The Kids are Fine | Kellic (boyxboy)

CHAPTER NINE | Don't They Know It's The End Of The World?

KELLIN'S P.O.V

It was seven pm. and I was sitting in the lounge by myself, staring at the liquor shelf. I was slumped into the couch, unmoving like I had been for at least two hours. This morning I woke up. Only because I had to. It was one of those days. I could barely look at myself in the mirror this morning because the self-hatred was so strong. I don't know what was wrong with me. I don't know why I'm feeling like this but I am. I'm stuck in a hole and I can't get out. Right now I feel numb. Well, I'm feeling too much, but in a numbing way, if that makes sense. It's like I'm feeling every emotion at once, there's so much pain, it just turns into this dull numbing feeling. It hurts. It hurts so much.

I've wanted to leave my head all day. As soon as I woke up, I knew I wanted to disappear. I wanted to separate from my body. I wanted to cry, but nothing would come out. I haven't eaten all day. I couldn't bring myself to stomach anything. All I wanted to do was leave my head and fall into nothing. I didn't want to be here.

I started thinking about the train. How I should've been hit. How I should already be dead. I thought about going there again for round two, but something stopped me. I don't know what it was, but something inside of me kept making excuses for why I couldn't go.

I was too tired.

I didn't want to drive.

The walk was too long.

I didn't know the train schedule for today.

It was too much of an effort.

it was too cold outside.

One excuse after another. My body just didn't want to do it today. Something was stopping me.

So, here I sat. Wanting to become something else for the rest of the night.

Across from me, on the coffee table was Vic's painting he had done the night before. I left it in here to dry last night, which, I'm sure it was by now. I stared at all the colors, noticing how thick he had layered on the paint. I thought back to an art course in elementary school, learning about different artists and their techniques. Van Gogh used to layer on his paint so thick, his paintings would take days to dry. I reached out and touched the canvas. The oil paints, clumped in different patterns, textures. I picked it up and held it, balancing it on my legs in front of me. I've never known anyone with this much talent. I've never known an artist. A noise from across the house, startled me out of my trance. I got up and made my way past the swinging doors of the kitchen to find my dad bending down to the floor, sweeping up a mess of broken glass. I stared at him. I stared at the mess. I started at him, still clutching Vic's painting. I stood there until he became aware of my presence.

"You scared me." He said with a laugh, continuing to sweep the glass.

"What happened?"

"Dropped my favorite glass! Son'o'bitch slipped right out of my hand!" He grunted as he stood up with a dustpan full of glass. I knew which glass he was talking about. It was a thick, tall, beer mug with a fat handle. It really made a mess. I hummed in response, not really knowing what to say.

He threw away the mess of glass and turned back to face me with a big sigh.

"What's that?" He asked, nodding toward the painting.

"This?" I looked down at it, "Oh, uh, just a painting-" I turned it around so he could see.

"Did you do that?" He asked in surprise.