Something I'd Be Good At

The boy lies back on the leather sofa in his sister’s living room. He runs his fingers through his coppery hair routinely, watching his arm as his fingers comb through his greasy locks. He can’t help but stare at the disfiguring, kind of puckered and oh so obvious scars and cuts misplaced and crooked on the inside of his arm. He can’t remember why the new ones appeared. He remembers that the scars are his own doing and from a long, long time ago. As he thinks, he still can’t remember the new, imperfect cuts’ origins. Has it been him inflicting the wounds? Or do they match up with the bruises on his jutting hipbones, branded by perfect fingers? He knows his sister is fuming, and he can hear her loud and clear at the door down the hall.

“If you ever touch him again, consider yourself a dead man!” she shrieks, adding a jab to the chest for threatening emphasis.

“I’m here to apologize—” the one she’s yelling at begins, but is cut off by the boy’s furious sister.

“I don’t care! Get out of my house before I kick you out of the state!” The girl shoves the man—the perfect one; the one with no flaw. The boy looks away from his arm and the scars and the cuts to pay closer attention to his sister’s and the man’s argument. He arches his back and strains his pretty neck to see what’s happening clearly. He sees the man glaring at his sister and almost expects a fight to break out between the two.

“Just let me talk to him!” the man exclaims. “You can’t hide him away forever—he’s a big boy now.”

The boy sighs and stands, knowing perfectly well that he’s who they’re fighting about. He smoothes his jeans, straightens his shirt and pulls at his messy hair. He yanks his sleeves down and over the cuts as he walks towards his sister and the perfect boy. He tiptoes when he comes closer and the older boy’s expression softens when their eyes meet. His sister turns and tells him to go into the kitchen; that nothing’s going on and he doesn’t need to worry.

“No,” he whispers.

“What?” his sister demands.

“No…” he repeats, still meek but strong than before. He clears his throat. “Let… Let him in.”

His sister huffs and stomps off to her room, slamming the door behind her. There’s silence for a while—the boy wonders if he just made a mistake before looking up at the other through his lashes. His eyes and smile are just the same as before, but hold no anger or sarcasm or lust or malice.

“Hey,” the perfect boy murmurs, stepping towards the other boy. The younger stares at him and struggles not to glare. “Look, hey, I’m sorry. You know that she didn’t mean anything to me, right? It’s all a show, you know that.” The perfect one insists, holding onto the younger boy’s wrists gently. The younger looks down.

“Yeah… I know,” the imperfect one whispers. “I know.”

The other smiles so the younger smiles too, trying to forget the scars and the cuts (God, they hurt) and the lies (they hurt worse) as he tries to focus on keeping the smile as real as possible at the same time. It’s hard, and the smile is so awkward and fake that even someone who didn’t know him could call him out on it. But the perfect one either doesn’t notice or pretends not to and the imperfect one is kind of happy about that; he doesn’t want to fight. Not today; he’s too tired and worn out to yell or scream or cry. The elder puts a hand on his shoulder. To the younger, it’s like a hundred thousand pounds right on his collarbone, pushing it to snap like a twig under the pressure.

“See you at practice?” he asks. The younger lets out a small, choked sigh, but nods.

“Yeah,” he replies through tight lips and clenched teeth. “See you at practice.”

His arms are tense with the other holding onto his wrists—and it hurts worse with the light grip and the shirt digging into the open, scabbing wounds. He remembers carving them into his wrist now—and he remembers why, too.

“You don’t hate me, right?” the perfect one questions, voice so quiet but the loudest thing in the world.

The younger chokes on his words. “O-of course not,” he manages. “I’d never…”

The perfect boy smiles again, leaning closer to the other’s face. He pushes his mouth forward, angling a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. The younger tries to move his mouth against the other’s but the perfect boy pulls back before it can happen. The younger’s face falls and he looks down; his lips are met again by the perfect boy’s lips but they’re gone just as fast.

“See you,” the perfect boy says and walks out of the open door. The younger blinks and finds himself back where he started and wants to just stop hurting. He closes the door and sighs heavily; it’s almost like they had fought. The imperfect boy bites his lip hard as he can and walks from the front door and into the bathroom across from his sister’s room. He closes and locks the door behind him, breathing like he did not too long ago and leaning all his weight against the counter. Long, shallow sighs and eyelids pinched together as tightly as possible; he feels like he’s tearing in half.

He feels like there were words, stabbing into him and picking apart at his insecurities. He can feel the echoes reverberating in his head, bouncing off his skull and making his hands and arms shake. It’s like a scary déjà vu and he hates it. The feeling of events repeating themselves gets worse when he finds himself digging through the small basket of extra toiletries for replacement razors; he finds one easily, at the bottom of the basket. His sister must have missed it.

It’s exactly the same as last time; metal against skin, blood seeping through. Maybe a little deeper this time, the razor urges. Just press a little bit harder… The boy winces as he does just that; it hurts deeper, but no matter how much pain it feels good. He doesn’t know if it’s the pain or the euphoria or the loss of blood that makes him pass out.

He wakes in his bed with layers of Ace bandages, gauze and medical tape around his forearms and looped over his elbow. He sighs; he hadn’t meant to make himself pass out. He just wanted the bad feelings to go away. His sister comes in a while later, face solemn.

“No more,” she says. “I can’t handle you hurting yourself anymore.”

“I know,” he whispers. He refuses to look at her.

“Maybe you shouldn’t—” she starts.

“No. I’m not bailing. I don’t care.” He interrupts, shooting up in bed. “I’ll be fine; I just need to get away from home for a while.”

“Maybe you need to get away from him for a while,” his sister seethes. She’s angry, he knows that. He knows that she hates the perfect boy but he loves him and doesn’t know what to do even though no matter what it will always hurt. But he wishes it will change. If he wishes enough, won’t it come true?

“…I’ll be fine,” he argues. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Fine, whatever,” his sister snaps, leaving the room without another word; the imperfect boy sighs and picks up his phone. He scrolls through the contacts and opens a new text message; before typing out the message, he realizes he has new messages. He checks them—they’re from his friends; apparently his sister had told them about his… episode. He sends appropriate messages back to them, assuring them he was fine. He pauses at the perfect boy’s name and chooses to send a new message.

I’m fine, I promise.
See you at practice.
I love you.

Messages are replied to and he sends replies too, but he never gets a reply from the perfect boy. He sighs, the breath uneven, and turns his phone off. Maybe he’s with another cover, he thinks. It’s just a cover, he has to remind himself. But still, the imperfect boy feels his heart breaking.