The Story of Justin, Part 1.

This story could have been avoided.

Being ‘a man’ meant many things, if someone was to ask just about anyone, but the fundamentals never changed. To be a man, he had to be strong at all times. Tough, unyielding, any number of synonyms that all pounded the same message into the heads of little boys:

To be a man, one could not show weakness.

Justin’s father lived by that doctrine. He had been in the army right from the age of eighteen, having stepped out of school and into the barracks. Justin all but worshipped him, growing up; his proud, harsh father never backed down from anything. He never showed fear, or backed down from a challenge…and he expected his son to act in the exact same way.

He had always been quite busy – too busy, really, to help raise Justin and his sister. His mother was always moving at the speed of light, it seemed, doing everything she could to keep their family running smoothly. Waking up the kids, getting ready for work, getting them ready for school, dropping them off, going to work, picking them up after school, getting dinner ready, tidying the house, serving dinner in time for her husband to be home, cleaning up the kitchen afterwards, getting everyone’s lunches ready for the next day, cleaning herself up, and dropping herself in bed.

He got along well enough with his sister. They got on each other’s nerves, as any siblings were inclined to do, but life was pleasant enough.

There was always food. He had both parents still alive, and they were still married. They had a nice house, his grades were decent enough, and – to be frank, even with himself – Justin wasn’t a bad-looking teenager.

He was just…lonely.

Real men didn’t show weakness, or feel depressed, or spend their nights feeling too exhausted to cry. If he’d grown up in unfortunate circumstances…he could see it, then. Feeling the way he did. At all times, it felt like there was a weight sitting on the back of his brain, and he didn’t feel strong.

He couldn’t speak to his father about anything, and his mother was far too busy. Besides, he couldn’t burden his mother with emotional problems; as far as he knew, for it was what he was taught, he wasn’t supposed to have emotional problems.

Justin envied his sister, a little. She could burst into tears and tell everyone what was wrong, whenever she liked. He couldn’t do that.

There were a few times that he had done those things. Try to talk about how he was feeling, or just break down and cry. Those times, his mother had gotten flustered and hadn’t known what to do with him, or what to say. Then his father had sat him down, given him a light smack against the back of the head, and told him firmly that whining and crying about his problems wouldn’t get him anywhere. It wouldn’t fix things, and real men fix things. He had to pull himself together and ‘get shit done’.

So Justin tried to do that.

He just had no idea how, and the idea of just charging ahead and fixing his problems – it was daunting. He was only a teenager, he argued with himself. How was any teenager supposed to just know how to make things better?

In secret, he tried to visit the only person he could think of who might have answers. His high school guidance counsellor, as it turned out, was woefully unhelpful. She advised him to ‘express himself’, and talk to his father about his feelings, ‘confront him’ – maybe speak to a psychologist?

All useless suggestions.

The visit wasn’t without a silver lining, though.

Outside the guidance office, he’d spent about a half hour talking with her. She wasn’t in any of his classes, so he hadn’t seen her around very much, before. But, she was pretty, she was sympathetic, and she listened even better than the person paid to do so.

They started dating, over that weekend…and Justin fell fast.

There was just something about her that made him feel…not so alone, even if he was still weak. Something he couldn’t help but trust.