Chapter Text
The hair he had cut himself was beginning to fall into his eyes again. He does not wipe it away, instead settles on seeing the night in front of him through slits of badly dyed black. He would soon have to cut it again, but it always turns out messy, choppy. The sloppiness always seems to fit him, no matter how hard he wishes it didn’t. The uneven thing on top of his head seemed to perfectly match his ever wrinkly clothing, the shoes that are never tied and are caked with dirt, the chipped nail polish that only adorned a few select fingers, and the face, the face with permanent streaks of black on either side, never distinguishable between makeup of days before, and the inevitable excess of hair dye. He never cuts his hair short enough for it to not fall in his face, anyways, so maybe he won’t have to touch it for a while. And he’s sure he’d look even worse if his hair was any shorter. And, he just dyed it - an impossible job that, almost never turns out right - the day before, so maybe he should leave his permanently horrid hair alone. That’s what he usually does. Maybe one day the horribleness will consume him. So far that day has not come.
After a few moments of staring into the dark street, half hidden by his hair, he decides to look down. He’s on the third floor and when he sees the ground it kind of makes him feel sick. He keeps looking down anyway. Tonight feels like a strange night. The air feels colder and more aggressive as it passes over him and makes it way through the trees. The large, tall, white houses staring back at him from across the street seem to glare. He does not know why they are being so intimidating. They’ve never been that way before. But, of course, he knew it was possible. They looked far too nice, too perfect, too exactly the same.
It bothers him. They look so perfect. And he doesn’t. He’s the farthest thing from it and he knows he looks like a stark shadow against his house that looks exactly like the ones menacingly surrounding him on the street. His dark clothes and dishevelled manner was never passed over here. It never will be. He shudders. He takes in a shaky breath and considers going back in to get his inhaler. But he’s not sure it has anything it and if it’s empty then it wouldn’t have been worth it for him to even go and fucking get it.
God, he feels awful. He kicks his legs against the house. His one small rebellion. He considers going in and just going to sleep. There’s nothing for him out here. Unless his mother’s rose bushes don’t count for anything. Maybe they could be his bed tonight. Maybe he could let go of the window sill and see where the passive wind takes him. Maybe it’ll float him up and far away from here, with the hundreds and hundreds of carbon copy houses and carbon copy people. Maybe it’ll take him to New York City. Maybe he’ll crush his mother’s prized roses like he’s always wanted to. He hates those fucking roses. She mother’s them more than she mother’s him. It’s always made him angry.
He should go to sleep. He doesn’t want to stay out here any longer and if he does the air might start to whisper and make him do something crazy. Like stare at the roses until he finally decides to flatten them. He doesn’t want to do that. Not at all. He’s sure he’ll survive and the sharp flowers will probably break his fall but he doesn’t want to die. That’s the farthest thing from it. He’s terrified of the thought of dying. There’s something about the way sitting on his window sill that makes him feel. He feels uneasy. He feels daunted. It makes him wonder what would happen if he slipped. It makes him wonder how much more he can rebel against his parents.
Maybe they’d notice him. He always pulls stunts, though. He’s a natural born stunt-puller. They never really say anything, though. Bastards. Shitty parents. Shitty people.
He should go to bed. He needs to go to bed. He needs to clear his head. He needs to close the book on today and start new tomorrow. Maybe he’ll hate his parents less in the morning. Before he climbs through his window and back into his room, he makes the decision to look up. He had been staring at the ground for too long. He sees a light come on in the house directly across the street from him. He sees a shadow open a window. He sees a shadow crawl out and sit on the sill just like him. The shadow is a boy, about his age but he can’t really see, he’s not wearing his glasses and his eyes are complete shit without them. The boy doesn’t see him staring, see him squinting from right under the dyed jet black hair. Or at least he thinks he doesn’t see him.
He sees the boy light a cigarette. Then the boy does see him, makes a big show of it, turning his head slow, cigarette dangling from his mouth. They lock eyes. The boy looks slightly hostile. He feels daunted again. He feels scared. He feels far too exposed. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t like the pair of eyes staring into his.
That’s enough to make his hands slip off the sill. That’s enough to make his legs go shaky and limp. That’s enough for his torso to start to bend. That’s enough for him to keel over and start to fall. Right onto the bushes he hates so much.
He shouldn’t hate the bushes anymore, after all, he was right. They did break his fall. A little.