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Shawn sat alone in his room—like he so often did. With Gus gone, there wasn’t as much of a reason to leave. Well, spare for his father’s tirades that shook the walls from his fury. And Shawn would demonstrate his mastery of keeping a normal tone while thick, hot tears streamed down his face.
It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t succeeded. Except for the simple fact that it was.
A college essay was just such a daunting task. And the I’ll-do-it-later sentiments piled up and drowned Shawn, who could only watch. He knew perfectly well that the water was rising, and yet found himself unable to find the air above. Even as every waking thought was consumed by the desperation to take in one good, deep breath.
Shawn had missed the early admission, and gained a few bruises. Word documents littered his desktop, with only a few words each. Times New Roman, 12pt font, take out the layout spacing that he always detested. Only to find himself staring at a white screen.
Sometimes he’d write a sentence or two. But usually not.
Gus had gotten accepted into his first college around then. He’d kept the letter, of course, but thrown out the envelope. Shawn fished it out of the trash, pride swelling in his chest.
Shawn wanted to be like Gus—he really did. He wanted to be good, and have a mind that let him move. But all he found himself able to do was count the cracks in the ceiling, if only to ignore the walls and computer screens that were bleeding.
And with every passing day, Shawn found himself colder and colder, bones weighed down with an aching sadness that slipped away and was replaced by apathy. The inside of his chest grew emptier, while the inside of his closet door grew covered more and more by discarded envelopes addressed to one Burton Guster.
Why can’t you be more like Guster?
He didn’t know. But Shawn was pretty sure that he wished he was more like Gus even more than his dad wished him to be.
Winter break came, and was cold as expected. Gus got more letters. Shawn got more hollow.
Henry would’ve been better off with Gus as his child. Gus was going places—even as Shawn stayed with his feet buried in the sand below the surface. Maybe he was just stupid. But part of him really didn’t think that was the case.
On a quiet Tuesday during Winter Break, Shawn deleted 7 desolate Word documents, their contents being nothing but a well formatted void. His dad didn’t know, and Shawn wouldn’t tell. He wouldn’t bring any more fuel for the sodium flares.
He desperately tried to write, but nothing would form in his mind beyond a thick black sludge. Even then, Shawn wished he could just expel it onto the page, and pray it made something intelligible. But he never could. It just remained inside him, like he was rotting from the inside out.
The water from the shower pricked and stabbed into his skin. The soap scratched him raw, begging his nails to continue the job. He could wash for hours, but he’d never be rid of the filth that lay beneath his skin. That wicked something that refused to let him go.
His mind had already failed, what was the point of hygiene?
School was an autopilot thing, anyway. He just coasted in the same way he always did, only now with the same outfit on his body for weeks at a time.
Gus called him out, once. Said he was so lazy. And he was like that all because he was jealous of Gus and his accomplishments.
Shawn had looked at his envelope collage that night, tired eyes glazing over as he saw all the logos. He wasn’t jealous of Gus. He was so, so proud.
Rolling admission had deadlines. And like an awful situation—it, too, passed. Shawn gained new bruises that day, when Henry realized just how worthless his son truly was. That his child, his flesh and blood, was so lazy and stupid that he couldn’t manage such a simple thing as applying to a single college.
Shawn took the bruises, and wore them like a wealthy woman’s makeup and jewelry. Like fluorite bracelets. He refused to complain about the pain. It distracted him from his skin that itched and crawled. Or his teeth that stung when he ate food that was too sour or too sweet.
And with a smile, he helped Gus do his college shopping. He picked out things for his dorm with him, and cheered with him as he decided on a University. Because even as his chest tightened beneath the water, it swelled with pride.
He even helped Gus pack up his car, box after box going into the trunk. And with a hug so tight it’s a miracle their very souls didn’t touch, Shawn said goodbye.
Gus waved a final time from within his car, and disappeared down the road. Shawn remained where he was for a long while. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go, anyway.
Postcards were eventually added to the envelope collage. Shawn wrote back a few times, but it was just too hard to pick up a pen and try and decipher himself well enough to know what to say. No words could communicate what Shawn had to say. What he felt.
Because even beyond the self-loathing, and the crawling skin, Shawn felt absolutely disgusting. Wretched and wicked and rotten right from his core. As though he was broken, and nothing could be done.
He took a shower, 16 days after Gus left. It burned and burned, but he didn’t turn the heat down. It was all the way in one direction. Shawn wasn’t sure if it was left or right.
With a toothbrush that taunted him from its spot discarded on the counter, Shawn opened the pack of breath mints.
It smelled like mint.
It tasted like copper.
But with death coating his tongue, Shawn opened his closet door, and sank down along the wall. Eyes raking over every letter, his mouth quirked a little.
He really was just so proud of Gus.