lost [muke af]

5.0 - michael

5.0 - michael

The numbers 1:02 were written on Michael's forearm last night. He's convinced that's going to be their time of meeting. Almost all of the tattoos are the moon or stars or planets. It has to be the night, he knows it.

But, he's not worrying about it right now.

The sun is setting as he sits on the wooden pier overlooking the small body of water in front of him. The sky is illuminated with colors of blue and purple, and it matches it freshly-dyed hair.

His best friend sits next to him, their shoes kicking up the lapping water. "What are you thinking about?" Michael asked the other boy. He hasn't been in this group of friends for a while, but they all took him in quickly when they saw he didn't have any one else.

"I don't know," he answered, wiping sweat from the crown of his head. His skin was tan, a few acne marks on the tip of his forehead. Michael looked at him with hearts in his eyes, he was a beauty-something Mike knew he would never become.

"Where are the rest of the guys?"

"Away." His voice was sharp yet quiet. He turned to look at Michael, his long eyelashes batting, "Can I ask you something?"

Michael nodded.

"Can I kiss you?"

His green eyes widened, he quickly shook his head, not wanting to ruin the friendship he had with the group. These were the first friends he has had in a long it and he couldn't lose it, not yet.

The boy ignored Michael leaning in the opposite direction, trying to get away. Mike's shoulders were grabbed by his supposed friend as he rested his lips upon Michael's chapped ones.

A squeal left Michael's lips as he did not like the taste of the other boy.

He let go, wiping the unwanted saliva. "That wasn't okay," he said, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried not to cry.

He turned his head as he heard snickering, the rest of the group staring at the two boys with wide eyes and grinning laughter. Michael blushed deeply, his breath rising in his throat. This wasn't supposed to be happening, this shit only happens in movies, right?

"I told you he had a crush on me," the boy said, spitting next to Michael.

"I-I didn't do-," Mike stuttered, standing up on the pier with glassy green eyes.

"What a fag."

When he was seven years old, his eyes started to lose the color he once loved. They were empty, resembling the only thing he felt: nothing. When he was seven, he wanted to die, he didn't know what dying really was.

When he was nine years old, he watched a cartoon sad face appear on his left wrist. He was asleep while still being awake. Even knowing that there was someone out there for him, he still wished he wasn't ever born.

At eleven, he wondered if happiness was real, or maybe it was a figure of everyone's imagination.

Thirteen years old, he almost got his wish of death.

At fifteen, he learned that sticks and stones break your bones, but words hurt more.