Blades

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 26, 2016

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Submitted: July 26, 2016

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There was this guy. Average height, standing about 5'6. Coffee colored, not dark roasted, but fairly colored. His hair is black and looks constantly wet, yet it's fluffy looking and wavy. His eyes are dark. Dark enough to draw you in but make you skittish at the same time. And the way he dresses is kinda odd. He wears cargos, flannels, graphic tees, wallet chains and vans. And he has this one big wristband, about two inches wide, that he wears on his left wrist at all times. He always looks like he didn't try when he got dressed, like he only tried to be comfortable. But no one else could ever pull off his style and look that good, that's strictly his style. And he's so easygoing, but always looks stressed. His lips are always tightly pursed, but it's acceptable because that's Dean. Dean and I have a few classes together. We sit next to each other in all of them, all the way in the back. I usually sit with one of my legs under me, leaning on the desk. And Dean sits with his legs outstretched, leaning back with his hands in the desk. And we just sit there, looking as if we have nothing better to do. And because of this, we make the best people for the teacher to call on. And she usually does, all the time. So we wait out the period in the back of the class, waiting to hear one of our names float to the back of the room. One day, as we sat in the back awaiting the sound of our names I noticed something. It was blizzard weather outside, cold as the abominable snowman's balls. So obviously it was long sleeves and sweater weather. Dean had on this really nice sweatshirts that read, "The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions", when I noticed his wristband was missing. And in its place I saw them. These kind of faint marks around his wrists. There were about 5 of the in all. They were wide,wider than a normal blade would make. And deep. They had to be older, much older. But, when would he have done this? Maybe he did it after a fight with one of his girlfriends. Maybe she pushed him too far one day and he- no he's not that guy. It probably was more like he thought he was causing too much trouble for her. Too many extra complications for her. So he was going to solve it, by ending his life. He probably didn't even think twice about it. Dean is the kind of guy to just do, no second thoughts. I wish I could do something like that. When he makes a decision he devotes himself to it. He probably spent hours carefully slicing the skin open, just to go back over it and cut the vein. And the moving lower to repeat the process. I'm pretty sure he has more scattered over the rest of his body. I remember the last time I was that devoted. I don't consider it anything as extravagant as his, but devotion none the less. I had woken up and felt like I had to run away. Like if I didn't get up right then, pack my book bag with a few clothes and take the next train going away, I would be a failure. So that's exactly what I did. I could have always just sat and waited until someone woke up. Or answered the frantic calls of my mother. But I did neither. Instead I say on the train next to window watching everything become blurred as the train sped along. At any point I could have decided I was taking it and needed to turn around and go back. But Dean couldn't undo what he did. His was forever. And for him to be so at peace with it was amazing. And so I stayed there fixated by the lashings that made Dean who he was. And then he caught me looking. "What are you staring at?", he asked. Then he looked down and remembered. Acknowledging them with no more than a quick eyebrow raise. I stammered and tried to find something not idiotic to say and ultimately failed. "Why would you do that?" , I asked cautiously. He replies, "It's no longer relevant." I blink a few times then go back to my questions. Why won't he tell me? I want to know how he became an so brave. How can you brush off lacerations of that magnitude and magnificence as if they were paper cuts. As my mind races the bell rings. We get up and grab our stuff and on the way out I say one last thing, "You know you can tell me anything, right?" He smiles and shakes his head. Dean starts to walk down the hall when he tosses over his shoulder, "I'm no hero, just a minority in a majorities' world."


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