the black sheep.

“I think you guys need to talk it over,” he said.

Talk it over,” he said. Three words forming a sentence that’s most foreign to my ears.

I tried to hold back laughter, or was it dread? Heartbreak, or hilarity?

It’s the story that most everyone has moved on from. Maybe.

It’s the story of the black sheep, the odd one out, the unlucky one – take your pick, they almost always mean the same thing anyway. But here are my questions: is the black sheep the cause or effect? Is he or she the victim or the perpetrator? Is he or she the product of circumstantial outcome or bearer of his or her own misery?

It’s the story most everyone has moved on from. I am now 22, time has passed significantly.

“We don’t do that,” I finally responded. I chuckled, making light of the topic at hand. I shrugged it off nonchalantly like it’s no big deal; it’s practically a signature move of mine now. “Too many elephants in the room as it is. Confronting one means having to open an entire bag full of… Things.”

“We don’t do that kind of thing,” I repeated, emphasizing this.

We’re not as bad as I make us sound, but I don’t think we’re anywhere near normal. Nothing like the kinds of families of friends that I witness, at least where everyone is so fucking normal and together. We’re together, a team, just as they are – but normal is not the word I would use to define mine. Us.

It’s the story most everyone has moved on from, but of course – he’s stagnant, stuck in a place in time. Was it when he was a teenage boy, those rebellion years? Was it during those years of aggravated conflicts? Was it during the years he’d grown into a man, yet unable to see eye to eye?

I may not have been witness to those years, but I’d been a witness to this: the names you called us. The fact you used me – us – and then ridiculed us. The fact that you can give us shit and disrespect them, of all people. That you can say all these like you’ve the authority to. Don’t you realize? So much gusto, except you’ve run out of punches.

It’s never been cool all this while and it sure as hell isn’t cool now, not anymore.

I’m drawing the line. I hate for it to be this way, but logic tells me that even reason won’t work with you if it hasn’t for the past God knows how many years. Conscience tells me this isn’t the way to go about with it, but reason tells me that perhaps it’s the only way – though most definitely a huge gamble – to maybe, just maybe, make you realize that no one here is out to get you. Everyone has more than enough on our respective plates, scars and bruises of our own.

When you said what you did last week, right to my face without respect, sensitivity or appreciation – nothing, absolutely nothing – for what we did for you the past twelve days and all this while, all along – you called it upon yourself. Enough is enough and you know what’s sad? I am not the only one who feels this way and acting upon it. I’ve never felt this way about you, not once. Never… Until that day.

For the first time in my life, I felt… Ashamed. Of you.


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