Status: again?
335
How awesomely awesome
He doesn’t remember much – only three numbers: 335 – and maybe, just maybe if he thinks hard enough he can conjure up three little words from his stupid hazy mind, but really that’s it. He’s sticky – with God knows what – hot, and for a brief moment he doesn’t care that his curtains aren’t blue (they’re white with stupid sunflowers on them his favorite).
He doesn’t care that his mom finally just got over that streaking incident where the whole school saw more than just his pert white ass at that dumb pep rally, and that being out pass curfew and not coming home till the wee hours of the morning will do nothing to regain the trust needed to go to parties like the one he’s currently trying to remember with nothing but flashing lights, bitter liquid burring as it slid down his throat, and a warm heat (he’s only ever known from another body) pressed tightly against his own as he swayed and grinded to the beat to supply the needed answers of what happened last night.
He’s knows he should be scared – for fuck’s sake he’s completely naked under the thin sheet resting across his torso – but after three weeks of house arrest waking up covered in sweat among other things …(it doesn’t take much to understand what the white patches littering his body are), he’s feels oddly content. Relaxed. Alive.
So he just lets the calm wash over him – sinks further into the unknown comfy bed and vows to himself that later (when he can think straight and just lifting his doesn’t feel like a knife is being shoved through his brain), he’ll think about the numbers written on the back of his left hand – faded and blurring, the only understandable numbers a barley readable 335. He has time after all – it’s not like his mother’s anger or the sloppy numbers are just going to disappear, besides a nap sounds really fucking good right now.
He doesn’t care that his mom finally just got over that streaking incident where the whole school saw more than just his pert white ass at that dumb pep rally, and that being out pass curfew and not coming home till the wee hours of the morning will do nothing to regain the trust needed to go to parties like the one he’s currently trying to remember with nothing but flashing lights, bitter liquid burring as it slid down his throat, and a warm heat (he’s only ever known from another body) pressed tightly against his own as he swayed and grinded to the beat to supply the needed answers of what happened last night.
He’s knows he should be scared – for fuck’s sake he’s completely naked under the thin sheet resting across his torso – but after three weeks of house arrest waking up covered in sweat among other things …(it doesn’t take much to understand what the white patches littering his body are), he’s feels oddly content. Relaxed. Alive.
So he just lets the calm wash over him – sinks further into the unknown comfy bed and vows to himself that later (when he can think straight and just lifting his doesn’t feel like a knife is being shoved through his brain), he’ll think about the numbers written on the back of his left hand – faded and blurring, the only understandable numbers a barley readable 335. He has time after all – it’s not like his mother’s anger or the sloppy numbers are just going to disappear, besides a nap sounds really fucking good right now.