Rainy Night

The soft kiss of the dewy fog was pleasurable to the young man's weary brain. It's beautiful, he thought to himself as he contemplated the events to come. Almost nostalgic. Too bad they were just cosmetic words, no longer holding any merit to the loner goth boy all the popular kids referred to as "faggot." So long ago it was that he had lost his sense of compassion and feeling, his innocence stolen by the cold of the earth and its people.

"The world is a cruel place," his school-appointed therapist had told him. "It's full of cruel people and cruel intentions."

"Yeah, well maybe hell won't harbor any cruel intentions, if there even is such a place." He whispered this to himself almost methodically. Standing there in the heightening sprinkle, progressing to a full-out downpour at 9:00 at night; it looked like a desperate scene from an epic drama film. He felt like he was in a drama film with the way his life had been going in the past couple years.

Only fifteen and last week was his fifth time being arrested. He had been in several schools now, either from being expelled or from the seemingly periodic shift from foster home to fucking foster home. He felt so pathetic, as if he could and would never live up to the world's expectations, to his own. He felt like spitting on himself, sickly reminiscent of the "good ol' days." Back when he envied the "beautiful" people, wanting, needing, with ever such a passion to be like them. To have what they had. It wasn't all too long ago that he had felt this way. But after he spent the night in lockup a few times, crying silently to himself, did he realize that he had no place in this damned world.

"So why the FUCK do I deserve to still be in it?!" he screamed at the abstractly pained sky as he suddenly lept from his soaked bench, in stenched clothes, scorched with marijuana smoke. 

The marijuana was a euphoric release. It distracted him when his current foster parents would find his pipes or stash or razor blades. The blades were a release as well. They were a symbol expressing his freedom from his sorrow. They were sharp and with every slice would cut through his pain. The warm physical pain kept him from the pain of his days. Not to mention his odd fetish for blood. Seeing it, touching it, and even tasting it made him giddy. The young man began his trip, visiting the few things and places in this vile town that made him happy; and the one person.

She was perfect in every way imaginable. Beautiful and glowing. She was the one thing that gave him a reason to live. But he was ugly and undeserving of her love. She had stayed with him in the most trivial of times. But he knew that the girl didn't want to He was holding her back in life and it had to end. However, on his way to the sanctuary that was her loving arms to tell her that it was over and why it was, he decided that it would be for the best if she didn't see him like this. In light of this, he changed his direction and headed for a quiet little spot where he often took the only one he loved. 

Upon arrival, he removed from his tattered pocket a .38 special which he had stolen from his "father" earlier that day. "Is it raining again?" he said to himself with a soft crack in his voice. No. It was a single tear running down his long-aged face.

He shrugged it off and inserted one hollow-tipped bullet. He didn't bother to write a suicide note; no one would read it. He slowly pulled the freedom-giving weapon up to his open mouth like a little boy leerie yet willing to take candy from a shadowy stranger. He could already taste the cold hard bullet on the tip of his tongue; the bullet that would end it. The entire world closed around the already dead boy in a blur and he was alone in his thoughts with the exception of a single one. Her.

"I'm sorry Ash," he breathed, his eyes closed and teary. The tormented boy squeezed the trigger as far as it would allow. A pulsating shot was heard all around the depressing area. He was dead.

Though he was only one of the near 5,000 in his quiet little town, everyone, even those who treated him like decaying shit, felt the sorry for the tragic end to the broken boy who grew up far too fast. His name was Nick. He was only fifteen. It only seems to rain hard like that one day out of the year since then. The day that the boy Nick ended his pitiful yet unforgettable life.

