Dear My Friend
Die.
Die is seventeen at the moment, a rebel in the making but respectful to his elders, likes a bit of a drink but not on school nights or past eleven pm, likes to smoke countless cigarettes as a way of winding down but only in special designated smoking areas or his room.
His room is small and cluttered, but the mess is arranged in such a way you'd think it was planned. The underpants are near the bed and the empty cans are near the window that looks out on to the railway. He knows where everything is but that doesn't stop his mother from shouting at him every day when he gets in from school at four thirty. She doesn't approve of the way he talks now, or the people he hangs out with outside the convenience store, or that hair dye he bought last Tuesday from the chemist. Bright red, of course. It's his favourite colour. But she wouldn't know that. She doesn't talk to him much anymore. His father doesn't talk to him much anymore. And they don't know what colour their eldest son prefers out of all the colours of the rainbow.
He pretends he doesn't care because he's not meant to show emotions.
If he were to show anger, he'd be severely disciplined for stepping out of line. If he were to cry, he'd bring shame to the family. So he hides behind that wide smile of his and the hair he's been growing for two years now and punches the wall opposite his bed every day at around four thirty five and then sinks to the floor with his head in his hands.
And he tells me that one day he'll be better than them.
He tells me they'll be sorry when he's rich and famous and getting fucked by seven girls a night.
He tells me that he'll see the world.
Then, he laughs at himself, glaring at the empty room around him.
He calls me Kyo. Kyo, his friend. But he has no idea who I am.
His room is small and cluttered, but the mess is arranged in such a way you'd think it was planned. The underpants are near the bed and the empty cans are near the window that looks out on to the railway. He knows where everything is but that doesn't stop his mother from shouting at him every day when he gets in from school at four thirty. She doesn't approve of the way he talks now, or the people he hangs out with outside the convenience store, or that hair dye he bought last Tuesday from the chemist. Bright red, of course. It's his favourite colour. But she wouldn't know that. She doesn't talk to him much anymore. His father doesn't talk to him much anymore. And they don't know what colour their eldest son prefers out of all the colours of the rainbow.
He pretends he doesn't care because he's not meant to show emotions.
If he were to show anger, he'd be severely disciplined for stepping out of line. If he were to cry, he'd bring shame to the family. So he hides behind that wide smile of his and the hair he's been growing for two years now and punches the wall opposite his bed every day at around four thirty five and then sinks to the floor with his head in his hands.
And he tells me that one day he'll be better than them.
He tells me they'll be sorry when he's rich and famous and getting fucked by seven girls a night.
He tells me that he'll see the world.
Then, he laughs at himself, glaring at the empty room around him.
He calls me Kyo. Kyo, his friend. But he has no idea who I am.