Are You Having A Good Time, Sweetheart?

Chapter One: Prozac & Long Nights

"I've stared at this boy every single day for the past 3 months that I've been at this school. I transferred from Towson High School to Dulaney High School. I am seventeen years old, and I have no idea what the fuck I'm even doing with my life. Why can't I just talk to the kid? If he wants me, great. If he doesn't, well... I'll move on. Scratch that." Alex scratched out the 'move on' part with his pen. He wasn't entirely sure that he could move on. He didn't know this boy at all, didn't even know his name. He just knew that they had English class together, and he knew that he sat at the opposite table from him in the cafeteria, and this boy had never so much as glanced in Alex's direction. Not that anyone did, really. Alex started to fixate himself on his own self hating thoughts, not bothering to write anymore for the moment. 

"Why the fuck do I bother?" He asked himself out loud as he looked into the mirror of the small bathroom that attached to his bedroom upstairs. His parent's room was downstairs, so they'd never hear him. They never had before, even when he was damn near screaming in the midst of a panic attack. Alex sighed and looked at himself, taking his shirt off and examining the scars on his hips. Then he took his pants down and looked at his legs, that quite frankly looked like he'd been butchered multiple times. He almost silently laughed at himself. The butcher was himself. 

Alex sighed, he was too damn tired to even bother hurting himself tonight, no matter how badly his hand ached to reach the box in the drawer where he stashed his supply of razor blades. Usually, this wasn't an issue, him hurting himself at least. That was never an issue. Except for now. Except for the fact that his mind had been so fixated on his boy that he didn't know, all day long, and now all he could see was this beautiful boy's face, the way his face lit up and the way his laugh sounded as a friend of his made a funny joke. He went back to his room, stopping at his dresser to grab some pajamas. Long sleeved shirt, as always. The few cuts he did have on his arms were on his upper arm, and hidden unless he had his hands up, but still. They couldn't be seen. He pulled on his sweatpants, then the shirt. He looked down at his bed that had his journal still wide open. He sat down, legs crossed over each other, and began writing again.

"What if he isn't even into guys? I don't know what the fuck I'm even doing. I have no friends, I've never been in love, I don't even know what the fuck love is, unless you count shitty romantic TV shows, and my parents kissing as they passed each other on their way to work each morning. I don't count that. I don't know, or want to know, how affectionate my parents are with each other. I don't believe the shit on TV shows anyway. Too dramatic. What? Someone falls in love and then the lover gets shot? I'd seen that on Grey's Anatomy once. Meredith loved Derek so much, they're together, even through every single trial thrown their way, even through every single fight. Things were great for them. Meredith was pregnant, but never told Derek yet, and then Derek gets fucking shot by a gunman who blamed Derek for his wife's death. How was any of that justifiable? Naturally, Meredith had a miscarriage. Of course she did. Because people can't ever be happy for long, can they? Why the fuck am I even rambling about this TV show? Why do I even watch it?" Alex paused in his writing again. He ran his fingers through his caramel colored hair, shaking it out a little. He closed his eyes, putting his head between his hands, as his elbows rested on his thighs. He knew exactly why he was writing about Grey's Anatomy. To avoid writing about the boy he loved so much. 

"Just let it out Alex, come on. Let it the fuck out. You can't talk to this kid about it. What are you gonna say? 'Hi stranger, I love you. I've been staring at you for three months, and you never notice. Wanna love me too?' Yeah right." He mocked himself in a quiet whisper, rolling his eyes at himself.

He picked up his pen and began writing again.

"His hair is perfect. Black, spiked up a little but still with some bangs. A huge blonde streak in it. He's perfect. He's slightly tanned. His smile is flawless. His voice is flawless, what little I've heard of it. His nose, a little big, but fits perfectly with his face. I wouldn't have him any other way. He's absolutely perfect. I don't even know his name, but he's absolutely perfect.

Great. I'm a fucking stalker."

Alex sighed again. He slammed the journal shut and tucked it away into the drawer on his bedside table. He glared at the bottle of pills that rested on top of the table next to his alarm clock. Prozac. He detested the pills, detested the therapist who put him on them, but even more, he detested himself for needing them. What he hated even more than that, is they barely helped. Still, he put on a brave face, took his pills and pretended that they were doing something for him. If only. 

He opened the bottle, took the one pill out, dry swallowed it, closed the bottle and put it back in it's place. He looked at the clock. It read 11:56 PM.

Alex pulled the blanket on his bed up over himself, over his head, and closed his eyes. Sleep never came easy for him. It never had. His mom used to complain that he almost never slept. When he did, it was after a huge tantrum where he'd even experienced hyperventilating then, too. They always thought he'd grow out of that, that he was just an active baby who didn't like sleeping, and that when he threw a tantrum, he just simply worked himself up into hyperventilating. 

Well, newsflash for his parents, he'd never grown out of that. His sleep habits, or his hyperventilating problems.

Eventually, he felt his body get heavier, his eyes get tired, and he faltered. He let it take over. He felt relieved as he fell asleep. It meant he wouldn't think at all until the next day. He was always dreamless, every night. Nothing hurt him when he slept, not even himself.