Where Am I? (boyxboy)

Chapter Twenty

Walking into school, I felt elated. Emelia knew about my identity, and I finally could confide in her. Our relationship could start to mend, though I kept in mind. She needs time. It's not often you hear that your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, that you thought was dead, actually isn't dead and is back at your school with another identity. Yeah, I guess you would need time to sort that out.

Alec. Sweet, caring Alec.

The text. That mysterious, mocking, text.

It was all scrambled in my head like Aunt Raven's eggs on Saturday mornings. Somehow, after my rage through Izzy's office, something left me. A part of the darkness was gone, the pressure, not so heavy. I walked into English, sat in my seat. Curiously, I looked over at Emelia who was sitting at her desk, a book in hand. It looked to be some fantasy romance novel, but who was I to judge.

Under her eyes was marked by dark circles, her face was paler than usual, her make-up not up to par. Immediate guilt surfaced to the front of my thoughts. In our life, we will always have some regrets that we hold on to forever. This, will be one that will haunt me until death. I could've done so many things differently. I could have not let it get this bad. My thoughts snowballed into a intimidating mound of self-hatred on my shoulders. It wouldn't be long before I would collapse under the weight.

I saw Emelia send me a untrusting look. It stung. I had known her for years, even if she didn't know me for more than three months. I threw her a forced smile, one that didn't reach my eyes. I haven't worn a smile that was genuine in years. Since my parents died.

Their faces flashed through my mind, and for a moment I let my memories have free reign. My mother had been so beautiful. She was everything a mother could be, though not without flaw. She fought with my dad, and was stubborn to no end. She would nag me and pressure me to do everything right, what parent didn't? They only wanted the best for their children, but when she was alive I resented her for it.

My father, with kind blue eyes and messy black hair, he was passive and coy. As a child I didn't understand why he wasn't as assertive as my friend's fathers. Only later did I realized, he balanced out my mom. They complimented each other. Where my mom was forward, my father brought her back. When she shot too high, he reigned her in. My parents, may not have been endearing to each other in the months prior of their death, but they loved each other, and I believe they always did. Regardless of the fights that made me slam my door in frustration, or the snide comments made by my mother, they loved each other. Even when my mother was crying in anger, or when my dad thought he wasn't good enough for her, they loved each other. That was the kind of love I wanted. It was the kind of love I needed.

English ended in a blur of discussions and worksheets, I didn't hear any of it.

History passed in a series of boring dates and events that will in the end repeat themselves over and over again. The way the world works, we see the atrocities of the world, we hate them, and then the moment something new happens, we forget all about them. No one wants to dwell on the bad things in the world, because they believe it doesn't effect them. Everyone wants to change the world but doesn't want to see the things they need to change. People rather look away from what makes them uncomfortable.

The scars on my arms and legs are quite visible. They're noticeable. No one looks for them, because no one wants to see them. Those who do see them, look away quickly. My scars scare people, I understand that. It's a behavior that you can not truly understand unless you have done it. Even if you know someone who cuts, burns, or scratches, they can never understand. It's lonely, and it's something that separates me from everyone else. I'm scarred, I'm marred by pain and darkness. A sickness so potent it comes off of me in waves. It's visible on my skin, in my eyes, in the words that come from my mouth.