He was broken; everyone knew it. His face masked the pain that his scars announced, and when his voice trembled mid-sentence, you knew it wasn't because he was cold. His eyes were always dimmed by the lack of real happiness and were weighed down by the heavy bags that he carried on his paled face. His arms were coated in layers of scars; if you ever had the chance to see his arms. He was into long pants and long sleeved shirts or hoodies. He wasn't one of the guys who got teased for being "emo" but he was one who avoided the topic of feelings and put on a brave face everyday. He dealt drugs, at his young age of 16, but he liked the cash; he got his own drugs with the money he earned, and he could afford flowers for his sisters grave - he promised to keep her happy and beautiful, no matter how far under the grotty green grass she was. He was always talking to the school counselor but no one ever uttered a word about it, especially when he was around. He let of an auro, a 'don't fuck with me' type thing. He had friends but I don't think he considered them very close friends. Everyone had their sick and twisted problems and no one seemed to care about anyone but themselves these days, but I cared about this kid; in a sick and twisted way.
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Short Stories
Short StoryAlmost 200 short stories to get your blood pumping, your skin crawling and your mind racing. Nostalgic, interesting, current, real-life experiences in a creative form. *disclaimer: some of these short pieces reference issues such as mental illness...
