Save Me// Pastel Dan! Punk Phil!

2

Word Count: 1000

When the bell had rang, signaling the end of the school day, Phil slowly made his departure. The world around him seemed to slow. Phil, lost in thoughts, was oblivious to what was happening in the corridor. He was there physically, but mentally, he was far away. He was in his own world, a place where there was no hurt. A place where everyone could be themselves and not be ridiculed. A place where Phil could be happy.

Phil trudged down the stairs and aimlessly strolled down the path, following a group of giggly girls to the bus stop. Phil paused by the bench designated for bus riders, and contemplated whether or not he wanted to go home this early or not. His body was in bad shape after last nights beating. He felt like he would actually die if he had another beating.

Phil shrugged and turned away from the approaching yellow bus. He went farther down the concrete path until he reached the public transport stop. He stood beside a family of four and an elderly woman holding a cane. Her cane was ridiculously bright. The rainbow of colors swarmed in Phil's eyes, making him squint and look away, not wanting this to be the day he got blinded.

Phil lost himself in another world. In his own little world, he was running and laughing. Running. That was something Phil couldn't do due to his constant beatings and his anorexia. Time and time again, he would skip gym class. While everyone else was sweating and panting on the rugby field, Phil would go behind the school and sit under a shady oak tree and doze peacefully. It was the only place he could sleep without worry.

The bus pulled to a stop in front of the group, making Phil snap out of his thoughts. He walked behind the old lady, paid the bus driver, and made his way down the sticky aisle. Do they ever clean these floors? Phil wondered. And why are they sticky? Maybe Apple juice? Phil shrugged to himself, making the men and women seated in the navy blue seats uncomfortable. They probably think I'm crazy. Oh well. I don't give a fuck anymore.

Phil took his seat in the back of the bus, and pulled out his phone and earbuds. He was lucky that he had managed to take his brothers old phone without his father knowing. He stuck the earphones in and closed his eyes as  Green Day blared in his ears.

The whole half hour that it took to make it into Manchester, Phil dozed on and off. When the bus pulled to a stop, Phil limped off and started making his way down a lightly traveled path. Cars drove by, blowing his fringe out of place. Phil smoothed it down and slowly made his way down different roads. He knew his way to the tattoo shop by heart. Often times, Phil would go and hang out with his only friend, Chris, at the tattoo shop.

Chris' father owned the tattoo shop and he made Chris work as an apprentice. Chris didn't mind though, he loved his work. He has done every single tattoo Phil has. His work was excellent and precise. Somehow, he always knew what Phil was wanting, never needing him to explain his reasoning for wanting the tattoo. Chris had known Phil for years now. They met when they were six. Chris lived in the yellow house across the road from Phil's brick home. When Chris and his parents came over one afternoon to introduce themselves, Phil and Chris had immediately clicked.

At the age of six, Phil expected everything to be pleasant with smooth sailing ahead. But a year later, when his mother was murdered, Phil was shocked. He didn't know what to do with himself. The pain. The pain had to be the worst of it. The physical weight on his chest every time he drew a breath. But after the pain subsided, he felt numb. Phil found this odd, how some days he felt like everything inside his bone structure had drained away, making him feel lifeless and empty, and some days it felt like the world was sitting on his shoulders. The pain wore him down, stretching and thinning every hope and dream young Philip had.

Phil shook away his inconsolable and miserable thoughts. He pulled opened the glass door and stepped inside. The buzz of the needle was enough to make Phil relax. Ever sense he had to move out of the city when his mother died, Phil would make it a point to come into the city to clear his mind. To escape the abuse and torment, both physically and mentally. Phil took a seat in a leather chair and waited for Chris to finish up with his clients tattoo. About a half hour later, Chris emerged from behind the black curtain, with a young man, hardly twenty, in tow. Chris told him the procedures of what to do to take care of his new tattoo, took his money, and sent him on his way.

    Chris emerged from behind the counter and walked over to where Phil was sitting. "Phil, how are you mate?"

     Phil sighed and looked at his feet, forlornly. "How do you think?" He said sarcastically.

     Chris gave him a sympathetic smile. "How about we go to the Cinema and grab some food, alright?"

    Phil looked up at Chris, reminiscing the good times years ago when they would do just that. They were happy, well mostly. They would stroll down the streets, laughing and shoving one another playfully, without a care in the world. Boy, have the times changed. Those good memories seemed so distant in Phil's mind. But Phil wanted to open up the vault that stored his good memories, so he would have something to focus on while getting beaten half to death.

    Phil managed a weak smile. "Sure." He was ready to create some new, improved memories.