WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
• • •
Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
MAY
On TV, if the place where the main character works is closing, it's usually portrayed as somber or bittersweet because it meant a lot to them.
TV likes to exaggerate a lot of things, and this is no exception.
We lasted longer than I thought we would. My final day of work before this shitty, summer-clothes-only store closes forever is as slow-paced as always. Goth Guy pays attention even less than I do because both of us are watching the clock.
I call Alaska. Not to spill emotions, but to stare into her soul. To know someone as perfect as her exists. For a reason not to kill myself.
I have a jacket on because it's fucking cold. I'm not warming up, though. I blow onto my cupped palms and rub my arms.
The chips I inhaled fucking messed me up. My cravings are the main problem. I think about all the delicious shit I can't have. The food I find disgusting (before all of it became) sounds good, too.
I just want something, like a whole fucking footlong from Subway. Subway isn't even good, either. It's the McDonald's of sandwiches, the big nothing with the least amount of effort and taste, yet there's one in every little circle of restaurants.
Just because I want it doesn't mean I need it. It won't fill the hole.
I deserve to be empty. (Go get drunk, you fucking mistake).
I only open my mouth to hear myself talk. Conversing is, in itself, a sandwich. The two pieces of bread are the conversation starter. The meat of the sandwich, of the story, is the interesting part, or the climax. In between are the vegetables and condiments, the details that revolve around the conversation starter and the meat. There is an endless amount of flourishing and flavor to add.
And those listening eat it the hell up.
Alaska and I haven't gotten the plates out yet, let alone started making the fucking sandwich. (I fucking hate you).
She takes out the bread and puts it right on the counter. It collects germs. "I haven't seen you eat today."
I add some mustard - it burns. "That's because you haven't seen me at all. I did." (She doesn't give a fuck about you. No one does).
Lettuce, tastes like nothing. "What was it?"
Vinegar. "Cereal."
"This morning, or?"
Oil. "Like, eleven AM. I got up late."
"Hm. What else did you do today?"
There's this scene in Poltergeist where one of the paranormal investigators goes into the bathroom and the poltergeist creates an illusion showing him tearing his face off in a gorey fashion.
