Death Sticks

7. The Beautiful Boy

The walk back was longer than the walk to the park. Beya stared down as the cement below her moved with the steps of her feet. The weather she thought met her mood. The overcast sky, the cold humidity, it all made sense. Beya was alone with her thoughts, not an unlikely sight, but a rather unpleasant one. She needed a constant reassurance that what she had done wasn't a mistake, even though it had meant breaking the boy's heart. However, her mind only drifted to the worse. What if he gets a girlfriend, now that he's no longer hung up on me? Whatever he hates me? What if he tries to kill himself again, over this? A familiar pit of guilt now sat with her. She could actually feel it now, the guilt. Her stomach ached like someone who's just been stabbed several times. Her heart pounded rapidly. Her sweaty palms she thought, were like a pool in which she was drowning. Although Beya hated the days in which she wallowed in self-pity, she knew this was somehow worse. She knew if she hadn't refused Ethan, right now he'd be the one supporting and reassuring her. But if she hadn't refused him in the first place, she wouldn't be in this state at all. Beya tried to imagine a platonic relationship between her and someone who cared for her and supported her, but wasn't in love with her. She came up blank and longed miserably, I guess that's what parents are for. That's when it began. The trail of self-pity and hate. She attempted to prepare herself using a coping skill one of the tolerable school counselors had taught her. She searched the nearby area for a four sided shaped. A window will work, she decided. Beya scanned her eyes up the right side of the shape, inhaling as she did so. Scanning across, she held her breath. Finally getting to the left vertical side she exhaled, and continued to do so along the bottom line. After tracing her eyes over the window repeatedly she stopped. "Thanks a lot Miss Keena, but that really didn't help," she mumbled.

Beya hadn't realized she was being watched until a close stranger remarked, "Box breathing? She taught me that one too."

Beya swayed her head around to put a face to this mysteriously random voice. A boy. He was sitting on the bench behind her, with his bike propped up next to him. Unlike the sudden shock of his voice, there was nothing mysterious about him. His golden-blonde hair curled just above the nape of his neck. His eyes were the misty blue of the ocean, with a golden ring in the center. His skin resembled a tan sandy color. He held his shoulders high, but without arrogance. And his face posed an extremely genuine smile in which his teeth sparkled like snow. He was beautiful. Nothing about his beauty seemed unkind either, not even his posture. Beya imagined him as one of those young men who practically lived at the beach, but never sunburnt. And someone who always, always had the most beautiful 'chick' by his side. So if he's all this, Beya wondered, then why is he talking to me? She didn't want to leave him unanswered too long so she said the first piece of small talk she could think of. "Um, yeah. It's supposed to help with anxiety or whatever," she looked down for a second, "doesn't seem to be working for shit though."

The boy laughed faintly. "Yeah. But if you tell em that, they go charging straight to the meds. For me at least. Personally I think it's all just bs snakeoil." The beautiful boy's words were light and friendly. Not irrelevant either. Which is why it baffled Beya even more that he was speaking with her, willingly. She'd been assigned to groups for school projects before with popular boys. But in that scenario they had no choice but to talk to her, unless they were interested in failing.

Beya always promised herself she wouldn't get caught up with pretty boys. Then again, he seems so sweet, she thought. "No I understand that. What do they have you on?" Beya asked curiously, trying her best to be nosy but not annoying.

"Lexapro," he stated, clearly unbothered by the question. Nothing about him seemed very intense, which Beya liked. He owned what he was, and didn't bother being ashamed of it.