Paradise

XV

Sadness isn't just sad. It's angry.

The doctor came in, a solemn look on his face.

Parker shook his head, crying out.

"We did everything we could-" stated the doctor tried, placing his hand on Parker's shoulder.

"Nothing in this world could really help now. She would need a miracle." he says, and Parker's eyes light up.

"She's still alive?!" he asks, turning towards the salt and pepper doctor.

"Yes, but all electrical responces in her brain have shut down. Son, she's... She's brain dead." The doctor seemed sorry enough. Parker nodded understandingly. "Just... Can i see her" Parker asks, and the doctor nodded, silently leading him to the intensive care unit. Parker nearly sobbed as he looked over his beloved's face.

His eyes surveyed the array of injuries carefully, and he began to grow confused. Most of the injuries were days, weeks, even months old. And quite a bit of the cuts on her wrists, thighs, and stomach seemed self inflicted. 

He began to become angry.

Very angry.

He screamed, grabbing a chair off the floor, smashing it on the wall. No one seemed to notice the boy unraveling.

Because what no one knew. What no one seemed to understand, was that he, the boy who was all things warm, was also all things heat.

He was fire.

He was but an ellaborate ruse of a boy with the brown eyes that reminded a certain girl of hot chocolate and warm mahogany fires that burn a little too bright and he was not what the giggling girls thought. He looks like kindness, but smells of cigarettes and mistakes. His voice is sweet and silky, but sounds of deceit. He was anger and loneliness and watching strange girls play with sickly looking greenish mashed potatoes and ignoring angry red slashes on wrists, and the sadness that was held in each of the purple bruises that littered perfectly imperfect faces and falling in love with icey blue eyes that reminded him of frozen lakes and clear skies, and dark circles under those eyes that were cold, but not hateful.

The boy who wasn't quite as he seemed.

The boy who, in fact, wasn't quite human.

The boy who's deceased father was a demon, and mother was an angel.

He was just a depressed, stressed, hot mess, who just so happened to have supernatural powers.

And he was sick of being good.

And he was sick of being warm.

And he was sick of being kind to everyone that wasn't his Paradise.

And he was sick of being angelic.

He pulled out his cellphone, punching in the number of his good friend, Zach. His fingers work like mad against his keyboard. And he sends his text.

Parker takes one last look at his beloved Paradise, that ellaborate ruse of large shirts and baggy pants and long sleeves rubbing against new cuts and playing with sickly looking greenish mashed potatoes and lying on the cold, dirty, cracked linoleum floor in a puddle of her own tears. And angry red slashes on wrists, and the sadness that was held in each of the purple bruises that littered her perfectly imperfect face and icey blue eyes that reminded a certain boy of frozen lakes and clear skies, and dark circles under those eyes that were cold, but not hateful, with words that were a symphony of melody and beautiful harmony.

Abruptly, the door opens, and in walks Raymond.