18. Friday.

                                    

                                          


                          
                   
                          
2016/02/26 Friday
                          
I didn't want to get out of bed today. I didn't want to talk to anybody today. I didn't want to have to deal with anything or anyone today, much less Mr Bowie and my unfinished chemistry homework. My eyes were swollen and my throat felt raw but when Gerard asked me whether I wanted to ditch my tutoring lesson, I told him that I was fine and the show must go on. 
                          
Because, in all honesty, the show just had to go on. Whether Pete was dying or not – I wasn't. And even though I couldn't lie and say that it wouldn't hurt when he died eventually, I had to keep fighting like I still had a reason to stay alive even if I didn't. 
                          
That's just the sort of shit people had to do and it felt sort of unfair that I would have to do it again after losing my legs, my parents and –soon – my Best Friend for Life. It was like life hated me for some reason. What kind of a shitty person did I have to be in my past life to have to deal with all this shit, huh? I could only imagine how Gerard was feeling, on the brink of losing his brother. 
                          
Today was just going to be a bad day and there was nothing I could do about it except keep my head up high and hope to god I'd see Pete again during group later. Tutoring went on for ages and I think, at one point or another, Mr Bowie noticed the dampened mood and told me that I should go wash my face. 
                          
When I came back, I was expecting to be shouted at or scolded for not paying attention. Maybe I'd get double homework and, while that punishment seemed fair enough, I wouldn't do that either. But, when my focus set on the table, it was completely empty. 
                          
Mr Bowie had packed up my things and set the bag with files in it on the other side of the room. He stayed seated though, waiting for me to come to table and I did. I approached it hesitantly, completely alien to the entire situation. 
                          
But when I got close enough, Mr Bowie grabbed my hand and enveloped it in the warmth you wouldn't expect from an old man. He just looked at me for a long time but he didn't let go of my hand and then he opened his mouth and said, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me completely honestly, okay?
                          
I nodded, afraid that I might have to lie. I wasn't sure what he was going to ask but I was almost convinced it had something to with drugs or alcohol, the way most people asked. But instead, Mr Bowie looked at me with his old, wise and uneven eyes. And he said. Are you okay?
                          
I hate that question. I hate it because I don't know what it means. What is okay? What does it mean? Does okay mean that you're considering suicide but you'll be alive for the next day or two because you're afraid? Or does it mean that you're not considering suicide at all? Does it mean you've been crying yourself to sleep but you wouldn't dare hurt yourself? Or does it mean that you don't cry at all?
                          
What was okay? What does it mean? Am I okay at all? Have I ever been okay? Has there ever a reason not to be? But then I realized that the question probably wasn't logical which meant that he didn't want a logical answer. It was rhetorical question so he wanted a rhetorical answer. I stared at him for a long time and then steeled myself. 
                          
Yeah. I'm fine. I said. I wasn't sure whether it was true or not. I wasn't sure whether I really was or not. Or whether I really wanted to be. I wondered whether I should ask Pete this. Whether he would answer my honestly or whether he would lie. And whether it would make a difference at all. 
                          
You better not be lying to me. Mr Bowie said. I can read you like a book. I wondered whether, in this metaphor, I was like The Boy in Striped Pajamas. Just completely worn out and covered in dirty finger prints with pages that are torn and frayed. Or whether I was like my chemistry text book: untouched.