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Life wasn't fair.
Shiku knew that from the moment he turned four years old. His oldest memories were fights between his parents, a blurry third-person view of himself blasting music to drown out the noise, every time, every fight, without fail.
The worst it got - to his memory, at least - is when there were knives involved. His mom pulled a knife on his father. He blocked out the rest, but he's scared to wonder if anything further happened.
"It reeks of alcohol in here!"
"And who's - hic - fault is that?"
The walls shook, and Shiku knew it was time to fuck off into his world of music and spiral yet again.
—
In his dreams, he is everything he can't be. He is happy, he is human.
He is wearing the clothes he likes, he is dressed in comfort and he isn't living in fear of rejection.
He is with the people he loves, blasting music and acting out impossible scenarios and he is so happy that it burns in his chest. He is so happy it tears his cheeks open, so happy his laughter rings through the room, so happy that he remembers this isn't actually him.
So happy.
He's so happy.
He feels sick.
So sick.
—
Shiku startles himself awake, arm pressed uncomfortably against the wall supporting his bed. It stung and he hated that he knew why.
The air reeked of smoke and lingering rage, and immediately he was disappointed he didn't die in his sleep.
Alas, he had no choice but to keep moving, keep living.
Mechanically, his body made him get out of bed and rummage through his drawers lazily for clothes, not caring to look away from the mirror, from the bright red lines remaining from some point in the recent past. Watching himself change in the mirror had been ingrained into his daily routine without his permission, no point giving it up now.
After all, who is he if not someone who keeps things up?
—
At school, life was fine. His first two periods were fine, passing in a blur of fake personas that continue to grow harder to distingush between. Lunch period was good, too, he went and spent his lunch money on energy drinks, and then sat outside alone, watching YouTube in a dark corner of the school yard.
The last two periods were the most fun of them all. Art and science.
In art, he felt a bit more at home, with the strange smell that he can't quite put his finger on and the strange conversations he listened to as a hobby. He always ended up with ink, or lead or paint on his hands, something your average person would consider a nuisance. But to Shiku, it was an odd accomplishment, a piece of his first love, his passion that stained his otherwise worthless body.
But maybe he was weird.
He didn't particularly enjoy science as a subject, more just the fact that the class was pretty much free time. He sped through the notes assigned, did the assignments in record time, and then buckled down for a long hour of drawing and reading.
The noise of the other students' chatter grated against his ears, desks being shoved behind him and yogurt containers dangerously launched from kid to kid, before being launched to the wall and splattering.
This fucking sucked.
God, this really fucking sucked.
He cast his eyes on the desk in front of him as the kids got scolded, the familiar impatience and anger in the teacher's voice crawling into his skin and tearing him apart. It wasn't directed at him - he was a good student, it never was - but it made his mind race, his hands shake.
It wasn't directed at him, it wasn't directed at him, it wasn't directed at him, it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't—
The annoying chime of the bell broke the scolding.
However, his day was far from over.
—
He waited fifteen minutes and 38 seconds for the bus (not like he was counting or anything) and three minutes for it to start heading home. The ride took eight minutes and he got off with a quick thank you.
The walk to his house took two more minutes, and gathering the courage to open the door and resign himself to sitting through something that would surely give him a headache took one more minute.
It smelled of weed when he swung open the door.
His dad was gone again, for who knows how long. His mother sat on the couch in the living room, Grey's Anatomy replaying on the TV for the hundredth time as she scrolled through her phone.
He submitted to routine yet again, sitting down on the couch and—
—sitting in bed.
Shiku blinks a few times, reaching blindly to remember what happened in the time he was out. He knew he experienced it but he just… can't remember.
His throat burns like he just threw up, and his breath smells like mint.
He sighs and unlocks his phone, eyes lighting up at the notifications from his online friends - from the people saving his life day by day.
They talk for hours, talk about meeting up at a bar and getting drunk out of their minds, talking about having the fun he dreams of for once in his life.
One day, he will. He will meet up with them, that's a guarantee. They live close by, after all. He will get drunk with his closest friends and he will have the time of his life, free of fear and the yelling he hears at home.
For now, Shiku lays down and buries himself in his blankets, plugging in his earphones and drowning once again.
—
This time, he was in somebody's arms, warmth spreading through his blood, happiness dull instead of burning brightly. They were in the back of a car, he was straddling someone's waist almost uncomortably, and he felt loved.
Dazedly, he lifts his head and looks at the person, their face blurred and unfamiliar. He felt the warmth of their smile, and he watched as the person leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
His heart stuttered as he rested his head back in the crook of the person's neck, cheeks warm. He was comfortable, he felt them breathe deeply, hugging him closer and running their hand through his hair.
He woke up.
He woke up, but yet he sat with the warmth still flickering in his chest, grasping at fading memories of the love he hopes to actually feel one day.
Life wasn't fair. Shiku knew that since he turned four years old, but for a few moments, he lets himself believe that for a few moments, one day, life will be fair.
One day.