Burnt Out

☆Dead eyes☆

Ray

I was seated on the bleachers, my headphones on, lost in the distant horizon of my thoughts. The stadium was quiet, a serene sanctuary devoid of any other souls, except for my own. This quiet solitude, with only the occasional rustling of my movements, was my haven. I cherished these moments of seclusion, a brief escape from the people I called 'friends', who claimed to know me but in reality didn't know me at all or chose not to. An escape from their fake smiles, snide comments and endless chatter.

Even amid the stillness of the empty stadium, there was an incessant clamor within me. My thoughts raged, an unruly storm in the vast expanse of my mind, demanding attention. They were deafening, almost compelling me to clamp my hands over my ears, but I knew that would be of no help. This was why I always listened to music louder than my thoughts. Music became my sanctuary, a protective wall against the relentless intrusion of my mind.

Yet, on certain days, more often than not, even the blaring tunes couldn't silence my thoughts. They swirled like a storm, an overwhelming whirlwind of emotions, doubts, and fears. I couldn't escape them, no matter how hard I tried. At times, it felt as though I was drowning in a sea of my own unspoken words and unresolved conflicts.

I remained perched on the bleachers, lost in the vivid cacophony of my own thoughts, hoping for a moment of peace and an escape from the relentless chatter inside my head.

Sensing movement beside me, I removed my headphones and turned my head to the side. A blond guy had taken a seat beside me, his fingers cradling a cigarette. He wasn't looking at me but rather fixed his stare straight ahead. A vague sense of familiarity washed over me, likely a face from the hazy memories of the parties I often went to. Though I couldn't be certain. At those parties, I was always drunk out of my mind, paying little attention to my surroundings.

He blew out a plume of smoke and finally turned his eyes in my direction. The first thing I noticed was the prominent scar that ran from the top of his eyebrow to just below his eye. It was a stark, defining mark on his face. Then, I met his eyes, a striking shade of gray that seemed both alluring and unsettling. They seemed familiar. They bore an emptiness, a vacancy that felt almost...dead.

He extended his hand, offering me his cigarette. Desperate for any means to quiet the chaos in my mind, I took it, hoping the smoke would bring some measure of calm. It didn't dissappoint. As I inhaled the nicotine, I felt my body gradually relaxing, and my racing thoughts began to slow, as I watched the tendrils of smoke curl and dance around me.

After a while, I broke the silence between us. "Do you know me?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

I didn't answer.

As a child, I was labled as the weird and loner kid. I had perfected the art of blending into the background, becoming a fleeting shadow in the lives of others. I'd often gone unnoticed, which suited me just fine. Most people harbored an inexplicable aversion to my presence. The reasons for their disdain remained elusive. To my knowledge, I had never given anyone a reason to dislike me. In fact, I rarely spoke or imposed my presence, yet it did little to deter people from casting dirty glances my way and whispering to their friends whenever I passed by. The mystery of their animosity lingered, an unsolved puzzle within the confines of my existence.

As I grew older, the change in me became noticeable. It became challenging to slip into obscurity, and I found myself attending parties. Sometimes, I even hosted them at my own house. Guys started approaching me, their advances undeniable. I wasn't oblivious to my appearance; I knew I was attractive. It was something I'd heard throughout my life. "Ray, you're so hot," or "Ray, I love your body," as though my body and looks defined my entire being.

However, their affections never ran deeper than surface attraction. I was often reduced to being an arm candy, a trophy they wanted to flaunt. People, especially the other girls, failed to grasp this. They seemed intent on reminding me daily of my supposed worthlessness.

I wasn't surprised though. Knowing we lived in a world where boys loathed girls and girls loathed girls too.

I transitioned from being a shadow to being thrust into the unforgiving spotlight.

It was almost comical how, despite many people knowing of me, no one genuinely knew me.

"Give me your phone," the blond guy suddenly demanded.

"Huh," I responded, bewildered, yet I handed over my phone with little hesitation.

He deftly typed something and returned my phone. I noticed he had saved his number under the name Zeek.

"In case you ever need me," he said with a smirk.

What the fuck.

I was taken aback. Was he insinuating that he could be my booty call? I guess I couldn't be all that surprised though since this happened to me all the time.

Whatever look that was on my face must have given it away, as he chuckled as if privy to an inside joke I wasn't in on.

"Don't worry. I'm not really into fucked up girls with dead eyes."

"Like yours?" I retorted instantly, raising an eyebrow.

A brief expression of shock washed over his face before it turned blank. However, a hint of amusement still swirled in his eyes. He shook his head and rose to his feet. At that moment, another boy entered the stadium, his demeanor frenetic, and his movements erratic, a clear indication that he was under the influence of drugs.

The blond guy who I now knew as Zeek, approached the disoriented boy. The boy fumbled with crumpled money and thrust it toward Zeek, his erratic state oblivious to my presence.

Zeek shot me a single glance before turning his attention back to the boy, exchanging a small baggie filled with white powder.

In that moment, the realization dawned upon me and I understood what Zeek believed I might perhaps need him for.