Matthew

Just a casual Tuesday

My name is Matthew.

Nothing that special, just a family name.

Just like me, I'm nothing special.

Some people my age would rather you give them money for their birthday and they'd then go spend it all on drugs(smoking weed doesn't make you cool, idiotic children) or alcohol.

I'd rather just get a simple cake and the opportunity to watch stupid videos with my friends at one of our houses. Well, friend, in my case.

Some would dread even the thought of going to school. As of right now, I'm sitting on my roof at four in the morning, staring into the fog and awaiting the bus with a bit of excitement, honestly.

At five, my dad will burst out of the door to the front house, waving a hurried goodbye at the roof since it's a normal occurrence for me to be up there. And he'll get in his car as he waves once more, and drives away off to work.

At five thirty, my mother will do the same. Once wild red hair pulled back in a ponytail or a bun, bouncing after her as she races to her car. She carries a coffee, sometimes a water bottle or energy drink. Her drink choice for the morning is a wildcard. She doesn't bother with a goodbye and hops into the front seat, backing out of our short driveway and speeding down the road.

Everything follows like clockwork.

The bus comes at six. So here I am, waiting. I really can't help that I'm up this early, believe me when I say if I could sleep a little longer I would. It's rare for me to get two or three hours of sleep. Most of the time, however, I get...what do they say? Zero. Nada. Zilch.

Yeah.

I stared into the fog that seemingly always overhangs my little town. It has a proper name, by the way, but a lot of people like to call it Mistville. Guess the town of Mooreshade doesn't really seem to fit all too well, and I agree.

Like predicted, my father leaves for work, followed closely by my mother(who's carrying a tea today). I'm left, a lone figure, slowly being muted by the silvery blanket that's wrapping around my house.

I twist at my oversized sweater with pale fingers, the many scars on those fingers being a little embarrassing when pointed out. A lot of people think there's a more serious thing behind them, when in reality they're just the aftermath of my aunt's attempt to teach me to sew. And yes- the sweater. Even in the suffocating humidity.

I'm not particularly fond of my body, I'll admit. Wearing larger clothes gives me comfort, I don't feel so fragile. This one I've had for a while, given to me by my aunt on my seventh birthday. Even it being pink didn't faze me from wearing it pretty much every single day that I could, and it fit me nearly perfectly now.

It had some battle scars that I tried in vain to fix up, but I'm crappy with a needle so it looked pretty tragic, like a blind man with no experience did it. Though I'm sure a blind man could do better than a sixteen year old with sight and rather shaky hands.

A heavy droplet of cold water landed on my shoulder, causing me to flinch back in fright and press myself against my open window with more speed than someone such as myself should. The ledge I'm on groans in protest, but I turned back to face inside, shadowed eyes scanning for my clock. Then, in flashing red numbers, it switches to 5:55. I take that as my cue to crawl back inside and slam the window shut, the force rattling my blinds just a bit.