He spoke to me.
The golden boy did. Lent me his book.
He walked up, gracing me with his perfection; the complexion, the features, his hair, everything perfectly golden, and lent me a book.
Why though?
That's what I don't get. He was so kind, too kind. It makes me feel uneasy. His eyes too sharply observing, still wealthy with purity, glistening with kindness, but watchful and examining. That odd contradiction of innocence and intellect. Strange.
No one looks at me like that. Like I exist, fully, equally and whole, in this world.
No one is usually kind to me either, mostly because I make it really, really easy for everyone to ignore me, fading with stealth and finesse into the background of things, of all worldly things, quiet and skittish like a small
animal, either that or I scare them off with my aloofness and oddity.
At least that's what my mom thinks. Says to me. In those exact words, but what did she know? She couldn't even save Dad.
I supposed I should lean on that one, huh? Use it as a crutch to draw in your sympathies but I won't. I just can't. No, I won't talk about it, not yet anyways.
Besides that's what the meds are for, and the therapy. Two a day. Two sessions every week. Mom just adores paying for those.
So that's what they are for, so I wouldn't be a trope, so I wouldn't be another adolescent, another millennial roaming hallways and sulking in libraries, finding it all too easy to complain about the trials of a first world life.
Or at least that's what my mom thinks, yet again. She has a lot of input on my life, or lack there of. The constant critic. We got along really well, it's not like we haven't had a proper conversation in years.
Now I've gotten off topic, where were we? Oh, the boy. The golden one.
The one who lent me his book. I can see him now, if I dared to. But I don't. Hopefully I can just return the book to him when I'm done say thanks and that will be all.
Save him before he bothers getting in too deep.
I've had friends in the past, but nothing I foster, nothing that I bring into my life ever stays, ever flourishes, ever blossoms. I can't offer anything to other people, my realm, my atmosphere is not about growth, warm and life, it never has been. I know that now.
So any attempt, any effort, to extend the hand of friendship is deeply in vain. It's actually cruel, so I don't do that to others anymore.
That's pretty pathetic huh? Well, that's only the tip of the iceberg with me. Pathetic tends to be a forte of mine.
I looked down to my hands, what were they doing? Tracing a name on the cover of the book?
Axel Dean
I shut the book as the bell rings above me, checking the time table only to see my favourite lesson poking proudly out at me.
Gym class.
Great.
YOU ARE READING
The Forgotten (boyxboy)
Teen Fiction"It's soft, the voice, sheltered and full of restraint as if he doubts himself, or maybe he was bullied at his last school. That would make sense. He does sound hurt. Like a wounded animal just wanting to be left alone." This story is about two teen...
