‹ Prequel: An Undead Boy
Status: Making life hard for myself by writing a new story. WILL BE SHORT - APPROX. 10 CHAPTERS
Boy, Alive
July.
I know I'm different. I know it.
I know what everyone else sees when they look at me; the tousled hair, the athletic body, deep set eyes fixed beneath dark brows in an attractive face. The image of popularity.
All I can see is a liar.
There's only so many times you can think up a reason for not wanting to kiss a girl, only so many explanations to offer your parents when you break up with your latest girlfriend.
I feel like it's written all over my face for everyone to read. How can they not see it? I hang out with my friends and force myself to play out the Matt they expect; cool, relaxed, self assured. It's almost laughable how far from the truth this perception of me actually is.
They hook up with girls at parties and I'm left on the sidelines as they disappear one by one, leaving me with a girl named Mel, our awkwardness elevated by the fact she's waiting for me to grab her breasts and stick my tongue in her mouth. Her bewilderment growing when I jolt the second her hand touches my arm. Her pout, painted red with too much lipstick, becoming more pronounced. She can't understand why Matthew Wilkes doesn't want to make out with her; she must be wearing the wrong perfume, the wrong clothes, the wrong hair.
I offer my excuses: I'm ill, I'm nervous, I think I left the oven on at home. Then I get the hell out of there. I tell the guys the next morning that I've been out all night with that brunette, the blonde, the one with the pink hair and facial piercings and they believe. Why shouldn't they?
When have I ever given them cause to think that I would sooner fall for a guy?
On the occasions that I can't slip away, I grab whatever drink I can lay my hands on until the faces around me become blurs, interchangeable. Who am I even talking to anymore? Is that my hand sliding across that girl's thigh?
I make myself be what I'm expected to be, keep drinking till I puke my guts up all over myself and my friends have to carry me home, guffawing at how wasted I am.
"Can't hold his drink." one says.
"Even with the vomit down his shirt, he still had them all queuing up to get with him." sighs another, his voice thick with envy, thinking I'm too drunk to notice.
My weight bounces across the mattress they drop me onto, bringing with it a new wave of nausea. I hear the raucous laughter when I roll over to throw up onto my bedroom carpet, feel my mothers hand cool against my cheeks and see the toes of my father at the edge of the pool of sick. The shame is unbearable.
"Oh honey, why do you do this to yourself?" she coos, wiping my mouth with a towel, pulling my trainers off with a gentleness that she's had to employ more than once. This isn't the first time I've come home in a state.
She doesn't know why, of course she doesn't. But what else can I do? This is what I'm supposed to be, how I'm meant to act. This is who I am.
Why does it all feel so wrong then?
I know what everyone else sees when they look at me; the tousled hair, the athletic body, deep set eyes fixed beneath dark brows in an attractive face. The image of popularity.
All I can see is a liar.
There's only so many times you can think up a reason for not wanting to kiss a girl, only so many explanations to offer your parents when you break up with your latest girlfriend.
I feel like it's written all over my face for everyone to read. How can they not see it? I hang out with my friends and force myself to play out the Matt they expect; cool, relaxed, self assured. It's almost laughable how far from the truth this perception of me actually is.
They hook up with girls at parties and I'm left on the sidelines as they disappear one by one, leaving me with a girl named Mel, our awkwardness elevated by the fact she's waiting for me to grab her breasts and stick my tongue in her mouth. Her bewilderment growing when I jolt the second her hand touches my arm. Her pout, painted red with too much lipstick, becoming more pronounced. She can't understand why Matthew Wilkes doesn't want to make out with her; she must be wearing the wrong perfume, the wrong clothes, the wrong hair.
I offer my excuses: I'm ill, I'm nervous, I think I left the oven on at home. Then I get the hell out of there. I tell the guys the next morning that I've been out all night with that brunette, the blonde, the one with the pink hair and facial piercings and they believe. Why shouldn't they?
When have I ever given them cause to think that I would sooner fall for a guy?
On the occasions that I can't slip away, I grab whatever drink I can lay my hands on until the faces around me become blurs, interchangeable. Who am I even talking to anymore? Is that my hand sliding across that girl's thigh?
I make myself be what I'm expected to be, keep drinking till I puke my guts up all over myself and my friends have to carry me home, guffawing at how wasted I am.
"Can't hold his drink." one says.
"Even with the vomit down his shirt, he still had them all queuing up to get with him." sighs another, his voice thick with envy, thinking I'm too drunk to notice.
My weight bounces across the mattress they drop me onto, bringing with it a new wave of nausea. I hear the raucous laughter when I roll over to throw up onto my bedroom carpet, feel my mothers hand cool against my cheeks and see the toes of my father at the edge of the pool of sick. The shame is unbearable.
"Oh honey, why do you do this to yourself?" she coos, wiping my mouth with a towel, pulling my trainers off with a gentleness that she's had to employ more than once. This isn't the first time I've come home in a state.
She doesn't know why, of course she doesn't. But what else can I do? This is what I'm supposed to be, how I'm meant to act. This is who I am.
Why does it all feel so wrong then?
♠ ♠ ♠
This idea just appeared in my head at like, 1 in the morning last night and I thought I'd run with it. Kinda liked the idea of a spin off of 'An Undead Boy' and I always wished I'd written more of Matt.Hopefully, the chapters will become longer as I go on.