mystery boy

another jacket

Joey POV:

"Goddammit Joey, how many jackets are you gonna lose?" I heard my dad yelling from the other room in response to my screaming "I LOST MY JACKET!" across the house. This isn't the first time I've given some guy my jacket, except usually it's someone I actually knew.

I would never trust a stranger with a nice jacket of mine, but the kid seemed so tiny and cold I had to do something. And anyway, I had gotten used to this arguement. We'd fight about giving people jackets, then say that I wouldn't get a new one next time, but then I'd freeze nearly to death the next day and we'd have to get me something. It's not like we don't have the money. Our family may not be very close, but what we lack in 'love' we make up for with our financial and social status.

The only problem is dealing with the 'spoiled rich kid stereotypes' whenever I go anywhere. When someone sees another person wearing cheap clothes, they laugh and call them poor. When someone sees another person wearing name-brand or pricey clothers, they call them a spoiled brat. There's no way to win in society, no way to be accepted. That's what made me give up on trying to be myself. Once I started acting like everyone else, wearing what everyone else did, doing what everyone else did, and started hiding who I was in public, I got along with other kids way better. Even girls started noticing me. Which sucks, because I'm gay as balls.

Anyway, back to the present. (Wow, what a transition, you really did well this time author) 

I walk in through the door and plop down on the couch. I drag across the cracks between the cushions, where traces of cheerios and chip crumbs resided. I looked up to see my dad staring down at me.

"You smell like microwaved fish." I wrinkle my nose. 

"Look at me, you little-" he sighs and stops himself. He's probably accepted it too. I'm never going to change. No matter how many times he yells at me, or locks me out of the house, I'm gonna do what I want. Giving away my jackets isn't generosity, it's a symbol of me being a rebel.

"That smell isn't me anyway. It's your dinner." He shoves a plate with what looks like roadkill in my face. "What the fuck?"

"Leftovers. From the dinner party that you left, I don't know, maybe-" He checks the clock. I turn to see as well. 2:34 am. "Five hours ago?" He starts to walk away.  Probably to bed. "Now eat it. I wouldn't want my dear son to starve, would I?" He turns his head to me, with a smile that makes me want to vomit. Or maybe that's just from the stench of the ass residue that my father calls food. I sigh.  "fucking hell." I mumble under my breath. I stab a tiny, moist piece and lick it. The cold, disgusting taste makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my tastebuds crying in pain. I rush to the kitchen and dump everything into the garbage can. Then I turn and dash up the stairs into my bedroom. 

I sigh with relief at the familiar baby blue walls. I remember getting the room painted. I hated the blank white walls that trapped me in at night, which made the room seem so much darker at night, and terrified me to no end. We finally got them done when I was nine, eight years ago.

I grab my Walkman from off of my desk and plop down on my bed. Comforting music pulses through my head as I take the earbuds and put them into my ears. I close my eyes. I need to stop thinking. This is the only time of the day I have to myself, the only time of the day where I don't need to try and please everyone else.  Yet...I can't stop thinking about that kid. Ryan, he said his name was.

I look out the window. Is he still there? 

Is he still wearing my jacket?