Living Ghost

Bruises, Band-Aids, and Pills

Chicago. September 24, 2009, 5:51 AM. 66°F- Foggy. It was still dark outside.
A tall, skinny boy sat in soft, cotton, grayscale sheets, lit up by the gentle, bluish glow of his iPhone. He sighed.
The last time someone texted him it was a month ago. It was his 'best friend,' Allen. He was only texting to ask for money. To buy cigarettes. Again. Ghast didn't have the best influences for friends. Even people who he thought were kind and accepting, he never talked to them because he was afraid of abandonment and misunderstanding.
His train of thought was interrupted by his older brother.
"Ghast! Hurry up! We have to go! NOW!"
Ghast groaned and shook his head. Jack never got up early. Jack never even came to his classes on time, and usually slept through first period. Even though Ghast thought it was nonsense that his older brother was somehow up earlier than he was, he got up anyway. He already had a black eye because of him, he didn't need another one. Or a broken nose. Or a fractured tibia.
Ghast slid out of the bed, pulling the thick covers off of his long, thin legs, and made his way to the dresser. He pulled a baby blue shirt and some black skinny jeans out of his drawers. He squirmed into the skinny jeans, one leg at a time, and while putting on his shirt, messed up his raven hair.
He looked up at the mirror standing on the oak wood dresser and stared at his face. He sighed and touched the Band-Aids and patches covering up the cuts from being tripped and pushed. Ghast sighed when he glanced at the noticeable purple and yellow bruise swelling and consuming his left eye. The sclera was sort of pink under his half-closed eyelids.
He shook his head, the tears welling up to his pale blue eyes. Realizing how pathetic he was being, he wiped the tears with his bony, white arm, and then grabbed the small, plastic comb. He ran the teeth through his thin, black hair. It took about a minute to get it right, and after that, he made his way to his closet, grabbed his black overcoat, and went down the stairs to meet Jack in the football player's bedroom.
Jack was still sitting on his bed, wearing some baggy blue-jeans, his varsity jacket, and a white t-shirt. His room smelled like sweat and unwashed laundry, which he didn't notice or care about. His florescent orange painted walls were full of posters of blonde, skinny girls, famous football players, and one or two of Metallica. He ran his fingers through his long, thick, ginger hair as he looked up. Ghast walked past his brother's bedroom to take his medication and at least eat something before they left.
Ghast choked down his 75mg of Anifranil and 1mg of Xanax with a chaser of tap water, and grabbed a pearapple as his brother walked in, and threw a ocean-colored backpack at his twig-like brother. Ghast didn't catch it, as usual, and toppled to the ground as it hit his chest. Jack laughed at him.
Ghast looked up at the ginger, and grabbed the backpack, his skinny body aching.
"S-Seriously, why are you always like this to me?!" Ghast shouted, trying not to cry again.
Jack just glared at him, his bottle green eyes piercing into his soul.
Ghast shook his head. This wasn't the first time he asked this question. He wondered where Jack's dad was and sighed. He was probably at work. Jack suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him to his feet.
"Let's go."
Ghast hesitantly nodded and opened the apartment door. It made a horrible screech as he pulled it open and let his brother out first.
Jack ran down the stairs, and Ghast followed, holding on to the railing. Jack rushed to his truck, pulled his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the doors, and got into the driver's seat, waiting for his brother. Ghast opened a side door and sat in the passenger seat right beside Jack and yawned, rubbing his eyes.
Jack recklessly pulled out of the parking space, almost hitting a pedestrian, flipping him off, and drove away from the cheap apartments and to their high school.