Hate Me

I hate what happened to him, such a brilliant boy with a mind as sharp as a tack, destroyed by a nasty habit. Those wretched things he searched so hungrily for, dragging himself through the streets, at all hours of the night desperately reaching for any sort of fix he can get his hands on.

It gave him such a divine feeling, he said, like he was part of something bigger; like he was part of something that actually mattered in this godforsaken town.

He never seemed to care that his clothes were in tatters, barely hanging off of his skinny frame. Or that his eyes seemed sunken in, making him a ghost of what he once was. A truly stunning human being.

He climbed on the rooftops where he’d perch and write his songs. The things that spewed from the tip of his pen were like diamonds. Things that any normal person would look at and immediately condemn, just because they were frightened by what they saw.

He pointed out how sick the world really was, and made everyone see themselves for what they really were, and for that he was forced away. Kicked out of his own home, and made to live on the streets. No college would accept him because he never got along with any of the professors. He saw through all their rehearsed words, and recycled phrases; and they didn’t like that.

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I met him on one of my morning walks. It was a cloudy morning, with a high chance of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon.

He was sitting against a building just inside of an alleyway with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him and his pen flying across a tattered piece of binder paper. I would have walked right past him had it not been for his continuous mutterings underneath his breath, drawing my attention.

“Excuse me, are you ok?” I asked, pausing a couple feet away from him.

He stopped muttering and paused abruptly. It was almost thirty seconds before he moved again, and I was about ready to walk away before he opened his mouth, “Do I look ok?”

My breath caught in my throat and I grasped for a response before I finally settled for a single word, “No,” I pulled my jacket close as a breeze blew in my direction, “just figured I’d ask. You look pretty cold,” I said gesturing at the goose bumps that were strongly visible on his arms.

Finally, he raised his head to look at my face, and when he did, I lost my train of thought. He had a strong face, with striking green eyes, and perfect bow shaped lips. His hair was jet black and was a complete mess. Tangled so that it went in every which direction except where it was supposed to fall.

“I’m fine,” he answered quietly, turning back to his writing, “please leave.” And with that, his pen began scribbling furiously across the torn up paper and the mutterings started anew.

I was so transfixed watching him in all his tragic beauty that I couldn’t bring my feet to move.

“You really look cold, why don’t you come get warm at my place,”

I had no idea why I was inviting this strange boy to my apartment. It’s not something I would usually do, and definitely not something that any rational person would do. But I couldn’t leave him there.

“I’m fine, I have a jacket,” he said, motioning toward a dark lump of cloth lying next to him on the pavement.

I was about ready to leave when it began pouring so hard I was soaked within a matter of seconds, and so was he.

“Look, I won’t take no for an answer, If you won’t come with me, I’ll have that cop over there arrest you for trespassing,”

He looked up again, this time his face was twisted with frustration. He looked up at the sky, then at me. I know he saw the look of fake confidence I had desperately painted my face with, and knew I wouldn't really have him arrested. “Fine, but I’m only staying until the storm passes,”

And with that he folded up his paper and stuck it in his pocket with the pen, grabbed his jacked and followed me the few short blocks back to my apartment.