Then, there was the time when Cormack put out a cigarette on Myles’s arm. That was the night Myles left. I’ve seen his physical scars all over his lower back and the burn mark on his arm. But today, he let me see his invisible wounds and they run deep.
I watched him walk up the dirt driveway and I didn’t know if he wanted me to follow him or not.
“That was my room up there,” he called out, looking back at me. He raised his head, staring at the boarded-up window above the porch.
As empathetic beings, we try hard to understand, even feel, what others do, but it’s never quite enough, now is it? At that moment, I wished I could have actually been inside Myles’s mind, heart, so that I could have truly understood what it was like for him to stand there in front of that house.
To me, it was an ugly, sad house.