to leave the fate of the masses in his hands. Many died needlessly as a result. Those who had previously boasted of their intent to die for their country should they ever have to, clutching their guns, prepping their bunkers, believing the other side to be “snowflakes”, were the ones now suddenly buckling under the prospect of being forced to socially distance and wear simple face coverings in an effort to keep their fellow brothers and sisters safe. Government officials took their cues from the big business pimps they were beholden to instead of medical professionals, vowing to keep the country open for business while the high-risk people suffocated to death in hospitals without their loved ones at their sides. The Predator-in-Chief used the pandemic as justification for the release of his convicted comrades, while immigrant children remained in cages at the border, long separated from their parents. The already tense environment of the country escalated even further when racial violence reached a tipping point, forcing the country to take notice of police brutality against people of color, whether they wanted to or not. Many doubled down on their white privilege, proving that history repeats itself time and again, because we fail to learn from our past mistakes time and again. Oh how America loved its drama, its spoiled and arrogant people drunk on their love of money, power and deep-rooted biases. The country was broken. A majority of citizens acknowledged it and called for meaningful change, while the rest refused in a grotesque display of stubborn entitlement and blind patriotism. He couldn’t help but wonder how different the country might be if people grew up self-policing every entitled, priviledged or racist thought they had, as he had done with his homosexuality.
In the interest of safety, he had gone several months without seeing the young boy, now a teen and a much needed ray of hope in his life. He had seen his mother once briefly on Mother's Day, standing in the yard well away from her front door while they spoke without hugging. His father had succumbed to his predator a few years prior, leaving his mother alone to defend them both should he ever decide to confront his past. Tucked away in the romantic depression of isolation and quarantine, he withdrew from everyone, including at times, his husband. He felt shame for his inability to be resilient, especially when countless other children had been subjected to much worse than his own experience. His chip fed him darker thoughts and worst-case scenarios, all of which he was sure would become eventual realities. With every internal spiral of his heavy mind, he began penning hypothetical suicide notes, explaining to the few he still loved why they shouldn’t mourn him, but should rather mourn the world and the role each of us plays in its descent into madness.
Every well written villain has a backstory consisting of traumatic events, betrayals and injustices which cause them to replace hope for humanity with resentment. The boy could feel himself transitioning. His heart blackened further each day with thoughts of vengeance against the predators of the world. Amid the few remaining threads of his humanity, questions now circled his mind, unable to land with clarity:
Would life be better now if, all those years ago, he hadn't failed to properly convey his traumatic experience to his parents? Would they have bypassed their good-neighbor social graces and pursued Mr. X for the sake of justice for their son? Could he reconcile his love for his family with their support of a religious institution that continues to perpetuate abusive beliefs about LGBTQ people? If he weren’t gay and hadn’t been assaulted, would he himself be a different person, assimilated on the wrong side of history like so many he knew? Did Mr. X force himself on other children, planting a lifelong seed of shame and anger in their lives as well? If so, had the boy failed the other children by not reporting him? Did Mr. X truly feel remorse for his actions, as his eyes seemed to hint at during his predatory actions? What happened in Mr. X's own life that led him to take on the role of predator? Could he confront Mr. X constructively without letting his chip lead the event to a darker place? Would anyone believe the boy after so much time had passed? If it became public, would his parents’ community discount the claims, writing the boy off as a lying, wayward son who left the church to lead a life of sin? Would they treat his mother poorly if he pursued justice?
Most of all, the boy questioned whether he could he find forgiveness for anyone, including himself. Was there still hope for healing, or had a world overrun by villains and predators pushed him to the point of no return? He could only envision three options before him.
Option one - do nothing, as he had done for years since the surgery's revelation, letting his chip full of pus lead his anger to explosive and irreversible consequences.
Option two - veer off the hiking trail into a dense, isolated area and pull the trigger, allowing the literal and metaphorical predators to finish him off.
Option three - attempt to fully let go of the shame, anger and victimhood weighing down the tortured boy who couldn't effectively advocate for himself and finally step into the mindset of an adult man, strong enough to confront those who failed him and forgive those who still held a meaningful place in his life.
“It’s always darkest before the dawn”, a cliché expression easily refuted by science, is meant to provide metaphorical inspiration to those teetering at wit’s end. In the boy’s eleventh hour, an unexpected reminder came in the form of equally cliché song lyric:
“Love hurts when you do it right.”
In the absence of love, any betrayal could be easily dismissed; forgotten with minimal effort. At the core of any relationship, it’s love that sources the anger. It’s love that drives the anger of a child who feels unprotected or abandoned by a parent. It’s love that kicks a boy out of a home when his parents believe his lifestyle jeopardizes his soul. It’s love that sparks resentment in a spouse who feels neglected and lonely. It’s love that fuels the fear of acceptance and forms a chip full of pus on one’s shoulder. By that logic, it was the boy’s earnest love for a world full of promise that inspired his intense anger when he observed its needless corruption. Many well-meaning people walk a tightrope of love and resentment, placing someone above them to worship and someone below them to judge, in some misguided form of existential balance. The boy realized that in his quest for justice, equality and acceptance, his best hope for maintaining emotional balance was his thirteen year investment in the love for a husband who had yet to give up on him. With Ryan’s inspiration, he chose option three. If people like the boy remained silent and society continued to treat unspeakable matters as unspeakable, sweeping difficult conversations under the rug like a pile of filth, predators like Mr. X would continue to be empowered and assimilated into society, tipping us all off balance to the side of resentment and its inevitable consequences. In order to truly let go and move forward, he would first have to let it out, pus and all. And so, putting fingers to keyboard, he began to cry wolf loudly to himself.
This time, he heard it.
