Hold Me Up Just a Little Bit Longer (4)
Chapter 4- Alex
“Alex, honey, is that you?” I heard my mom call from the living room as I closed the door behind me.
“Yeah, mom.” I looked at the clock: noon. Shit. That meant dad’s probably-
“Get your ass up here.” My father’s gruff voice bellowed. I regretted staying at the cemetery so long. After the boy left, I had lain there for hours, thinking about everything. I walked into the room. My mom was clearing away dishes from “brunch.”
“Alex, we were worried sick. Are you alright?” She asked.
But I never got a chance to reply because then my dad stood up from the couch and staggered over to me.
“Where the fuck were you?” He yelled. He was too close and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Great; noon, and he was drunk already. I stared at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I-I, uh”- He cut me off, slapping me across my face, so my cheek stung from the force. “Look at me when you talk, you rotten piece of shit!”
“S-sorry.” I saw my mom backing up into the kitchen, tears in her eyes, an apologetic look on her face. She always got upset, but never did anything about it. Just leave, then come back all smiles; acting as if everything is perfect. But how could I blame her when I did the same thing around others?
“I’m asking you one last time. Where. Were. You?” He grabbed my hair, pulling on it.
“D-dad! Stop! Please.” He pulled harder. I could feel my hair tugging on my scalp, burning sensation coursing along my hairline. “Cemetery! I was at the cemetery.” I yelled.
He let go suddenly as if my hair had caught on fire.
He stepped back. “Leave Daniel alone.” Another step. “Y-you’ll never be like him. He hates you!” He collapsed onto the couch, hands finding the bottle. “It’s all your fucking fault. Get out of my face. You disgust me.” I nodded once then turned and ran upstairs, massaging my scalp.
That’s not my dad, I thought as I took a seat on my bed. My real dad is somewhere underneath that drunk who blames me for everything. The real one loves me. After all, he was bearable and even nice when he wasn’t drunk. This happened rarely, but nonetheless, those days where like heaven.
I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts out. I took off my jacket, when something fell out. Frowning, I reached down to pick up the boy’s gun. Only then did I remember the morning’s events and how I had hastily picked up the gun as I was leaving. I opened my closet, checking that the gun was empty, before throwing it into a box of stuff I kept for memories. I really hoped that he wouldn’t find another way to kill himself; that he wouldn’t resort to pills from his lack of another way.
Seeing the gun brought back a flood of images and thoughts.
The beautiful, huge brown eyes. The soft lips. How perfect he looked despite the obvious flaws. What was his name? Why’d he try to kill himself? Why’d I care so much? But perhaps the one scene replaying in my head nonstop was the kiss. I had no reason for kissing him other than the simple, yet overwhelming need to do so. Sitting in front of the boy, my hand on his cheek, I saw that although afraid of the contact, he craved it. He looked so peaceful leaning into my touch. I wanted to know how it would feel to have those soft lips on mine. For some reason he didn’t freak from the kiss. I was only afterwards. Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe he remembered that I was a complete stranger.
And I wanted to do it again and again and again. I never wanted to stop. Just kiss him until the y I died. Because in that moment, I forgot about everything else and my heart filled with joy. This boy made me happy. And I’d be damned if I wouldn’t get closer to him.
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i feel like shit and this is shit
and i don't know why i'm still posting
this is horrible and short and i'm not saying this for attention. i really think so okay
i might not even be around this finish this