The Price of Confession

I am in my apartment, and Kryn is visiting. I'm showing him around, showing how it used to be set up and how I've cleaned the place up. For some reason, I end up telling him about some of the things of done in the past, some of my self-destructive sexual behavior, sleeping around extensively with both genders, prostituting myself, my “S” program to get better, etc. He does not respond well to all this. He’s upset and threatening to tell everyone I’m a “fag” and a “sicko.” My response to his response is rage. I haul off on him and we fight, with me beating the hell out of him. This all seems to happen right before I am about to leave on a vacation.

Now, I am sitting in a classroom; I have just gotten back from the vacation, which I believe was somewhere where there are beaches. I am in one of those individual classroom desk/chairs, in the next to the last row, all the way to the right as I’m facing. There is some kind of class presentation going on. I recognize everyone as being from my old high school, which is apparently where we are, though I know we’re much older and I live on my own in my own apartment.

Kryn is sitting directly in front of me. I want to make peace with him. I tap him on the shoulder, but he gives me that glowering, withering, hateful look that only the deeply wounded can give.

The class then has to get up and go to the next class. Evidently, classes are going location-to-location to see their peers put on different performances of sorts. I come across Tom in the hallways (it’s a beautiful, new, spacious school – much nicer than the one I truly attended). He’s in a jovial mood, but I shaken, shamed and distraught over what I had done to Kryn and how he obviously feels. Tom’s talking to me, but then his attention is distracted by running into Greg, and as they talk, I turn away and sob. When Tom calls out to me to join the conversation, I wipe my soggy face with my sleeve, turn back and join conversation, both relieved and saddened that Tom hasn’t noticed my distress. We continue waling down the hallway; Tom is talking to me now with Greg walking behind. I try to tell Tom about what’s bothering me, but he’s so happy and chatty that he keeps on talking right over me. Giving up (but not at all angry with him), I turn and with a walking stick I suddenly have, I join in the joking around and engage in a game I guess we often do, which seems to be making arcs back and forth with the stick over Greg, who is suddenly a very, very, tiny little person (about 2’ I’d guess). Greg and Tom love the game, so I’ve effectively switched gears and joined their silliness.

The next stop is a large, darkened auditorium. I take a seat on sloped platform in the middle of the middle section, and like the others on the platform have some sort of small comforter loosely over my clothed body. I’m seeing a lot of students who had graduated a year ahead of me. Ray passes by going up the left aisle, giving me a smile as he passes by. I’m very uncomfortable now. Did Kryn tell everyone? Is everyone looking at me like I’m some sort of sick, asshole freak? I’m looking around, sometimes catching a familiar face who smiles back. I’m not sensing that anyone thinks that, but I’m paranoid as hell. While all this is going on, some sort of… performance? is going on, though not on the stage so much as is the aisles. It’s all festive, just students being silly for students.

Next, I’ve actually just walked down the driveway at the old house on the lake. I’m going to get the mail. However, someone’s run over the mailbox, and I can see it’s been knocked around and run over a couple of times after that. It’s in the middle of the road, and since there are no cars coming (there rarely are), I go out to get the mail out of it. However, there’s nothing inside; nor are there letters strewn all over the asphalt. I spot a wooden box across and a few feet off of the road, and think to look in there. Sure enough, there’s our mail. I’m about to head back when driving up to me in a very old, antique, run-down car are three ladies. The driver is in a bridal gown, the front seat driver is obviously the maid of honor, and I can only guess that the well-dressed, older lady in the rear is the bride’s mother. They invite me up to the cabin, so I go with them. The men are there hanging out, and oddly, no one seems to be doing anything but hanging out today. There’s no indication that there’s to be a wedding. They need someone to move something on the mantle of the fireplace, and I volunteer. The piece I’m moving is a model airplane. I mention that I’d love to have one of those, that I once flew real airplanes in my teens. The bride asks why I don’t fly anymore. I tell her about the accident, and then somehow feel compelled to go on and tell them about how dad molested me. They’re clearly stunned – though not offended - that this stranger is telling then all this.