Sugarcoated (BoyXBoy)

Sugarcoated {1}

AIDEN

They say that good things come from bad.

But I've never believed them. From what I've learned, worse things come from bad. All I know is bad. Bad is what I'm used to. And with bad, comes worse, following closely behind like a clingy ex-girlfriend. So, to those who say that good things come from bad, I'd like to speak on behalf of everyone when I ask what is the source of this delusion?

People only say this to comfort themselves. I've never done that, nor have I felt the need to. I've never seen the comfort in believing false pretenses, because when it comes down to it, I like the truth, the cold, hard facts. I can honestly say that I don't need, and I don't want some petty excuse to make myself feel better. I want everything to be straightforward. I simply don't understand how anyone can be comforted by anything but reality. I'd rather have the bitter truth than a sugarcoated lie.

I learned this the hard way.

It seems as if things happen in some sort of cruel domino effect. Well, not all things, just the bad things. Like how life tries to fool you into thinking that everything is going great, and you can finally lower your guard. Then next thing you know, one thing goes wrong. Then another thing goes wrong. Then another. Then another. Then another...

Next thing you know, you're all alone and miserable. With no friends, no mother...

...No will to live...

So, Yeah. Good things don't come from bad. Bad things come from bad. Not good. Never good. Ever.

I let out a heavy sigh and glanced at my alarm clock, rolling my eyes at the time. I reached over and switched the button, so it wouldn't go off and I trudged out of bed.

Opening my dresser, I pulled my skinny jeans, a band tee and a baggy hoodie. After deciding on which Chucks to wear, I slipped them on, walking to my mirror to check my appearance. My looks were all I had now, and I hardly even had that. My face was pale white like a porcelain doll; that is, besides the dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. I had dropped weight after the past year's awful turn of events. My cheek bones were evident, the shadows beneath them gave me what looked like an almost natural contour.

My hair was dyed black and flipped down in front of my eyes. I pushed it back above my eyebrows and I traced a thin line of dark eyeliner around my eyes to make my blue eyes seem piercing. I ruffled my hair back to hang in front of my eyes in messy perfection. Deciding I was as ready as I would be to face the day, I grabbed my bag, ready to go out to wait for the bus.

Before stepping outside, I peered into the living room. Just as I had expected, my father was passed out on the couch, his hair askew and mouth wide open. I frowned at the amount of empty beer cans scattered on the floor around the couch. The static from the TV made the room feel heavy. I cut the TV off and went to the bathroom to grab the Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet leaving it on the coffee table with a glass of water. Checking on him one last time, I left the house, locking the door behind me.

The bus ride to school was long and dreary. No one sat next to me, no one talked to me. And that told me one of two possible things; either everyone on the bus was aware of the unspoken don't-speak-to-me-if-have headphones-in rule, or, the more likely of the two, none of them wanted to talk to a pretty boy like me.

Walking through the doors of the school, everything felt as if it was moving faster than I was. It seemed as if I was stuck in slow motion, while everyone else was zooming past on fast forward. Things slowed down the more I looked at them; The laughing cliques and happy couples made me feel worse than I already felt. Seeing best friends walking each other to their lockers, boyfriends holding their girlfriend's books while she looks through her bag, it was all just a painful memory of what I had lost. A reminder of something I could never have aga-