The Special One
Quatre (cat-uh, just make it sound more French)
Oli handed me my camera. I took the hoodie off, wearing a short sleeve shirt underneath. I took a few pictures of the bruises littering my arms. Oli then handed me a pair of his basketball shorts, and without me asking, turned around. I slipped out of my jeans and into the shorts.
"Okay, you can turn back," I said. I started photographing bruises on my legs, too.
"I'm going to bring these down and talk to them. You can do.... whatever you want, actually." With that, Oli grabbed the photos and left, closing the door behind him. I went to his case and picked out a Green Day CD. I put it in his stereo and turned it on, not too loud. I flopped on his bed, and got comfy under his blankets-which he had two, plus a sheet.
I felt weird being in shorts and a short sleeve shirt with nothing over it. Yet, I felt comfier in Oli's room than I ever have in my own room for 12 years.
I pulled the blankets snugger around me. Listening to the music with my eyes closed was the most relaxing thing ever. I loved Billie Joe Armstrong's voice.
"Tom? Are you still awake?" Oli whispered.
"Yeah," I whispered back, too lazy to sit up.
"They said if you can prove that your dad is an alcoholic, then we'll have enough proof," He kept whispering.
"Why are we whispering?" I asked, again, in a whisper. He laughed.
"You can just get a receipt with a bunch of alcohol on it," He explained in a normal voice. I nodded, and buried my face in his pillow. It smelled like his hair, which smelled really fucking good.
"Are you comfy in MY bed?" He laughed. I simply nodded into the pillow. I felt the bed sink, then him situating himself under the blanket with me. He turned away so our backs were almost touching. I shifted, pretending to get more comfortable, but was only doing it so our backs were touching.
I drifted into an amazing sleep.
"Okay, you can turn back," I said. I started photographing bruises on my legs, too.
"I'm going to bring these down and talk to them. You can do.... whatever you want, actually." With that, Oli grabbed the photos and left, closing the door behind him. I went to his case and picked out a Green Day CD. I put it in his stereo and turned it on, not too loud. I flopped on his bed, and got comfy under his blankets-which he had two, plus a sheet.
I felt weird being in shorts and a short sleeve shirt with nothing over it. Yet, I felt comfier in Oli's room than I ever have in my own room for 12 years.
I pulled the blankets snugger around me. Listening to the music with my eyes closed was the most relaxing thing ever. I loved Billie Joe Armstrong's voice.
"Tom? Are you still awake?" Oli whispered.
"Yeah," I whispered back, too lazy to sit up.
"They said if you can prove that your dad is an alcoholic, then we'll have enough proof," He kept whispering.
"Why are we whispering?" I asked, again, in a whisper. He laughed.
"You can just get a receipt with a bunch of alcohol on it," He explained in a normal voice. I nodded, and buried my face in his pillow. It smelled like his hair, which smelled really fucking good.
"Are you comfy in MY bed?" He laughed. I simply nodded into the pillow. I felt the bed sink, then him situating himself under the blanket with me. He turned away so our backs were almost touching. I shifted, pretending to get more comfortable, but was only doing it so our backs were touching.
I drifted into an amazing sleep.