Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

thirty two or thirty three or something.

dedicated to oliver.  please don't cut my boobs off.

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"Hey Justy," I smile, and lower myself to the ground. It feels good to resort back to old habits. "How are you doing?"

The trees sway slightly, drying their leaves from the overnight rain. Today is sunny, and the warmth peaks through the cracks in the branches, filtering down to illuminate the date of death on both Justin and his neighbors gravestone. January 2nd, 2010. What an eventful day.

"Timmy's in the hospital," I tell him. "He's comatose and "I'll probably go visit him after Teddy gets home from school. I think Teddy's getting sick of not being able to have a social life because of me, which is weird because usually he's pretty verbal about that. Lots of things have changed between Teddy and I, and I wonder whether or not they're permanent. I'm not sure I want them to be."

I sigh, and rest my head on my knees. Talking to Justin's grave only makes him feel further away from me than I'm willing to admit. "I just don't know what to do anymore, Justy. I'm not comfortable with all these changes. I don't want any of this."

My voice cracks and I bury my face deeper. It burns with embarrassment. "I feel so stupid, talking to a dead person. It's not like you're going to help me- you're dead. I just wish you weren't. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. I fuck it all up.

"I don't know what I'd do without him. I love you more than anything, but Timmy's the first time I've felt happy since I lost you. I forgot what happy was like. Do you know what that's like? And the worst part is, it teases me everyday. Everything I used to have just laughs in my face and nothing I say can make it go away. I'm just stuck here, powerless. It's miserable. Tell me what to do because I'm done with being sad."

Justin gives me the same solemn reply.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I'm not giving up on you, I promise. Just taking a little break I guess. I cut the other day. I'm sorry. Well, not really because you were the one who wasn't there when I needed you, but I'm sorry that I was that desperate. It's not your fault that you can't be here."

I stand up and leave him to rest. While on the tracks I light up and drop more ash on my clothes than I would have preferred. It burns tiny holes in the edge of my jacket. I weigh my options and the destruction is worth the relief.

Not every thing's like that though. Cutting isn't worth the scars. Purging isn't worth the rotten teeth and rejection to food. Vodka isn't worth the hangover when you weren't drunk enough to forget the night before.

Cake's worth the calories. No questions asked.

When I was in therapy, Dr. Lemann was always going on about pros and cons:

"Will the scars your cutting leaves be worth it ten years from now? When your kids ask you about them, what will you say, Damian?" he asked in his emotionless, therapeutic tone.

"Two problems with that," I replied with a smirk. "First off, I'm gay, remember? No children in my future. Secondly, someone invented things called sleeves." There was a soft knock on the door and I rose to my feet, towering over the middle aged man seated comfortably in his chair. "And that's my cue to leave. See you next week, but hopefully not."

Nothing pissed me off more than his fixation on pros and cons. Teenagers are impulsive. We don't want to be continuously reminded that as we age, we'll actually start to think about what we're doing before we do it. Or that we'll lose all the fun in spontaneity of things.

And secondly, what right did he have, telling me what I did to cope wasn't worth it? Was he the one so desperate that he was reduced to opening his own skin just to sleep at night? People who've never been there really have no right to judge those who are doing their best to survive.

I was never comfortable enough to tell him off in ways other than being a total dick, and skipping 75 percent of the sessions. I guess I figured he'd take a hint and fuck off, but he never really did. Even the last time I saw him, he was still crossing boundaries.

I take a drag in and force it back out so forcefully it's painful. I practically force my lungs to collapse on themselves. Outside, it's sunny. And I don't like it. I'd roll up my sleeves if there was nothing to hide.

"You're awfully whiny as of late, Damian. I thought you didn't find comfort in words."

"I thought you were going to be nicer."

"That's up to you. If you want me saying nice things then you better start liking yourself."

Tapping the cigarette between my fingers, I sit down on the metal rails. If it weren't for the distinguishable sign marking the crossing, I never would have guessed this was one of the most memorable places in my history. "You were a fool, Justin Trace Sykes." I laugh. "You had no idea what you were getting yourself into."

"None of us did."

"What did you think would happen when you grew up? That you would be happy and get married and have kids and live happily ever with the perfect job and perfect house and perfect life? Were you really that brainwashed."

"Actually," I reply, " I always thought I'd be an astronaut. Because that way I could visit places you couldn't by just getting in a plane. I was going to be different. But then I got depressed and all my dreams just got put on hold.

"Justin wanted to be a social worker. Not a therapist because he wasn't too fond of mine, but he wanted to help kids in broken homes. He'd have been good at it."

I take a moment to let my words soak into the metal. It's been the same routine for the past four days, but this is the first time I've ever taken a break from smoking and talking and even thinking. I don't want to think. I don't want to remember Timmy tangled up in his tubes. I don't want to remember the way my arm burns under the shower. I don't want to think about all the make up work that will inevitably be waiting for me upon my return to school.

So I don't. I just don't.

Two hours and thirty two minutes later, I get a call from Teddy. The vibration wakes me from my nap and I find my smoke, having been extinguished on my jacket, the culprit of a large hole burned in the collar.

"Hello?" I sleepily question the boy on the other line.

"Where are you? I thought we were going to pick up some flowers for Timmy beforehand."

Oh. Right.

"I'm at the tracks crossing. Can you pick me up?"

I can hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. "On my way."