why we fall apart

eighteenth ; why we fall apart

Any kid would be excited to see their parents. We're not just any kids. We're Crawford kids. That carries a different connotation. Most of us have committed crimes, we're all not right in the head, and our parents are done dealing with us.

That's why we're here. Most of us haven't seen them for years.

A sea of black and deep red pours through the hallways and into the auditorium. Our faces are impassive but the smell of anxiety is potent in the air. The visit won't last long, but it's still difficult.

Why would we want to see the people who've abandoned us time and time again attempt to care because the prison they sent us to mandates it?

I see Tristan from the corner of my eye. He's arguing heatedly with a girl that shares the same stature and looks as him. His sister? I didn't know he had one. Then again, I don't know much of anything about anyone here. Neither does anyone else.

They're both tall and lanky, seemingly all limbs, and their face is composed of angles with harsh shadows dripping into their sharp features. They exchange final words then turn back to face the front of the room.

The new head of the academy steps onto the stage and begins droning into the microphone. I lower my eyelids and try not to think.

"Grace." My eyes flick upwards to meet the backs of phones and the sound of busy tapping. I shut my eyes again.

My parents are here. Dressed in professional wear and focused solely on their handheld devices, they primly sit on the edges of the seats next to me and continue to ignore me, just like they'd been doing for the past sixteen years.

Later, the parents flit about the auditorium, bored and tapping away on smartphones. Their kids stand nearby, but look anywhere but in their direction. Everyone is uncomfortable. The air feels like a fruitcake. Thick, hard to get through, and vomit inducing. It's like I'm suffocating.

It's just the ignoring game, over and over again. Send the checks, pay the bills, slide everything under a carpet so that it never surfaces again.

And I'm nothing to them.

So I run outside. I leave my parents, not that they'd notice, their minds being sucked in by work that they've conveniently brought here.

I know I should feel something. I should feel sad my parents left me here or happy that I can see them or mad that they don't care about me. Something.

Instead, I only feel empty emotions. I'm full of nothingness and that's upsetting and makes my heart rate speed up until I'm on the verge of explosion. Hot tears of frustration come streaming down my face as I tug at the ends of my hair and bite on my lips to hide the scream caught in my throat.

I'm so sick of it all. I need to feel something. I need to freaking feel something.

"Gracie." It's Alex. He's sitting at the top of a set of stairs leading to a courtyard, the traditional uniform ditched for a regulation white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black slacks. I turn, wrapping my arms around myself protectively and walking away, but he steps down to me anyways.

"Hey," he murmurs slightly, catching up to me. "What's up?" I shake my head and somehow, it's enough for him. He must get it. He's out here and not in there after all.

He wraps his arms around me and we just stand there. I don't move because I don't think I can stand on my own anymore.

Slowly, he tilts my chin upwards and scans my face, his full of conflict.

"Screw it." He whispers.

He kisses me and I let him. I even kiss him back as he pushes me against the wall. Not because I feel anything for him, but because tears are running down my face, taking my energy and leaving behind amplified emotions of hurt.

I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

So I thread my fingers through the feathery strands of his hair and kiss the boy with soft lips and a hard past.

He doesn't feel anything either. I know it the second he pulls away and starts crying into my shoulder.

"We're so messed up, Gracie," he chokes out hoarsely. "Why are we like this? Why do we fall apart?"

I don't say anything. There's nothing to say. I have no answers. I wish I did.

I can taste salt on my lips and I shut my eyes tightly to ignore the tears.

But it's so hard when everything is so wrong.

I turn my head to catch his lips and he responds quickly, but only because we're both lonely and tired and need someone to help us feel something. It's better than the alternative anyways.

When we pull away, our foreheads lean against each other slightly, cheeks still tear stained and lips tasting of each other's tears. We don't say anything. We don't need to.

We end up sitting on the floor, supporting each other's heads and listening to the sound of our hearts beat, because that's the only way we know we're not dead on the outside.