Page 249 of His Hungry Wolf

But, there had to be some point when the football meatheads couldn’t take anymore. Because from a certain point forward, they would shove me every time they passed me in the hallways. I could be eating lunch or sitting quietly in class and my head would jerk forward followed by the sting from their open palm.

They would shove my head into desks, locker doors, and even toilets. The worst part was I could never see them coming. It got to the point where my entire school day would be spent searching rooms for them. When I spotted one, I had to make myself as invisible as possible. If they saw me, they could attack or not. It was always random. But when they decided that today was my hell day, I wasn’t safe anywhere.

And, if it wasn’t the physical abuse, it was the constant teasing. I know there’s nothing wrong with the word ‘sissy’ and a lot of guys wear it as a badge of honor. But, if I hear it one more time, I think I’m gonna crack.

I wouldn’t give in, though. I refused to let their closed-mindedness control my life. I would cry as I got dressed in the morning knowing that what I was putting on would bring about another hell day.

I got to the point where I didn’t even want to wear it. But I did it anyway because… I don’t know. I guess I refused to act like everyone else when I didn’t feel like everyone else. But who knows anymore?

Whatever the reason, I wore what I wore and I barely had the will to live by the time high school was done. And during the first few weeks at university, I couldn’t be happier. I thought that being a hundred miles away would put what had happened behind me. But that was when the nightmares started.

Granted, they were always there. But now they sharpened and focused around one person, Evan Carter. He was the leader of the bunch.

I still believe that if it wasn’t for that idiot, the rest of them would have left me alone. He was probably a closet case who wished he had the courage to do what I had. Who knows?

But, what I’m sure of is that, in high school, I lost the battles and the war. Not only was I the only one getting his ass kicked on a regular basis, he owned real estate in my head years later. It was such bullshit.

The really sucky part was that until last night, the nightmares seemed like they were beginning to fade. I used to have them up to a couple of times a week. Cory knows all about that. The number of times I had woken him up screaming, it’s a wonder he’s still willing to be my roommate.

It had been two weeks since my screaming fest before last night. I’m pretty sure I know what triggered it. I had kissed a football player. The thought almost made me throw up. Sure, Nero was nothing like Evan Carter or any of his asshole friends, but still.

Football players have made my life a hellish nightmare of epic proportions since I was 14-years-old. They threatened my will to live. I wake up screaming and dripping in sweat because of them. I didn’t want to suck on a football player’s face now.

“You going to class?” Cory asked me not having left his bed.

“Oh fuck!” I exclaimed remembering my early Monday morning class.

My professor had to be a sadist. Who scheduled a core class at 8 am on a Monday? It’s ridiculous. But, if I wanted to become a clinical psychologist, I needed to major in psychology and I had to take it.

I scrambled out of bed and quickly got dressed. Getting ready, I loaded my backpack and hurried out. I walked into class late but tardiness was graded on a curve at 8 am.

“Today you will be filling out the T.E.Q., The Toronto Empathy Questionnaire. Not only will it lead us into our discussion on empathy, it will tell you wannabe therapists out there whether you are right for the job,” my professor said suddenly grabbing my attention.

I very much wanted to be a therapist. It was the only thing I had wanted since I was 12. I had read a Psychology 101 textbook cover-to-cover when I was 15-years-old because I was so interested in it. I needed to do well on this test.

When the paper was slipped in front of me, I saw that it wasn’t very long. The questions were also fairly basic. I put my name on it and began.

‘When someone is excited, I tend to be excited too; never, sometimes, or always?’

Easy. Always, of course.

‘Other people’s misfortunes do not disturb me a great deal; never, sometimes, or always?’

Again, easy. Never… usually.

I mean, if it were a normal person, who I assume this question is referring to, I never feel good about someone else’s misfortune. But, let’s say Evan Carter gets hit by a bus. I’m not suggesting that he die… necessarily. I’m just talking about him feeling a fraction of the pain he put me through for four years.

The question can’t be referring to situations like that, could it? Or, did it? Was the questionnaire trying to dig out your darkest thoughts? Was my lack of empathy for a psychopath who tortured me what will make me a bad therapist?

I stared at the question paralyzed. I couldn’t get past it. I couldn’t believe that after everything he put me through, the echo of it could prevent me from being good at the only thing I had ever wanted.

“Please hand your papers forward,” my professor said snapping me out of my trance.

“I’m not done,” I told the grabby girl who took my paper from me and passed the stack along.

She shrugged barely acknowledging my struggle. I knew for sure that that ice queen would make a horrible therapist. But what about me? Was empathy really that important?

I didn’t have to wait long to get an answer to that question. Two days later, my professor asked me to see him before I left.