BRANCE + RINNEY

cant stick around and stay, its a lingering feeling

"Get a load of this monster
He doesn't know how to communicate
His mind is in a different place
Will everybody please give him a little bit of space"

the song v listens to on repeat.
-

Tears were soaked into the satin pillow cases, dirtied from bloodied knuckles holding it and broken noses stuffed into the fabric. The wall near the bed had a hole in it, concrete and encased paint dropping onto the floor in minuscule piles. The room was dark, shielded with the closed blinds and gloominess of the world.

Vance liked to believe he was tough, strong enough to hold his own. He was fully capable of doing such a thing, but he was still just a kid.

He's sixteen now, not knowing if it's okay to cry. He thinks back to his father, anger and liquor replacing the blood in his veins as he screamed screamed screamed for Vance to be a man. And men don't cry.

But then he thought of his mother, the kindness of her voice and gentleness of her hands when she'd comb through his hair after he'd come home, tears in his eyes as guilt washed over him for hurting someone out of fear. Fear that they'd hurt him, just as his father had all those years ago.

Vance was bundled in covers, shaking with that pit of sadness that had occupied itself in his chest since he was young. It had rested there, a comforting abyss, the day his father first screamed at him.
-
He was six, small and chubby with childhood as he ran around his backyard. He had tracked mud through the house, having built a mud fort to show his mother when she'd return home.

It was gone before she could see it.

Vance's father had yelled for at least half an hour, sending waves of high-pitched ringing through the young boy's ears. Vance had forced himself not to cry, not in front of the older man.

As soon as he was in the comfort of his room, muddied attire sprawled on his floor in disarray, he cried his heart out. He buried himself under the covers, sniffling and sobbing. He didn't come out until dinner the next day.
-
Vance wasn't fond of yelling, hurting others verbally and, or, physically after that. He never really was to begin with, seeing how much it had affected his mother whom he loved dearly.

More tears escaped from his eyes, making them glisten with pent up sadness and fear. He had gotten into another fight, bruised his knuckles and another kid's face. He hadn't meant to hurt the other boy. He was scared. The other had a knife, his smile sickly and wicked as he stared at Vance, waiting. Vance hadn't swung first, but when he did, he couldn't stop.

He had came home afterwards, ignoring the lonely chill of the home signaling that his mother was at work, and ran to his room. Covers were pulled around his body, tucking him in with warmth and comfort, and he'd begun to cry.

He knows that tomorrow, when he'd inevitably show up to school, talk about his fight would be circulating throughout the hallways and classrooms.

He knows what people say about him, think about him. Whispers of how no one should mess with him, that he's scary enough just standing around or sitting at a desk.

He'd go home and cry under his covers, upset with himself for being so mean and hurtful that no one wants to stick around.

Vance, along with most people in his town, believes that he is a monster.
But, most isn't all.