Pretty Little Black Parade

Teenagers

Teenagers

Wesley comes around room the next day. My mom has run out to re-stock the kitchen (I wonder why, since I’ll probably die tomorrow. I don’t need a roast in my kitchen.)

“So Wes,” I say upon him entering my room. The conversation with Aria gave me the energy to shower on my own and put on a pair of kaki instead of pajama pants.

“Since I’m gonna be leaving you on your own if a few days,” I say, ushering for him to sit down on my bed, as I settle down into the recliner. “I have a few words of wisdom.”

“Okay?” I replies, half interested and half bored.

“There are a lot of cruddy people in this world,” I behind. “They’re gonna try and

clean up your looks with all the lies in the books to make a citizen out of you.”

“They already do that,” He points out.

“True. A lot of ‘adults’ will try and consider you a kid, even though you aren’t one. They consider you a teenager. And let me tell you, they’re gonna keep an eye on you and watch all the things you do. They’ll assume that if you’re tired or sick you’re doing drugs. And they’ll smirk at you and go on to rip you and your aspirations to shreds and use their worthless methods of keeping you clean.”

“In your dying days, this is what matters to you?” Wes laughs.

“Yes.” I reply, seriously. “You know when we were scared of the raccoon that always crept up onto our porch as kids?”

He nods.

“She told us that he’s more scared of us than we are of him. Listen, teenagers scare the living shit out of adults. So darken your clothes and they’ll leave you alone.”

I sigh. “But not me. I won’t leave you alone.”

“Until you’re dead.” He points out, and I even sense a tint of anger in his voice.

I chose to ignore it.

“You think clique’s are for high school but I promise they continue on forever. In the real world people will call you awful names. And no matter who you are, you’ll never fit in much. But it’s okay, you don’t need to. Fitting in is so over rated. So, Wes, when you grow up to be one of those middle aged men, be nice to the teenagers. They need it.”

“Ezra?”

“Yeah?” I take a deep breath. Talking is more exhausting than I remember it being.

“I don’t want you to die.” His eyes get cloudy.

His words take me back a bit. I knew he cared, but I didn’t think he cared enough to say it. I’m a bit at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry…” I finally end up saying. He shakes his head.

“No you aren’t,” He says, standing up. “If you were, you’d try harder.”

I throw up my hands. “I got a terminal cancer, how is that my fault?”

“Because you accepted it.”

Narrow my eyes at him. “I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being pessimistic.”

“You’re being naive.”

“You’re being suicidal.”

“I didn’t ask for cancer, Wes!”

He lingers in the open doorway, reaching for a response. He’s interrupted by the doorbell.