The Pain of We (ON HOLD)

4

You sat beside me on the bus in the morning. My hand was face up on the seat between us. You put your hand in mine. It was warm and sticky, like you were nervous. I didn't move away.

...
You sat down in front of me and said something. I didn't hear you, my music was too loud. I took out an ear bud. "What?"

"I asked what you were listening to." You said, smiling. "Must be good if you didn't even hear me."

I smiled. "Green Day."

You smirked. "They're cool."

I paused my music and took out my other ear bud. I glanced at your wrist, wrapped up with bandage.

"What happened?" I pointed to your wrist.

You put your hand under the table, looking away. "Nothing. Just got a scratch."

I didn't believe you, but I let it drop. "Do you have any siblings?"

You nodded. "Random question, but okay, yeah, I have a sister." You paused. "What about you? Siblings?"

I bit my lip. "I used to. An older sister, died when I was a kid."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

I shrugged. "I hardly remember her. What's your sister like?" I sat on my hands, leaning forward.

"A brat. She's older than me by, like, a year, and my mom totally favors her over me." You rolled your green eyes. "She treats me like a kid." You shrugged. "But she's my sister. I love you, you know?"

I nodded. "My sister was a few years older than me. I remember always thinking she was really smart. Even though she wasn't too smart, just older. I used to have sleepovers in her room. I'd sleep on the bottom bunk and hang my clothes for tomorrow in the bars holding the top bunk up."

I smiled. It's been a long time since I've thought about her.

"What about your parents? One, two? Married, divorced?"

"Two. Married. You?"

"One. My father. My mom died along with my sister."

You were silent. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. My dad's great." I felt my eyes start to water. You looked concerned and I looked away.

"Are you okay? I didn't mean to make you cry."

I shook my head. "I'm fine. You didn't make me cry. I'm not crying."

"It's okay to cry."

I stood up, knocking my knees against the table. I cursed. "I'm not crying." I marched off, tears hanging in my eyes.

...
I drifted off on the bus.

"You're late home." His voice shook the ground I stood on.

"I was washing my laundry. There was leftovers in the fridge." I started to walked up stairs but he grabbed my shirt.

I turned around and glared at you over my shoulder. "Let. Go."

He pulled me off the stairs and pushed my back into the steps. "You know how dinner round here works! You make it!" He flipped me over, pushing my chest into the steps. His zipper unzipped, sounding like nails on a chalk board to my ears. He pulled off my pants with ease, used to my squirming.

I cried out, screaming for him to stop.

Goddamn it hurt.

"Lark! Lark!"

I blinked and sat up, breathing heavily. The bus was stopped on the side of the road, the bus driver leaning over your shoulder. You were saying my name.

The whole bus was staring at me. Your eyes held such worry.

"Are you okay?" You asked.

"I'm fine." I could see my driveway from the window. "Let me out." I grabbed my backpack and walked down the aisle, dozens of eyes staring at me still. I tried to keep my head high, looking straight ahead.

Something black was on the back of my hand. Pen.

Text me, and your phone number.

I would if I could. But I don't have a goddamn cell phone.

...
Sometimes, I lay awake at night and wonder what would've happened if Mom and my sister were still alive. Would Dad beat them too? Or not hurt anyone at all? What if it was just my sister and me? Would he hurt both of us?

I think he only beats me because he blames me for their deaths. After hearing that it's all my fault, I eventually agreed.

I killed my mother and sister.

...
You've always been different, and I realize that now. I've seen your family around a few times, at concerts and different school events. They're all blonde, your sister and mother. You father had darker hair, more brown, but still blonde-ish.

How'd you end up with black hair?

And how you dress is different. While the rest of the guys are wearing blue jeans or cargo shorts or khakis, you're in black jeans. While they're wearing sporting t-shirts advertising a brand, you're wearing black.

I'm different too, but not because I've chosen to be that way.

The thrift store is my Forever 21. I'm lucky when I find something that fits me well. Most my shirts are faded and my jeans ripped. My hair is greasy, only cut when I do it myself. Makeup is something I've had to go without, even though I've been told just a dab of eyeliner will really make those hazel eyes pop. If only I could afford it.

There's something about you that makes you different, makes you you. There's something deeper than what I see on the surface.

And for some unknown reason, I really want to know why you're so different than the other.

And why you care about me.

Vote, Comment, Follow, Share