Hell Week

The high school to the south of us has a hardcore Show Choir group, and they have a week every year, around this time, that they call "Hell Week," because it's a week of frantic activity and stress. Well, this was my "Hell Week."

The emotions swirl around in his head. The weekend. The party. The make outs. All fly in senseless clutter within the expanse of his mind. The week has brought too much truth, with too little time to digest it. Sugar, sex, suicide. They haven't talked since Tuesday, and he worries about her. About the arm that she cut, about the name she tried to burn into her skin. HIS name. About all that might or might not have happened before they met. About all that might still be happening. About the two friends she lost, especially the one, one he didn't even know, one that plagues his thoughts and seems to be trying to help him. About his stupid mistake, that got her grounded. All these things revolve around a single, static focal point in the young man's mind. A single thought, which blots out all the others, which keeps him sane, and drives him to the brink of insanity in a strange paradox that is almost as beautiful as her. His not-so-innocent angel. What is that single thought, the essence of his belief, the core of his being, his impervious shelter from the storm? Three small words with an infinite array of meanings, that overrides everything else he has ever known. Three simple words: I love her.