Bury Me In Black, chapter 2
The boy fiddled around in his pockets until he finally pulled out a small box and flipped open the lid. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. He was young to be smoking - only 15. But his parents had always smoked and he didn't know any better. He was constantly stealing packets from his parents' cupboard and he had managed to get himself a lighter. He hunched over as he walked with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette.
The air was cold and still, unlike most nights where it was windy as all hell. He was thankful for this as his eyes had been sore recently, always bloodshot. And if there was a strong wind he would have had to stop walking and sit down with his eyes closed. He wasn't sure what was causing him the pain. And if he sat in the middle of the streets, who knows what would happen. He bent over slowly and picked up an old tatty leather jacket lying in the gutter. He put it on even though it was too small for him and completely worn through at the elbows. But he was desperate and he wasn't going back home for anything. All he had was a $10 note, a pack of cigarettes and his drumsticks, which he carried everywhere.
An icy wind swept up the alleyway, freezing his bare feet. How he longed for shoes, how he longed for everything. He had left really unprepared. It wasn't the first time he had run out of the house, but other times he had a bit of time to grab the essentials before disappearing. But this time was different. His parents were coming after him, there was nothing he could do.
The boy sighed and sat himself down against the wall. He took a drag on his cigarette and hunched over. He took out his drumsticks and started tapping a rhythm on the street. He found it kept him calm, or helped him to cool off. He was particularly good at drums. He had his own kit which he had saved up for months for, but that was back home. He also wrote poetry, and that also helped him express his feelings in a way people didn't hate him for.
He was an outcast at school. He had never fit in with any of the groups. It wasn't that he didn't want to he just couldn't. He went to a public school, it was chaos. The school had no rules or anything. There really isn't a point of going to school if you go there. All they do is sit there all day throwing things, covering walls in graffiti, getting into punch-ups, while all the staff go out the back of the school for a fag. The boy sighed as his cigarette shrivelled smaller and smaller until eventually he threw it on the ground and put it out.
The boy stared blankly into the distance. He could have been thinking about anything. Maybe thinking about what he had done, or where to go next or even just nothing. It was hard to tell. He didn't show much emotion, it was only through poetry that the 'real' him showed. He cringed as he put his hand to his face, where his father had hit him earlier. He looked down and noticed his arm was also covered in bruises. Up until then he hadn't felt any pain, he had been kind of in a daze. But then it hit him, and it hit him hard.
He let out a cry and tears started rolling down his cheeks one after the other. He hadn't realised until then how much pain he was in, and not just on the outside, but the inside too. A tear fell down over his chin and down his neck, tickling him a bit and making him twitch slightly. Just then a single drop of water landed on his head. He looked up into the night sky as rain started pouring down on top of him. He curled up in a ball trying to get further into the jacket to keep warm. He tucked his feet beneath him and wept.
He wondered why it had to be him all the time. Why he was the one with abusive parents. Why he was the outcast at school. Why he had to be the one stuck in an alleyway in the pouring rain. It didn't seem at all fair. But then again, life never seemed fair. Then he wondered about death. If death is the opposite of life, and life isn't fair, would death be fair? Maybe he should go back to his parents and let them do what they want, let them kill him and maybe everything would be better. Or he could just kill himself. Suicide would be easy and possibly less painful.
He took out his lighter and flipped it open for no reason. He had nothing better to do than watch the flame ignite and then instantly be put out by the rain. It was running out quickly. He would have to find himself another one soon or he would go crazy. He chucked the lighter back in his pocket and sunk down further against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep as it was getting awful late and he wouldn't be able to sleep in long on the streets. He lay for at least another hour, trying to get used to the constant raining before he finally drifted off to sleep.
The air was cold and still, unlike most nights where it was windy as all hell. He was thankful for this as his eyes had been sore recently, always bloodshot. And if there was a strong wind he would have had to stop walking and sit down with his eyes closed. He wasn't sure what was causing him the pain. And if he sat in the middle of the streets, who knows what would happen. He bent over slowly and picked up an old tatty leather jacket lying in the gutter. He put it on even though it was too small for him and completely worn through at the elbows. But he was desperate and he wasn't going back home for anything. All he had was a $10 note, a pack of cigarettes and his drumsticks, which he carried everywhere.
An icy wind swept up the alleyway, freezing his bare feet. How he longed for shoes, how he longed for everything. He had left really unprepared. It wasn't the first time he had run out of the house, but other times he had a bit of time to grab the essentials before disappearing. But this time was different. His parents were coming after him, there was nothing he could do.
The boy sighed and sat himself down against the wall. He took a drag on his cigarette and hunched over. He took out his drumsticks and started tapping a rhythm on the street. He found it kept him calm, or helped him to cool off. He was particularly good at drums. He had his own kit which he had saved up for months for, but that was back home. He also wrote poetry, and that also helped him express his feelings in a way people didn't hate him for.
He was an outcast at school. He had never fit in with any of the groups. It wasn't that he didn't want to he just couldn't. He went to a public school, it was chaos. The school had no rules or anything. There really isn't a point of going to school if you go there. All they do is sit there all day throwing things, covering walls in graffiti, getting into punch-ups, while all the staff go out the back of the school for a fag. The boy sighed as his cigarette shrivelled smaller and smaller until eventually he threw it on the ground and put it out.
The boy stared blankly into the distance. He could have been thinking about anything. Maybe thinking about what he had done, or where to go next or even just nothing. It was hard to tell. He didn't show much emotion, it was only through poetry that the 'real' him showed. He cringed as he put his hand to his face, where his father had hit him earlier. He looked down and noticed his arm was also covered in bruises. Up until then he hadn't felt any pain, he had been kind of in a daze. But then it hit him, and it hit him hard.
He let out a cry and tears started rolling down his cheeks one after the other. He hadn't realised until then how much pain he was in, and not just on the outside, but the inside too. A tear fell down over his chin and down his neck, tickling him a bit and making him twitch slightly. Just then a single drop of water landed on his head. He looked up into the night sky as rain started pouring down on top of him. He curled up in a ball trying to get further into the jacket to keep warm. He tucked his feet beneath him and wept.
He wondered why it had to be him all the time. Why he was the one with abusive parents. Why he was the outcast at school. Why he had to be the one stuck in an alleyway in the pouring rain. It didn't seem at all fair. But then again, life never seemed fair. Then he wondered about death. If death is the opposite of life, and life isn't fair, would death be fair? Maybe he should go back to his parents and let them do what they want, let them kill him and maybe everything would be better. Or he could just kill himself. Suicide would be easy and possibly less painful.
He took out his lighter and flipped it open for no reason. He had nothing better to do than watch the flame ignite and then instantly be put out by the rain. It was running out quickly. He would have to find himself another one soon or he would go crazy. He chucked the lighter back in his pocket and sunk down further against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep as it was getting awful late and he wouldn't be able to sleep in long on the streets. He lay for at least another hour, trying to get used to the constant raining before he finally drifted off to sleep.
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