Head Down

◤three ◢

Walking around outside during the ripe time of 9:23pm meant that the sun was starting to set. Mark doesn't even know why he's still outside at this hour, probably just because he lost track of time. Plus it was summer, the heat from the sun has died down, creating a comfortable climate to the walking around.

Kicking a rock, Mark looks around and sees that he's walked himself to a park. There are barely any people there, maybe a few teenagers but that's all. If he looks closely, it could remind him of his misfit group of friends back home, who'd always hang around parks after the neighbourhood's curfew. Smiling the slightest of smiles, Mark walks away, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

In this park, the grass is full. Healthy, even, something which Mark isn't used to seeing in the city. Trash and concrete... There wasn't a speck of it here. It was a sight for sore eyes, if Mark had to be honest. He can't even see the dirt underneath this grass. It was posh, it was clean. It was... Different.

Flowers littered the grass. But they weren't planted flowers, blooming flowers, not even budding flowers. They were petals, ripped, torn, wilted and destroyed. There were a lot too, took up a good four foot square of Mark knew anything about math. They were pale, a pink colour, but they could've been something different for all Mark knows. The lighting was horrible and dark, was he sure those were even petals?

Whatever, he thinks to himself, clearing his throat even though no one was watching, un-furrowing his eyebrows even though he didn't have a reason to scrunch them together in the first place, and stand up straighter even though he didn't know why he started to crouch to pick up one of the petals. So he walks away, stepping across the petal to get to the parallel sidewalk, not interested in taking the same route back to... Well, wherever he was going, really.

A scoff makes him stop walking though.

There's no one with it a half mile radius from him, so he doesn't know why he can hear the scoff so clearly. Turning around one hundred and eighty degrees, just a tiny bit spooked, Mark doesn't see anyone near him. The only light being provided in the pitch dark sky is from the street lamps and the moon. Taking one final glance around the park, and not finding anyone, Mark shrugs off the eerie feeling he has and continues to walk forward.

"First you trample my flowers, and then you ignore me?"

Whipping around at the speed of light, Mark tries to find the voice he's heard. He can't find him at eye level, so when he looks down, he almost jumps out of his skin when he finds a boy crouching down a few feet away from him. The boy seems young, once again, Mark can't get a lot from the poor lighting of the scene. His hair seems to be brown though, a chestnut shade, while his skin also seems more chestnut than what he's used to. If Mark didn't know any better, he'd say the boy is glowing.

But he does know better. And Mark doesn't talk to strangers.

Just as he is about to walk away again, the boy speaks up.

"My father bought me these flowers," he says quietly, looking down at the ruined, soft, pink petal between his fingertips. "Aren't they pretty?"

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Mark looks up at the street lamps. He doesn't even know this boy, where he came from, where he's been. For all Mark knows, this boy can be dangerous. If there's one thing Mark has picked up from eighteen years with his parents was that you don't talk to strangers.

Mark had always found that confusing, because if you were to never speak to a stranger, how would you meet anyone? Make any friends? Not that that is what Mark wants to do right now... Just a general concern with the 'no talking to strangers rule". His mother had always replied to that concern by simply saying that you'd just know, just feel it, when a stranger was worth your breath.

Mark doesn't feel anything. So he simply nods at the other's boys question, but he doubts the other notices. His head has been down, picking at the dead petal this entire time.

"Father lies," the boy continues, never looking up from the plants he's twiddling in his hands. "Like when he said he wasn't with... Her."

Mark gulps, having a strong feeling he wasn't supposed to be hearing any of this. Was the boy okay? Should Mark let someone know? I mean, why would a, seemingly, teenage boy be sitting in the park after dark surrounded by dead flower petals unless he was... Crazy, right? Mark should be brave and tell someone near by, call the police because then maybe they can understand if this boy is stable.

"So I lied to him when I said I loved his flowers."

Having enough, Mark turns around again  and wills his left foot to put itself in front of the right. The conversation wasn't over, and if Mark couldn't stand one thing, it was leaving things unfinished. Even if it's with a, possible, junkie in the park. He probably spends twenty seconds too long telling his body to move, because the boy speaks again.

"Aren't you going to say sorry for stepping on my petals?"

Clearing his throat again, Mark fixes his posture, even though he's positive the other isn't going to steal a glance any time soon, shoves his hand into hi pockets, looks around and then speaks.

"I'm sorry for stepping on your petals." Mark apologizes, and he himself knows that he's not being sincere. They were just petals, not even whole flowers. And they were all dead anyways, wilted and disgusting. Why would it even matter if he stepped on dead flower petals? It doesn't, but of course some oversensitive teenage boy from a small town would get offended by someone stepping on his dead flower petals, from a father who the boy probably had daddy issues because of (just a presumption).

Sparing one last glance at the boy crouching down by the petals, he's surprised to see the other looking at him. His face is void of emotion and feeling, seeming dark and almost... Gone? Under the moon, which is shining a bit more brighter than it was a few minutes ago, Mark can see the full, round cheeks of the caramel coloured boy. The small, little nose, the heart shaped lips and the prominent, hard, frown on his mouth.

"You should be." Are the words the boy throws at Mark, anger and feeling and emotion behind them, contrary to his facial expression.

The boy gets up and dusts off his jeans, turning around on his heel and leaving Mark in the park without a single word more.

Mark always knew small town kids were never right in the head, but this bronze medallion mystery boy seemed... Different.