calling up rebellion [brance]

chapter one: moonlit thoughts

BRUCE YAMADA WAS awake. He tossed and turned in his creaky bed, doubting if he'd manage to get sleep ever again. Recently, he would rarely get up to 4 hours of it.

The trees planted outside his house kept knocking against his window as the wind pushed the branches about, the fog was thick and covered over the night sky like a thick drape of white paint. The stars weren't as visible as they used to be, the autumn clouds covering them along with the illuminated moon. It still shone through, slightly lighting up the small street, although the singular lamppost that was placed on the path outside of house seemed to be doing that job.

Bruce counted the few cars that zoomed past his house and the others that lined North Denver, all letting out grumbling noises that Bruce couldn't tell apart. He wasn't a car guy.

He stared out his open window, he'd left the curtains open. They were a thick dark black material, they'd block out any light that tried to slip its way past into his tidy room. His parents had always advised him to close the curtains, shut the windows, 'you don't want anybody looking inside!' They'd tell him.

Maybe it was that rebellious side of Bruce, that side of Bruce that yearned for freedom outside this box of forced ideals. His family, the people, his friends, had his whole life set out for him before he could even think about who he wanted to be. For years, he'd been the starboy of North Denver. 'The best Batter!' They'd call him, typical ladies boy. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect face, perfect person.

The pressure was surely going to weigh him down after all these years, he'd been trained since a kid, not just about baseball but who he HAD to be. Who he needed to force himself to be to be accepted into this judgemental society that would take one bite out of your bittersweet body and spit you out if you weren't good enough.

He's always ask himself if it was worth it, the bone crushing steps he'd have to walk to reach just a small step for the people, for his family. He swore he'd never lie to himself, because nobody knows Bruce better than Bruce. So then why did he tell himself 'yes' every time the question echoed in his head.

He imagined himself floating down a river bend, distorted scenery devoid of all direction, hopes are the sunken rocks and Bruce is the tree branch constantly in a forward motion with not a strand of consideration to the surface that bellows below him, no matter how rare a stone may exist beneath it's forgotten pebbles.

He finally took his distant gaze from the window and turned to face the popcorn ceiling above him, a small light was above him. It wasn't switched on though, he wishes it was, maybe that'd help him form his thoughts better than the jumble of mess they seemed to be right now.

Every thought Bruce could possibly imagine, good and bad, flooded his brain. He had hopes, dreams, pressures and stresses and all he could was sit here and think about it. He was stuck, and no matter how fast he tried to run, he always seemed to find himself back in the same place.

Bruce wishes to become more than what people perceive. Some days not even feeling like a human being, but rather like a sound. Touching the world not as himself but as an echo of who he was.

The words of people were merciless bashing waves, they ushered him forward before his feet were even aware of where they needed to next step.

He pulled himself from his thoughts, still finding himself staring at the stupid popcorn ceiling above him.

"How is staring at this godforsaken ceiling supposed to help me?!" He whispered aggressively to himself, turning once again to now face his picture board that rested neatly on his white painted walls.

It was full of memories, some that he'd have probably forgotten about if they weren't photographed. The one that caught his eye was one pinned right up in the top left corner, it was punched in with a bright red pin. He was stood with his family, Bruce and Amy were stood in the middle and his parents were stood behind them wrapping their arms around the two.

He was wearing his baseball uniform, it was when he had won his first game. He had the proudest smile on his face, his helmet clutched in his hand as his blue bat lay on the ground by his feet. Amy was looking up at him, also a smile plastered on her small face.

He was so happy. He had no pressure on his shoulders, he had freedom, he felt real. He remembers that moment so vividly but seeing it taken as a photograph just showed him that even the best memories aren't always recollected well. He had been so drowned in his feelings he hadn't last remembered when he'd been properly happy with himself, with his life.

Bruce didn't realise he'd begun crying until he pulled his focus away from the image, the warm salty taste of tears on his lips. He let out a ragged breathe, why was he crying?

He was never one to understand his emotions. People told him he was amazing at comforting, amazing at being there for people. If that's true, why was he never there for himself? He'd find himself crying in the school bathroom, his arms wrapped his legs as he silently sobbed into his knees. Nobody had ever found him, even despite coming inside, he was too quiet for his own good.

If anybody asked why his eyes were so red, he'd blame it on tiredness, on baseball. Nobody thought anything of it, even while he begged for somebody to notice with each glance he'd give them. That soundless pray for anybody to place their hand on his heavy shoulders and ask those three simple words.

Bruce never recollect when he had cried, always trying to push it from his mind and ignore the fact that he wasn't okay. He always deemed his problems as pathetic attempts for attention, despite never outwardly talking about them.

He was on a pedestal everyday, the boy that never cries, the boy who's always fine, the boy everybody wants to be.

If only somebody knew the struggles he had to fight internally and physically everyday, his mind was always wracking with thoughts. He'd walk through the school hallways with his books clutched to his chest. He was never thinking about his work, or homework, or even baseball, as he'd tell people.

But lying was the only way to escape their questions, their theories, because he has to be that perfect boy forever. Or else he's nothing, or else he'd fall.

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1154 words, thank you for reading this first chapter. The second chapter should be out later (: