The Dark before the Dawn

The sight of blood has a strange effect on people. It can make a person pale to the colour of a full moon, or grimace in a way that would make a pirate proud.
The latter reaction was probably my own as I sat on the rickety front step of my porch. Travis, a friend from a few years back, was slowly lumbering toward me, his wild orange hair offset by a decorative streak of blood across his cheek. One eye looked like it had made friends with a flying hockey puck, and his lip was split right down the middle.
“What the heck happened to you?” I asked, even though I didn’t need to; it was always the same story.
Travis grunted, which was the usual response, as he sat down beside me. He clasped his big hands together and stared at them for an eternity, as all the while red blood continued to ooze from the cut on his cheek and coagulate as it hit the air. I went for a damp cloth and pressed it against the wound. Travis winced, but didn’t complain.
After a loaded silence, I said quietly, “You need to report those guys. People like Joe and Craig will bully you into the ground if you don’t do something to stop them.” I searched Travis’ face for any sign that he was listening, but his good eye didn’t even shift. I sighed. “Travis – “
“Stop. Just stop, okay?” Travis leapt to his feet, his face flushed to the colour of his hair. “You know damn well that the police don’t help queers. They just want to drink coffee and eat donuts all day…”
“Travis…”
“And,” he continued, seemingly not having heard me, “they are just as messed up and ruthless as Joe and Craig.”
“Travis!” I exclaimed. “You are being just as discriminatory as people are to you.”
My friend fell into a moody silence and looked at the ground. A slight pulse had formed in his neck, and I knew that he was struggling to keep control. The beauty of the sunshine and warm green grass were lost in a cloudy world of gray for him.
Travis and I had been friends since a little after high school, but I knew his story. He had been an outgoing kid, and loved to play sports. He’d been athletic and likeable, and girls competed for attention that he would never bestow upon them. One day, he had asked his parents for some money, because he wanted to buy flowers for someone whom he really liked. His parents, relieved that their son had finally started to show an interest in someone, had lent him the money.
A few days went by before Travis’ parents received a phone call from Travis’ school. The principal called to say that Travis had been in a fight but would not disclose the details over the phone, and asked that Travis’ parents go to the school immediately.
Travis was already sitting in the waiting area when his parents arrived, and he couldn’t bear to look up at them or answer any of their questions. His parents were taken into the office first and seemed an eternity before Travis was called in. Upon entry his father wouldn’t look at him, and his mother’s eyes were filled with pools of dreadful tears. The principal sat solemnly, his fingers interlaced and his mouth set in a straight line. For a long moment, there was no sound apart from a ticking clock that was hidden somewhere in the cluttered room.
Tick tock.
“Travis,” his mother started in a shaky voice, but found herself unable to continue.
Tick tock.
“Is there something that you would like to tell your parents, son?” the principal asked.
Tick tock.
“No.”
Tick Tock.
“Are you a queer?” his father demanded.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Now nearly shouting, “Are-you-a-“
“No!” Travis yelled, and jumped to his feet. “I don’t know! Everything is so messed up… I don’t know.”
Travis’ father stood, then, and pointed a shaky finger in his son’s face. “I will not have a queer living under my roof!”
“Mr. Sampson,” the principal tried to intervene, but Travis had already bolted into the dark depths of anger. His face flushed and his gray eyes flashed.
“You won’t have to worry about it,” he sneered.
Travis stormed from the office and didn’t look back, even at the sound of his mother’s pleading voice.

Travis and I had met on a rainy afternoon days later, when we both took cover under a very small awning. He had looked deeply fatigued and his cheeks were sallow, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in a few days. His smile, however, was just as charming as ever and he was very amiable. I noticed the telltale signs of swelling in his left cheek and cuts on his knuckles that told me that he’d been fighting not long ago.
Travis and I had struck up a quick friendship, and I soon learned of his personal plight from childhood and entering into adulthood. I was horrified to learn of the harsh and cruel discrimination that he faced from his parents, so-called friends, and even strangers. He said that he felt like he took a heavy stigma everywhere he went, and that even strangers glared at him as he walked down the street. Travis was full of bitterness and confusion, but he didn’t want consolation; he wanted acceptance and understanding. I didn’t try to tell him that no one would know that he was gay unless he told them, because he didn’t care; in his eyes, he was an outcast and a piece of trash that people spat on.
That day on the porch was the day that Travis decided that he was going to go home to make peace with his parents. He stood up in a way that showed that he’d taken a few hits to his ribs, but his face was set determinedly and his eyes glittered in a way that they only did when he was on a mission. I smiled my encouragement at him before he turned and walked away, but I had never imagined that that would be the last day that I would ever talk to Travis Sampson.

The day of the funeral didn’t seem fitting for such an occasion; when it should have been dark and dreary, it was bright and warm. Sunlight glinted off the neighbouring gravestones and danced on the swaying green grass of the cemetery. In the distance, a man leaned against a back-hoe as he inhaled puffs of cigarette smoke and waited for the funeral to end so that he could start the true burial. It all seemed surreal.
I tried not to pay much attention to him as I looked down at the coffin that held my dearest friend. The flowers that I clasped my hands seemed to wilt with each passing minute, but I couldn’t bear to let them go; to put them on the coffin and admit that Travis had truly taken his own life. Sweet, funny Travis.
My reverie was broken by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Not many people had attended the funeral, and I didn’t know a single person who lingered nearby.
“Leigh?” a voice inquired.
I turned to look at the speaker and squinted through blurry, bloodshot eyes. My heart jack hammered when I saw who had spoken.
“Hello, Joe,” I replied coolly, and fought to keep my hatred from slapping him across his boyish face.
“Hey,” he responded awkwardly. Silence, and then, “I’m sorry about Travis. I’m so, so sorry. I – I have something, and I don’t feel like I deserve to keep it. I thought that y – you would be the right person to give this to.” He held out a folded piece of paper with a trembling hand, and I saw that he was fighting back tears. I took the paper from him, and just as quickly he turned and walked away. I watched him for a confused moment before I looked down at the paper and unfolded it. A dried flower dropped into my hand.

“Joe,” it read, “I know that we’ve only known about each other for a short while,
but I feel like I really know you and can tell you anything. I understand that you’re
uncomfortable with telling anyone about us for now, but I hope that will change as we
really get to know each other. People will learn to accept us for who we are, and not for
our sexuality.
I’ll wait for you.
All my heart,
Travis

Tears flowed freely then, and I briefly brought the piece of paper to my lips before I carefully placed it atop the casket with the dried flower folded inside.
“He really did care,” I whispered. “Take this as proof, and rest in peace.”

Writing, Writing, Writing

Please accept my apologies for not having posted for a long time. I've been swamped between school, work, and trying to finish my novel.

Next month I have to attend an award ceremony that will be addressing a piece that I wrote on diversity. I had submitted a short story that was based on a friend of mine, Travis, who was gay and ultimately ended up killing himself due to the lack of acceptance that he faced from society. A lot of short stories and articles that I've written have been based around Travis' story, because I feel that there is something to be shared from his experiences. I believe in human cohesiveness, and I don't believe that anyone should be discriminated against because of who they love. How does that even make any sense?
Well, let's not get into this argument.

Anyway, I'm just going to post the story that I wrote on here. It might be worth sharing. :)