The Ice Cream Man

The Mysteries of Us

 HEY GUYS!! Sorry it took so long! Unfortunately school is taking over my life.  I miss you guys L ANYWAYS!!!!!! HERE IT IS MY LOVELIES!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!

The Mysteries of Us

Creed's POV

I know what he's thinking.

I'm not stupid.

I could see it in his dazzling eyes while I was kissing him, sucking the breath from his sweet lungs. He's scheming.

Unfortunately my IQ is much higher than he assumes, so I know that he's planning to escape. I can sense it because for the last few days he's been unexpectedly obedient. He eats when I offer him food and he's ridiculously pleasant to me whenever Kello comes around.

Kello.

He's been visiting every goddamn day. I can practically smell the evil intent wafting off of him, the foul stench of a rotting lifeless animal. His grey-blue eyes overflowing with fierce lust when he lays his eyes on Bobby. Now that I've pointed it out Bobby can recognize the expression that befalls his ruggedly handsome face. The way Kello's fingers fidget needlessly the closer he gets to Bobby, as if all he wants on this earth is to touch him. To feel his soft, unworldly flesh beneath his fingertips. I identify with the feeling well because I have known and become that furious tick of the hands during the last six years of my life. I've grown into an endless twitch, a living breathing bodily imperfection striving to be sated by the impeccable Asian boy. From the moment he stepped up to my van I was saved yet cursed. The endless torment that felt like the need to scratch an itch that was just too far out of reach had arisen, and the only way that I could be satisfied was to finally touch his perfect flesh. The light caress of his fingers as I handed him the cold desert, and the secret touches when I slipped into his bedroom at night gratified me in only the slightest way.

I knew they were evil, vile and disgusting thoughts but I didn't just want to barely stroke his flesh at my window or in the dark of night. I wanted to press my hands greedily against his complexion feeling his pulse through the hard touch, spreading the salty sweat on his skin all over his body while he moaned for me. I wanted to watch his fists clench the sheets of his bed hard with an animalistic rush of pleasure that had him screeching for more.

I disgust myself. I left my home because I wanted to get away from the sexual objectification of the human body but here I am voraciously waiting for Bobby to fall in love with me so I can feel him beneath me.

The passionate sex isn't all I want. Please don't get the wrong idea.

I also yearn to simply hold his hand.

I yearn to lay next to him in bed without having to chain him, absent of the childish fear that he will try to escape or eradicate me in my slumber; the need to nuzzle on the couch as we watch a ridiculously fake but fantastically real representation of love play out on the flat screen TV before us. I want to bathe him in the succulent pleasure of tangible gifts, honest compliments, and authentic love, but I know that if I do that now he will simply play it off as me being, exceptionally disturbing, and grotesquely debauched.

I doze on the couch, an effort on my part to make him considerably more comfortable in the unpleasant situation. I would much rather like to join him in my bed but I believe that if I attempted there would be a considerable amount of shrieking and violence on his part.

The reverberation of his discreet snoring traces my ears and I let the steady breath of his lungs lull me between the world of veracity and the realm of unobtainable vision. I am aware that it is early morning but the last thing I wish to do in this moment is to awaken and activate the lights in the underground apartment yanking Bobby unlawfully from his much preferred actuality. His companions most likely await him in his nebulous self-created domain, along with his charming mother and his stately father. In his earth he's most likely back at the institution they so cleverly named School, filling blank pages with meaningless words for the satisfaction of misguided adults who believe that copying down the notes on the board will lead to celebrated achievement and contentment. When in fact they never consciously obtained such things and only agree to organize meaningless lessons so that they can secure an acceptable means of drawing out the rest of their calamitous lives. When you have no aspirations, and no imagination what is the point of living? When do we decide that we have achieved our goals? Is there a limit on purpose? Why do humans achieve such an astronomical level of discontent when there is so much substance to the world around them? Why must we live and act upon unhappiness when all we have to do is bring to life the spark that first ignited our fires?