Hurts Like Heaven

A.N:  Hey guys ^_^ Sorry for my inconsistant uploading I've kind of had writer's block and one existential crisis after another lately, but this one will be fully uploaded by the end of today!  To make a long story short, I had too much time on my hands.  Hope you guys enjoy it!!

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A typical day after school normally included Phil listening to the songs on his iPod and walking home on his own just under two miles away.  The grey kept him company, a constant in the English sky.  It was comforting in knowing something like that hardly changed when everything else seemed to transform around him.  But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?  He walked behind a building then over the gates to the local park.  It wasn’t rare to find them closed, it was assumed to be reserved for the posh residents of the town… which just so happened to be between school and his house.  He didn’t want to walk around it; that would add an extra fifteen minutes of travel—something he wasn’t looking forward to. 

He rushed through the more wooded part of the park so he wouldn’t attract attention to himself.  It was also ridiculous, but he simply didn’t want to deal with walking across town just to get home.  Today something was different—the police were around the bridge taking note of something.  He was curious but kept hidden, finding hot pink and bright purple paint spelling out, “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re missing the mark?”  It took him by surprise.  Of all places, why would that message be here?

One snooty lady was complaining to the police saying it “took from the beauty of the town” and he couldn’t help but scoff.  It was a dead small town; nothing special, nothing beautiful.  Anyone who had a future had gotten out while they had the chance.  He got a good last glance at the bridge, feeling it hit home a little.  He quietly left his position and kept walking home.  He did feel like he was “missing the mark,” as the paint questioned.  It was almost like it was written for him, though he assumed other people his age felt this way—they were just better at hiding it.

The rest of the way home, he thought about the meaning and wondered who could have voiced that… err, written it.  Someone pretty brave, that’s for sure.  He plopped down on the couch, trying to shake the thoughts of the graffiti and the fear in the meaning behind it.  Maybe the person was scared, too.  He couldn’t think of anyone who was bold enough to put the thought out, but he also couldn’t think of anyone who was scared enough about not meeting expectations to spray paint the message out.  Anyone had it in them, he guessed.  But who?