Bloody Texas

You're Pretty Fuckin' Weird, not gonna Lie.

Lance sat under the humid shade of the open garage door watching his brothers tackle each other. A soccer ball was kicked around the dark green grass, passing from one shirtless hooligan to the other. From where Lance sat, he could hear their shouts and laughs. They brought a smile to his face for a moment until he realized how left out he was. It wasn't fair. His three brothers were as close as can be, but Lance was always that sibling that your mom would force you to take when you hung out with friends. He hugged his knees a little tighter and rested his chin on them. It was a hot day. Every day was a hot day. Lance could see rays of heat emitting from the streets, obscuring the natural view of the Earth. He was beginning to feel a little too warm as well.

"M'jio."

Lance turned his head to see his father holding out a glass of lemonade. Water had condensated on the outside of it, dripping down onto the concrete. He took it with both hands; the droplets from the glass weaved into his fingers. "Gracias Papi."

His father sat down next to him with a grunt. He was a tall and thin man with dark skin, much darker than Lance's. He patted Lance's shoulder, "How are you doing?"

Lance took a small sip from the glass, then set it on the ground next to him. "I'm good."

His eyes scanned Lance's intently, "I know you are not."

Lance's eyes teared up a little, so he closed them and leaned onto his father's shoulder. His father held his head gently and pet his hair. Lance's breath hitched as he let out a small sob, "It isn't fair, Papi."

"Life is not fair, m'ijo." He patted his back, "We just have to find our own happiness."

Lance's mascara ran with his tears as his hand clutched his father's shirt. The other children never got as much affection from their father as Lance did. He never understood why. His brothers were much bigger and stronger; there was a lot more to be proud of. Mark had a wife and twin daughters, James was a senior varsity soccer player, and Andy was the Einstein of eighth grade. Lance was the problem child. He was terribly sick, bisexual, and housed major self-esteem issues. But his father loved him. Lance was his pride and joy.

"Lance," he started, "you've had a hard a life. This is true, but," he placed his gentle fist on Lance's chest, "it has made you strong. Stronger than you know."

Lance pulled back to carefully wipe the black off his face. His voice was a shaky whisper, "It wasn't even my fault."

His father gave him a sorrowful grin and shook his shoulder, "You will do something great, m'ijo. I just know it." He stood up and fluffed Lance's hair before he walked back in the house. "You'll change the world."

Lance was curled up in his blankets hugging his blue pillow. The moonlight streamed into the room through the fluttering sheer curtains on the window. The house was quiet besides the occasional creaking. It felt empty. Lonely. With a frustrated groan, Lance jumped out of bed and slipped on his jean shorts and black thigh highs. Pulling on a grey hoodie and shoving his feet into his brown boots, he snatched his phone off the nightstand and snuck out the window. Lance's room was on the second floor, so it wasn't the easiest thing to do. Years of escaping had conditioned him into a master.

His shoes hit the ground with a soft thud. Taking a quick look back, he started down the road with his hands in his hoodie. His neighborhood was different at night. It felt like one of those old Chicago gangster movies- with the streetlights and all. Lance stepped dramatically, kicking pebbles across the street. Even if it was dark, the air was still warm, but still significantly cooler.

With a click of his tongue, Lance turned a corner and trudged on. I wonder how long it would take for me to pass out. After that thought, he gradually stopped walking to stare down at the concrete. Sometimes, Lance really scared himself. Twenty pounds lighter, but not an inch happier. With a huff, he stepped forward.