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The youth lay on his bed, crying. It was not the first time, and he knew in his heart that it would not be the last. The door to his bedroom was ajar; his parents were watching television downstairs.
Oblivious. They're incapable of looking at that which is right in front of them. Nate, they named me. Nathaniel: he who is given. After all, it was Nathan who gave David the news that he would become the patriarch of the Son of Man, Jesus. I've been given, too. I've been given so very much. The boy, trembling, once again fondled the large, extremely sharp knife that he held. I'm a statistician's nightmare, really. I mean, come on. An IQ of 183. That makes me the proverbial 'one in a million.' I don't need any other 'one in this' or 'one in that' things. Didn't need that one. But they pile on. A six foot tall Irish sixteen-year-old to parents who stand at five. Born richer than 99% of the American population. I guess I'm attractive: girls flock to me, or at least they do when I choose to surround myself with them. "His blue eyes are unreal. They're captivating," they say. Captivating. As if they knew what that word meant to me. "He's such a nice person. He'd do anything for you if you ask him to." That one, I only try to follow in my Roman Catholic upbringing. According to most people I've talked to, though, that's impossible. Because of that one, that one in ten. One in ten! Hadn't I had enough statistics without being ho... homosexual? He'd told his friends, and would anyone who asked (which never happened) but still hadn't come to grips with the long-term meaning of the word. The boy looked at his reflection in the knife. He struggled to hold back tears, but gave in, knowing that no one would notice. Yeah, yeah. Look at the little fag. Why would anyone care about anyone like you? You're not just gay, you're insane too. That's two strikes right there. What's wrong with my being gay? It's... it's who I am, damn it! Yeah, right. A choice is never a definition. The boy knew he had multiple personality disorder, but he could control it when there were others around. It was only when he was alone... the knife flashed as a car sped by outside his window. It's not a choice, damn it! It's me! Say what you like. You're the fag, after all. Nothing more. That's not true! I'm... the first kid in ten years to take multi-variable calculus at my high school! I've argued with Harold Bloom himself about Shakespeare! You think that's you? No, no, my pathetic little friend. You're just the gay part, the sniveling little worm that will ruin all of us. We, collectively, can define the future; don't you see!? Your flights of fancy only impede our progress! No! I love him! The boy twitched. He knew this would come up, knew he was a danger to himself. He got up and closed the door, but did not lock it. The knife he should have dropped by now stayed firmly in his palm. Oh, so that's it. That's why you do this, just about every week. You. Love. Him. Him! Disgusting, pathetic. Shut the hell up! You knew he'd say no. You knew that he was your statistical opposite. Athletic, popular, the best history and science kid in the school. Everything that you're not. And straight. You knew, knew he was straight! I did. But I had to tell him anyway. And look what it's done to you! You can't pass him in the halls without almost breaking down in front of him anymore! The boy collapsed on his bed once more and wailed into his pillow. I didn't know what it would do to me, but I was lying every time I saw him in not saying anything! And now he looks at you as disgusted as the rest of them. The majority is always correct, you know. Oh, very funny. Homophobia exists for a reason. You're a scary, messed-up freak, you know that? Think about the actions you want! That carnal, disgusting Display of affection! Of true love! Debauchery of the body, of the temple of the Spirit. No! I love him! That again? Is that your only excuse? He's just like any other boy. And he's a boy, too! What in God's name are you to him? Nothing, anymore. But... Well, what are you gonna do about it? You gonna tell him /again?/ You gonna cry at his feet, gonna beg for his love, then his friendship? It's been done, freak. He walked away, and you know it'll happen again. No! No! Shut up! Shut up! The boy held the knife to his throat, and a red line trickled down his shirt. Yeah, right. Suicide? You like yourself way too much. Besides, we are the future. You'll not sacrifice that. The boy, with maniacal care, slashed his shirt, then jeans, to pieces without touching the skin. Yeah, look at that. The fag in all his glory. You've ruined a hundred dollars of clothes. Happy? You content yet? Who am I? You? Nothing more than the echoes of a horny fag. There must be some second opinion! Not here there isn't. Nope, you're nothing. I love him! That's part of me too, a part that I don't want anymore! Yeah, right. So what're you gonna do about it? Huh? You can't sever any parts of your identity, not ever. The knife trembled, and then plunged downward over the boy's crotch. Yeah? I don't want to love him! It's not who I am! Fucking faggot, you're gonna ruin us. The boy bled. And cried. The knife was now covered in blood, and his penis as a whole had been half severed. He moved slowly, removing it, feeling no pain but that which came from inside. I don't want him! Break, my heart! Yeah, yeah, "for I must hold my tongue." You're no Prince Hamlet, nor were you meant to be. You're just a Prufrock. The knife slashed at the detached penis, reducing it to red slivers. Blood and urine pumped with each heartbeat from the open wound. You're nothing. I'm me! He's not! He's not! I don't want this anymore! The youth's vision clouded even more as blood left his person. As he passed out, he saw one image, the one boy who, he knew, he could never stop loving. I woke up in a hospital bed in the middle of the night. Over the next few hours, I learned from passing wards what had happened: I'd been taken to the emergency room by my parents, who heard the screams but were afraid to do anything while I held the largest knife in the house. Judging by the e-mail to Jay, that other boy, that I'd meant to send but only left open on the desktop, I was sure they'd seen some of my reasons. I should have known that I'd needed help long before that night. No one knew. No one ever knows, for sure, what any given person is thinking. I outsmarted myself that night. The process of reversing nullification, as I've found, is well-nigh impossible, especially with the original member destroyed. I'm okay with that, I guess. I am who I am. My parents, the ones who I worried most about not understanding, were the most accepting people I'd ever find. I've been seeing a psychiatrist for the months since then: I was indeed a walking mass of complexes. I'm learning to be okay with myself, though. I'm me and no one else, and no one will ever persuade me to change that. I know that being gay and that being a eunuch are part of my identity, as is loving -- and I do still love Jay. I'll be going to college soon, and maybe I can find someone who loves me as I am there. Until then, I'll be happy with myself and my own company. Becoming a nullo, in retrospect, is a small price to pay for sanity and, more importantly, for serenity.
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