The story of a boy.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this as a drama assignment. Watch a stranger and make up a story about them, this was mine.

Submitted: September 19, 2013

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Submitted: September 19, 2013



There was a boy at sparkles who was probably about 5’6, he walked confidently but almost as if he was unsure of where he was going, or what he was going to do next.  He walked with his head held not too high or too low, but just about average for most people.  He wore a short sleeve shirt, but seemed to use rubber bracelets to cover his wrists, and I can only imagine what he was hiding. 

This boy was no loner, of course, and from first glance, you wouldn’t think he’d be poor.  He had friends.  He had ripped jeans, sure, but they were stylishly ripped and he even wore a beanie over his golden locks of hair.  I’m sure anyone would’ve assumed he had a well-off life style.  From observing him, however, I knew his beanie was borrowed and his jeans weren’t meant to be ripped like that. 

No one else could tell that he’d leave Sparkles and have his friends drop him off a block from his house and walk the rest of the way, just to hide the raggedy place he’d called home for so long.  It wasn’t his choice, of course.  He didn’t choose his family.  They obviously didn’t choose him either.  His family didn’t like him; the feeling was mutual, though.  He seemed like he’d rise above their expectations of him becoming a humble man who lives off of others’ sympathy and kindness.  His family looked down on his goals.  His friends even did, at times.  That’s why when he went home; his home wasn’t a house, but a state of mind:  No real friends, no real family, no room for him to fit into the world.  He’d go home and listen to music, blaring it.  He’d probably listen to a remedial song such as Lullaby by Fall out boy,  listening to the lyrics, and adding emphasis in his mind to the lines, “in the morning it will all be better, It's not what it seems in the land of dreams, Don't worry your head just go to sleep.”  Maybe he’d have a blade, maybe he’d have a notebook to record his feelings, and then he’d lay his soft, golden hair gently onto his pillow, and drift into cloud nine, hoping and praying this would be his last time falling asleep.

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