Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

6^2

just a little something to hold you guys over while i finish up something better. 

enjoy. 

sorry for the wait. i know this isn't my best piece. 

__________________________________________________

My mom sits down across the table from me, Cheerios in hand. I'm staring into my own bowl, not actually eating, just watching the milk and cereal become one with each other. With every moment we don't move, the tension grows considerably.

"Hi Damian," she finally says, and takes a spoonful of mostly milk into her mouth. I watch her chew and swallow, still not speaking. I don't have anything to say.

She sighs, and consumes another bite. "How are you? I never see you anymore. You're never home when I get here?"

"Don't you have work?" I mumble.

"I told them I was going to be in late. I have an appointment with Dr. Brownling."

I nod, willing her to continue.

"Anyways, there's something we need to discuss."

Ah, there's the catch. Nobody ever talks to me unless there's something in specific.

I stir the mush in my bowl. "Go ahead."

"It's about school. You've missed almost three weeks and the administration is concerned that if you take any more time off, you won't be able to pass the semester."

"And that means?"

My mom taps her long nails against the plastic breakfast table in annoyance. "You'll be unable to go on to senior year with the rest of your class."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Damian!" She lets out a puff of air, and starts again. "You need to think about possibly going back to school Damian. If anything changes, I'm certain Mrs. McKinnon would be more than happy to inform you and you could visit after school. All you do is spend time with him. You're starting to reek of a hospital."

I fight the urge to overturn the table, aware of it's childishness. Here is the only thing in my life worth living for; hope; and she's taking it away from me too.

"Do I really have a choice?"

"Well, of course you do, dear. It's your life. But this is just a suggestion. I'd hate to see you get bad again when things just started to get better."

Instinctively, I tug my sleeves down over my hands. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll think about it."

"Oh." She rises and moves to place her dish in the sink. "Well I don't want to be late for my appointment. Is there anything I can get you while I'm in town?"

"Watermelon Zotz."

"Okay darling. It was nice to see you awake and functioning."

And just like that, she's gone. I wait for the sound of the car crunching against the street before I exhale in a loud grunt and go off in search for my lighter.

"She has no right, telling you what to do with your life. Like she has any idea what you're going through."

"Oh fuck off," I spit. "You're just a sarcastic little cunt and nobody likes you."

"If you don't like me, then why do you give me so much attention?"

In the pockets of yesterday's jeans, I find a half crushed package of cigarettes and a green plastic BIC. My supply is quickly dwindling, and soon I'll have to replenish. There's a store between Medford and Ashland that'll sell to minors, but I have no way of getting there or money to spend for that matter.

As soon as I step outside, I light up. The smoke warms me from my chest and keeps the voice suffocated. I'm choking to keep it down, but it's some form of control and I welcome it.

The train tracks are slippery with the spring rain. I take small steps, slow ones, not eager to lose my smoke to the rain.

"That's twenty three cents a cigarette. Who has money for that kind of habit?"

Not me, but I can't stop. As ironic as it is, I can't afford to stop. I can't afford to give up the one thing that calms me down.

"Where are you going, Damian? You can't walk all the way to the hospital."

"Who says I can't?"

"Your body. You can barely walk without collapsing. When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning."

"Staring at a bowl of Cheerios isn't eating."

"I had a bite before they got soggy."

"A bite doesn-"

"Okay you little shit, I get it." I take a long drag until I can't hold any more down. "Go away."

There's no point in this-- me being out in the rain. I'm just going in circles until I'm too cold to be outside anymore, or until school is over and I can go spend hours sitting beside the bed of a comatose boy. It's not Timmy while he's like this. That boy isn't my friend. I barely know him. The Timmy I thought I knew wouldn't have ever gone and done a thing like that. He would have gone near drugs. A flash of memory hits me and I remember the way his nose wrinkled when I mentioned getting high with Justin.

Justin. Shit. I've completely forgotten about him. When was the last time I visited? When was the last time I tried to talk to him?

"He'll think you've forgotten him."

I bring the filter to my lips again and smile as the voice silences itself.

But shit, I have forgotten Justin. I've forgotten to miss him. Thinking his name brings waves of discomfort to my stomach that I haven't experienced in the weeks following Timmy's "accident," and I double over in pain, retching. The tiny amount I've eaten in the past week spills out into a pitiful pile on the dirt. It's not even enough to stay together and becomes quickly diluted by the rain.

"Look at you, too pathetic to even create a credible pile of vomit."

"Vomiting isn't really a praise worthy hobby," I retaliate at the sour taste in the back of my throat. I haven't got any water, besides what's falling from the sky, but I don't find myself in a place to possibly make an idiot of myself in front of whoever may be hiding in the bushes. There's a rustle behind me and I can't help but hope it'll be a little smiling blue haired boy to let me know this was all just a nightmare.

I wait, only to be disappointed. Nobody emerges and my cigarette has been extinguished by the downpour.

"Visit Justin." The voice is soft, almost pleading. It's the first time I'm grateful to not be alone. It dulls the brick of letdown following the yearning for what does not exist.

Following the metal rails, my feet lead me forward. They lead me over mud and stone- the things that are visible; and over pipes and memories- the things that are not. I am grateful for both.

"Haven't forgotten you, Justy," I tell the muddy ground. "Not yet. Don't you forget me either."

I feel the weight of a hand on my shoulder and turn into a ghostly embrace.

"I won't," the memory of my dead ex-boyfriend whispers into my hair. "I promise."