Did I Stutter? (Fike Fic)

3

   +Firkle's Pov.+

          ~Wednesday~

"I walk on hills made of razor blades.
They cut and scrape my bare, pale skin, bleeding red.
The deepness of the cuts caused me to fade into the smoke I breath.
Darkness and death hide in my closet, wanting out like circus freaks."

Henrietta continued her poem, speaking monotone as Pete and Michael listen. They both take drags of their cigarettes once in a while. Her poems were always captivating.

          Except for the fact that I wasn't listening to her at all.

          I was too worried about tomorrow. Anything could happen!

          I could say something embarrassing, or do something embarrassing! What if I insult him? He'll hate me!

I don't want him to hate me! As conformist as it sounds, I want him to like me! If I jeopardize that, it could mean I'll die alone because I know I'll have no one after my goth friends.

          I let out worried sigh.

          Okay, this is getting ridiculous.
I've got to calm the fuck down.

Nothing is going to happen, just think positive! Maybe I'll actually get to talk more to him, get to know him too...

          "Firkle?"

           I was snapped out of my thoughts, seeing Pete waving his hand in my face. I looked up, seeing Henrietta lighting a cigarette and Michael laying back.

Shit, she must be done with her poem.

I stay silent, only slightly looking up at them with a straight face. I don't do anything and neither do they. It's quiet and awkward...

I was about to say something before Pete spoke first.

"You alright?" He asked.

It's like Pete to be concerned, he's the most caring for the group. Caring only for us though, not really anyone else I don't think.

"I'm fine." I plainly say, pulling a stick of gum out from my pocket.

"Liar." Michael suddenly says as I unwrap the gum and pop it in my mouth. I glare at him, he isn't even looking at me.

"What?" I spit, getting ticked that he can read me like that.

"That sounded rehearsed, don't think you can fool me like that." He said, breathing clouds of smoke at the ceiling.

I feel a bit freaked out, but content that they can read me. I sigh and look down at my hands.

"It is none of your concern." It hurts to be so cruel to my friends but I can't help it.

          They can't know what'll going on, they'll never approve.

I can feel their eyes on me, but I pay no attention as I twiddle my thumbs in my lap. I pray to Satan they just shrug it off like they do with everything else.