He had lived in as many foster homes in the past six months as you had fingers. His colored hair, piercings, and tattoos set him out from the rest of the children. He had been teased and taunted for expressing himself.
It was obvious they didn't want him there, and frankly, he didn't want to be there.
His parents died in a car accident seven months ago due to a drunk driver at a stop light. It broke him to think about that day. He told them not to go. He told them that they shouldn't drive, but they promised the broken boy that they wouldn't drink. His parents were the drunk drivers and they killed an innocent man. The man had done nothing to them, had never even layed eyes on them before and he had the rest of his life yanked away.
The boy was made to grow up quickly after that. Long nights out and troubling times led to tattoos and piercings and if you'd told him he be in this situation a year ago, he probably would've laughed at you. If you told him this last week he would shrug and pull down the sleeves of his shirt that covered the inkless tattoos that he had created and filled in all by himself. The broken boy was left to fend and fight and lose and win and whatever came in between was pure luck, good or bad.
He sat in his room on his rickety bed by the window and looked outside at the dark night. The moon and starts did not shine, for today had been an exceptionally cloudy day for Sydney.
He sighed and turned over grabbing the knife from under his mattress. He engraved another tick mark under the window sill, standing for how many times he had looked out a window and seen nothing but black.
The black calmed him though. He thought black things were good, too. Black clothes are kind of cool and I guess black cats don't always cross your path for the wrong reason. He slipped the weapon back in its previous position, probably to be picked up tomorrow night - well, morning - judging by the rumbling sounds of possible thunder.
12:03 and he's still tossing and turning.
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Time || m.c. (on hold)
Fanfiction"Tick tock." He said sharply, the question he asked before cutting me open like a knife. "Yes. I'll go." I replied with a shaky breath. "When?" He asked. "Soon, when things die down." I shrugged. "When will that be?" He drummed his fingers on his...
