Trained (Completed)

Chapter 21: Maybe

Cold. Like a stone that has been left outside in the winter. One that wasn't good enough to skip in the water. Left lying on the ground, waiting to be picked up, by anyone that cares. Just to be thrown and lost all over again.

Today was worse than the others. As soon as he got off the bus, they greeted him. But not the way he wanted. Kicked to the curb again, this time Clinton let it happen. Let them beat the world out from under him. Praying that they could take him out of it. Maybe no one would miss me, he thought.

The sounds seemed to stay inside his body as the pain continued. Guess he's used to the hits. His mother always said, "You don't have to be hit to be bruised." True, but Clinton's been hit too many times. So much that it hurts less and less each time.

After they finished, he laid there like a quitter. Maybe not as numb as he thought. The tears as well as the blood bled. On the bus again, he watches the world before his eyes. Everyone so often forgets the simple things. No one ever notices the telephone wires as they hang sky high. Dangling as the rain drips. A place for birds to rest.

How about the blades of grass that tickle your toes as children play in their bare feet. Sometimes he does feel like a superhero. Well maybe not so hero. But humans have these special abilities that we take for granted. Eye sight, hearing, touch, sex, crying, laughter, anger, vocals, and all of it is so beautiful.

He watches the birds, wondering where they're flying to. They always fly in packs, together. Humans are to do the same. Travel in packs, but Clinton craves to be alone. Then instincts rush back in, wanting to feel loved. Needing the affection of his mother.

His dad died. Even if he didn't, it'd be like he did. He was never around. Only time he ever bothered Clinton, was for money nobody had. His habits and poor decision making got him killed. This year actually, or so it will be next week.

Clinton decided he's going to skip school that day. Celebrating his death, but in a not so cheery way. Maybe drink a beer in his memory. But that's not it. After he was murder, he vowed to never drink for as long as he lives.

His future wife never has to worry about him drinking, sleeping around. Who the hell is he kidding? I'll probably be alone forever, the words ring in his head.

"Cringy Clinton!" A piece of bread hits him in the face. "Your stop is up bitch boy."

Rising, head bowed, ashamed. He knows they're judging his every move. Even the house he lives in. Thankfully it has no feelings. The last step of the bus, sometimes he wishes it were his last step in life. He'd give anything to take his father's place. But the man would only hurt his mother.

Stepping on the gravel, glad that rocks aren't like humans. Though they feel cold to the touch, they aren't. We walk all over them, and they take it. Maybe he is like a rock. People walk all over him, and he takes it.

The tire swing bounces as the wind picks up. The rain starts and he's grateful. Maybe his mother will be more worried about how soaked he is, rather than the bruises on his skin.

Into the cold house, one would think it's abandoned. Clinton's mother is rarely home. Always working, and since that's the case, they don't have tv, or the finer things. Too fixated on keeping the house alive. But the people inside it are dead.

"Mom! I'm home!" Clicking the door shut, he searches for his mother. Hoping she made supper tonight, but he'll understand if she didn't. "I'm gonna get a shower! I'm drenched."

Odd she's not answering, He know she's home. Her car is in the drive, so she's not driving it. Maybe she's asleep. As he reaches the top of the case, he hears running water. Okay she's in the shower. He'll wait till she's done. Into his room, he glances at himself in the mirror.