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"Are you okay..?" My eyes snaps open. He's not supposed to be here. Heck, no one's even supposed to be here!
"Mister..?" The voice calls out. I raise my head and my gaze lands on myself. My younger self. He looks—... I look so alive.
The way my eyes gleams with genuine concern and pure innocence is just so.. unusual. I wonder where that went..
I wonder where it went wrong, where it all started, where EVERYTHING started. I did my best didn't I? I did my best to protect Mark, I did my best to protect Lewis, so where did it go wrong!? Was is it the day Mother poured that boiling water over me? Or the day she and Father separated? WHY CAN'T MY QUESTIONS BE ANSWERED!?
"yeah, I'm alright kid. What are you doing here?" I ask. I frown when I hear my voice mixed with loud statics. "I don't know, I just woke up here." my younger self responds with a shrug.
The awful silence is hard to endure. I would occasionally see my younger self sneaking glances at me. "you're me," he looks up from his plush toy. "aren't you..?" I look at him. I guess I'm not that dumb when I was a child.
"yeah," I pat the space beside me and he sits down. "I'm you, you're me. I'm from the future, you're from the past. It isn't that hard to notice." He looks at me. Not with pity or empathy but instead disappointment and guilt. "Did we fail mother's expectations again..?" I go silent for a minute, trying to figure out what he means before realizing what he's asking. "no, no, this is different." I say with a reassuring smile. "I may not remember why, but I know it is." He looks at me for a moment before sliding his sleeves up, scars that are slowly healing covered beneath a layer of bandage. "Do we still hurt ourselves..?" My assuring smile doesn't falter as I shake my head from side to side in response. "No, because we're not alone anymore."
He turns back to me again. "what do you mean not alone anymore..?" He asks, disbelief clear in his voice. "no matter what we did, no one came!" His voice cracks as tears slowly builds up in his eyes. "but, we never actually asked for help." I pull my younger self towards me and embraces myself. "we just.. waited for someone to notice." He pushes me away. Right, I never liked physical touch when I was young.
"Sorry—"
"I'm so rry."
I look at him. Suddenly, I'm aware of how my younger self is trembling, how my voice sounded so terrified, how I look like I'm fighting the urge to cry. But boys don't cry. Boys supposed to be strong and brave. That's what my mother says.
"do you want a hug..?"
".. if that's alright.."