Being forced to move so many states away from all that he once knew, Nessa was nervous to tackle his new life. Fortunately, it didn't take long for Nessa to meet a plethora of unique individuals who welcomed him into their lives:
The optimist, the k...
Ever since he met them, Nessa spent a lot of time thinking about his new group of friends and what they were all about. Every last one of them was so interesting and diverse, it was hard to come to a conclusion on anything.
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Much like always, Venice found himself in the same place that he was every single morning—in his bed, on his back. The ceiling was white, just like the empty walls were. It never changed, and nor did he. Every single morning, he was sat the same way, staring at the same place.
Some days his eyes hurt from the hours spent staring, other days they felt less painful, but those were the days where he actually got sleep. Which were the rare ones. Today was a day where his eyes burned and begged to be closed, even if only for an hour. Even if only for ten minutes. Anything.
Instead, the sound of an alarm clock going off signaled that it was time to get up. But it wasn't his alarm clock, it was coming from the room next door. After a moment of the beeping pouring throughout the house, Venice heard Ilya yell for it to shut the fuck up. Then a crashing sound.
Venice climbed out of bed, already dressed for the day. In fact, he was almost entirely ready. About two hours ago, he had showered, thrown on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. Then he simply laid back down to wait until it was time to actually get up.
He crept out of his room and made his way down the hall. In the kitchen, he sat atop the counter just like he always did every single morning. But this morning, he didn't eat anything. This morning, he wasn't hungry.
Instead, he gazed at the clock on the oven, counting each minute that passed. It took five minutes before he heard Ilya staggering down the hallway to the bathroom. Then another five before Ilya came out of the shower, then five more before he entered the kitchen half-awake.
Venice always wondered what he was doing here. What did he do to deserve a warm home? A kind friend who he considered a brother? A welcoming friend group who never harmed him? He touched his hand to the pocket of his loose jeans. Inside, he could feel where one of his switchblades sat.
He wasn't supposed to have all of the nice things that he had. Venice wasn't your average teenager, and not because of your average reasons. There were dark things looming over him—memories, actions, urges. All of which he tried to forget. He tried to remove them from his brain. But he had done things, he had seen things. And now they were never going to go away. No matter how much he wished they would.
But everyday that passed, he did the same things. Everything always stayed the same. The longer this went on, the more he felt perturbed for having asked for so much from his friends. They weren't allowed to touch him, they weren't allowed to ask him about sex, they weren't allowed to ask him about food, they weren't allowed to ask him to talk, they weren't allowed to ask about what kept him up at night. It felt unfair and fucked up. Venice was their friend too, he should at least try to give a little.
