If, at first, you don't succeed. Try, try again.

That's what Gabriel keeps in mind when he tries to pay a visit to the hospital.

Jonan always refuses to see him.

The staff at the front desk, with an apologetic smile, says, sorry, Jonan says he's not feeling well, or Jonan isn't taking guests right now.

But he continues to go there every afternoon, even if the smell of chlorine and the people walking about makes him nauseous. He can hear his subconscious tell him what a waste of time this is. He is afraid if his father finds out he has been coming here all the time. Every time Gabriel pleads the nurse to take a message for him, tell Jonan that he has something he must say to him, and every day, he goes back home, unsure if that day was a day wasted.

At school, he had what was supposed to be a simple task--talk to Oliver. But to Gabriel, the only thing harder than talking is talking to a stranger. Every time he thinks that he's gathered enough courage, it diminishes when he sees Oliver surrounded by his friends when he imagines the possibility that they will take him as insane, that they will regard him with mocking eyes. The thought corners him, and he has to back away.

Once, Gabriel had tried, but his voice had been so quiet that he could barely hear himself.

"Hi...I...talk...about..."

Oliver and his friends glanced at each other, awkwardly.

"Sorry, what did you say? Could you be a little louder?" Oliver tried for a reassuring grin, but Gabriel did not catch it.

Gabriel had wanted to continue talking. His words, though, came out disordered, tasting like copper.

Then, he fled right, and he knows they've must have laughed at him.

--

In his room, Gabriel sits on the corner of the bed, knees curled to his chin. Familiar darkness envelopes him as he struggles to think of something, anything he can do. He can hear the click of his father's leather shoes and the shuffle of the bag downstairs as he returns home. He can hear his mother calling from the kitchen to set the plates.

Gabriel dreads dinner--his father will see through everything. He always does.

Light seeps in through the cracks of the door, casting a pale shadow in on the wall behind Gabriel. He can see the marks on the wall, faint lines of peeling paint that follows all the way to his bag on the floor. Years of the same old habit--getting home, dropping off his bag at that corner.

Gabriel remembers when his father finally visited his room and noticed the paint fading. Then pointing at his nose, asking him what had happened here. Something along the lines of "teenage venting" or the supposition of anger.

To Mr. Morin, it was justified. Things didn't come for free. This kind of economy from growing up in a poor family--something had to be conserved to the best of its ability.

To Gabriel, it was an overreaction. And it terrified him.

Despite promising that he would change and stop, old habits die hard, and before he could notice it, his bag would have already dropped in that corner.

A knock sounded at the door--dinner.

He still hasn't changed.

He never did, did he?