When Boys Cry | The Outsiders | s. curtis

One

My apartment was small, much smaller than the house I'd grown up in. It was just me and my cat that lived there though, so it wasn't like I needed a lot of space. I had a bedroom to myself and a smaller room across the hall that I used as an office. I did all my writing in there and kept most of my books in there, save for a neat stack on my nightstand of ones I hadn't even opened yet.

I remembered a time when I owned no books and couldn't even read. I was sixteen. Now, I'm nearing twenty-four. I still live in the same town, which hasn't really changed over the course of six years. Fortunately, I have.

While receiving my GED at college a few years back, my English professor had me write down what had been bothering me. After that little project, I discovered I actually really liked writing. Mr. Jones had told me I was a natural at it, even though I wasn't good at technical stuff, like grammar and spelling. He worked with me a lot on my writing, though, and since then, I've really gotten the hang of it. I've written some short stories and essays, a few of which have been published, and I even got halfway through a fictional novel before I scrapped it.

I never actually continued my college career because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. Sure I could have just done my gen eds, but I had other things I'd rather have done. I was fortunate enough to have a nice office job at a Buick dealership and I made enough money to be able to support myself. It was a good thing, too, especially after the sudden passing of Arnie, my biological father.

With both of my parents gone now and my younger kid siblings living across the country with my maternal grandparents, I was all on my own. Not that I minded too much. I had made a few friends at school and we got together every so often for a drink down at the Dingo. And, after I found Whiskey, this pathetic thing of a tomcat, I was pretty much just living my own life.

My cat, who was an asshole, glared at me as I stepped through the front door. He immediately ran to sit by his bowl, letting me know it was nearly empty.

"I just fed you before I left," I told him. "I haven't even been gone more than forty-five minutes."

He just meowed and shoved his bowl my way.

"I'm not feeding you again until supper. Suck it up, buttercup," I said.

I set my shopping bags down on the counter, immediately starting to put away the cold stuff. My phone started ringing then, and I groaned. I didn't wanna talk to anyone today. I was feeling particularly moody-- mostly because of the grey, stormy sky outside-- and went to go pick up the phone.

"Hello?" I said.

There was a short pause before whoever on the other end finally spoke. "Candice Marshall?" they said.

Their voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't put a finger on who it was. "Uh, yeah, this is Candice. Who is this?"

"Candy!" someone else exclaimed, their voice sounding just as familiar as the other.