Prologue

I watch him, so perfect and confident. His mezmorizing blue eyes are so ingeniously complimented by the dark brown hair and side burns that he's been growing out since July 7th, a month and 16 days ago.He jogs casually from the soccer field to the sidelines where he pulls his sweat-drenched, white T-shirt over his head and tosses it on the seat of the metal bench. Suddenly I become ashamed and embarassed. I look bashfully to the ground and pluck a blade of grass. I examine the green plant smeciman between my thumb and index finger and realize that there's nothing unique about it. The resemblence between this blade of grass and every other blade of grass is not suprising at all. I'm eighteen years old. I know that blades of grass hold no traits or signs of personality to differentiate them from all of the others. My thoughts quickly shift. I think of how peculiar and fasinating it is that a few seconds ago this blade of grass was alive and thriving. But I killed it. I ripped it from the cool, dark soil which was its home. This very blade of grass will never again be alive. It will never again embrace the warmth of the bright, yellow sun, and the sun will never again embrace it in return. As soon as I anotate my own thoughts, I begin to realize how idiotic they are.
"Pass it here, Stevie!" I hear the strong voice yell to a teamate. Stevie passes him the checkered ball. I watch intently as he kicks the ball with such expertise down the field, avoiding all attempts to ruin the play and all threats imposed by opponents. Suspense builds up like a brick wall in my heart, which beats monsterously inside my chest. Even though it is no more than a scrimmage, it feels as though the fate of all the worlds happiness depends on the outcome of the match. As he reaches the final moments of the play, my eyes widen with such passion and intensity. Now, what everyone has been waiting for. In slow motion it seems, his right leg extends in a perfect diagonal line, aiming for the ball. With amazing and beautiful form, he flies through the air. The sole of the black cleet touches the ball, which, as a result, is sent soaring in the direction of the goalie (who I might add looks extremely frightened and terribly troubled). As the glowing body of the shirtless "soccer star" hits the ground, the ball flies past the goalie and hits the back of the netted goal. I immidiatly jolt up off the dewy ground and excitedly clap my hands. I feel so elated and so relieved. Also, I feel rather small and irrelevant. Here I stand on a grassy hill, watching a soccer game from such a distance. Watching the man I love, but will never love me in return. Desperatly watching him embracing and celebrating with the others, as boys do. I become secretly envious. My clapping gradually slows, but I remain standing, staring at the field with innocent child-like eyes.
"I grew up as any other boy in Nome". That's what I long to be able to truthfully say. God, how I yearn for distant recollections of normalcy! While the other young boys collected worms and set ants on fire, I was left locked in a prison cell with only myself and imaginary friends to converse with. I was the owner of this prison and I held the key to this cell. As empty, unsatisfying years sauntered by, I suppose I forgot this. And as more years went by, I believe I lost the key all together. By the age of nine, I knew there was no use in trying to turn my life around. At first, this thought frightened me, but one day I woke up and was utterly content to be where I was. You see, I had ways-effective ways- of coping with every trial life seemed to catapult at me. If I received an enexeptable grade in a class (unexeptable to my standards) I'd return home immideatly after the bell rang and rush up to my room. There, I'd sit cross legged on my twin bed and begin to read every word of whichever textbook I so chose. When my eyes burned and my legs grew stiff to the point of unbareability, I'd hang my head low and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I'd stand in front of the vanity mirror, which was disgustingly placed messily on the coral-pink wall, and furiously stare myself down.
"Bradley, you're an idiot. Bradley, you're worthless. Bradley, you're an insignificant piece of shit and mean nothing to the world. Bradley, I hate you" I'd inform myself as tears avalanched down my tired, puffy face. And it was true. All I spit at my reflection was true. That was how I coped with failure.
Each recess, which should be every childs favorite time of the day, I'd spend in a dirty stall of the boys bathroom. I'd sit sideways on the stained toilet and draw colorful pictures of myself and Charlie climbing Mr Everest, exploring the most lethal rainforests, and riding magic carpets to India. You see, the best thing about Charlie was that he was always available when I needed him. Also, he was a master secret-keeper, mostly due to the fact that he had no one to tell. But, what I enjoyed most about Charlie's company, was that he understood me to the fullest extent there ever was or will be of undterstanding. I never once had to explain myself to him, because Charlie already knew everything I knew. I invented him. He was my best friend for the longest time. That was how I coped with lonliness.
It was Tuesday night, April. My father was in prison for possesion at the time. I remember the smell of the fresh rain. It smelled like life. It smelled like happiness. Even as the lightening flashed and the thunder paraded throughout the night sky, it was so peaceful. All of my worries left me. I felt like a ten year old boy is supposed to. It was then that I heard a slight whisper of hope. This whisper told me that I still had a chance. It told me that I could live a great and inspiring life. It distincly and clearly told me that I could be happy. That's all I ever really wanted, you know? To be happy.
I heard my door creak open. Rolling over under my covers, I saw my mother sulking in the doorway. I could tell that she'd been drinking from the wild look in her eyes.
"Are you scared" she asked me "of the storm?"
"No" I quietly replied. And I honestly wasn't.
"There's no need to be frightned. It's just a small thunder storm".
"I know". She then made her way under the flanel covers with me.
After that night, I knew that i would never be able to look at a woman the way a man was supposed to. I would never witness the birth of my own, biological children. At ten years old, I was broken and would never be fixed.