my superboy

A story of friendship and of what happens when it ends.

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2. Soulmates

It wasn't until the summer going into grade 8 I really resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to be his friend. After that everything changed, after that I changed. My entire life has been altered by that summer. It all happened so fast, one second he was a traitor trying to steal my friends and the next all I wanted to do was get to know him. It was diving into ice cold water, being his friend shocked me awake. It turned out superboy didn't have the perfect life. His mom drank vodka like it was water and his father yelled more than he breathed. He wore dark clothes and skulls to represent the darkness he believed lived within him. He was cutting himself. He was burning himself and he was taking drugs. Superboy scared the hell out of me but it was too late. I cared for this dark, confused little boy with more talent than I could understand. Once he let me in to the reality that he lived with every day I was in too deep. Soon my entire existence was built around trying to help him, trying to make him see how beautiful he was, that cutting wasn't the answer. As a 13 year old girl I had no idea what I was doing, I didn't how to help but I was damn sure going to try. Soon my group of friends became less and less important and he became the focus. He was passionate and he was strong. He was protective and talented and loving. He had a way with words, he could make any beautiful thought, no matter how abstract, come to life. He could make words dance and sing and bloom into life. He could mold them to his will, make them articulate the life and pain that was in his head. The jealousy that I had harbored for so many years had turned into a protective kind of worship. The clothes I had once mocked I was defending.  He loved acting like I did, he liked writing like I did, we could have deep philosophical conversations (to the extent 13 year olds can) It became an everyday task to check his wrists for new cuts, to notice watches or bracelets that hadn't been there before. To try and see spots of burnt flesh. I was confused, he didn't have to hurt himself anymore, he had me. I was never going to hurt him and I certainly was never going to leave him.

I would stay up late on MSN talking to him about his demons, trying to talk him into the light. Trying to make him see what I saw. His talks of ending it all and of being done scared me but they also didn't seem real. What does a 13 year old girl know of suicide, it was in the movies not in my life. And then one day it was real. He came to school with glazed over eyes and a wobble in his step. He confided that he had taken a bottle of pills before he came to school. Me and 2 of our friends ran to the school`s counselor.  We told her everything about the pills and his depression, about the cutting and the darkness. He was rushed to the hospital only after spitting hateful words at us, “How could you tell them, I hate you” he screamed. We all spent the rest of the day in silent helplessness.  Had we done the right thing, should we have kept quiet, were his threats of hatred true? We were all called into the hall and been updated about his condition. He was alright, they had pumped his stomach but he was alright. Finally we could really breathe. He could despise us if he wanted, he was alive and I was happy. Things got better after that, he was sent to talk to someone twice a week, had to show them his arms to check for cuts. His demons however were still alive and crawling around inside. They had only been silenced for a time.  With the beginning of his recovery he found it even easier to maintain his place as perfect pupil and artist, even after all that he was still my superboy. He knew of my love of acting and convinced me to join the schools drama club, he would direct and I would act. He would nurture my writing ability and let me burrow books he thought I would enjoy. He would help me make art and show me new music he thought I could relate to.

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