By Crazywritings

They were so loud. My God, they were so loud. Too loud, they were too loud. They were always too loud. There was never any quiet, never, not unless one of them wasn't home, which I supposed happened quite often. Actually, I was usually home alone most of the time. It seemed that they didn't want to spend time at home. That was their motto, then; spend as much time out of the house as possible, and maybe, just maybe, we could make this stuff work. I didn't really want it to work. I didn't want them to stay together. It was too loud. It was always too loud.

I couldn't ever tune it out. It was always there, clapping against my eardrums like thunder, thunder, there was always a storm. The eye of it never came. There was perpetual chaos, perpetual screams, perpetual sobs. Sometimes it came from me, but most of the time it came from them. Them. Their fault, all their fault. Always their fault.

When I was younger, I would watch them. There was something sick and perverted about me that was hungry for it. I watched them, wondering, amazed. I couldn't understand how her arm could bend like that or how his leg could twist like that. Obviously, it couldn't bend or twist like that, but how each of them thought to turn it that way was baffling. Did they stay up late at night, pondering how to torture each other? It sure seemed that way. That's how it looked from the sidelines. Sometimes, the moves they pulled were just too calculated, too planned to just be made up on the fly. It seemed like cheating. Practicing beforehand seemed like cheating to me.

But they cheated all the time. They cheated in more ways than one.

There was always noise in my house. Sometimes it wasn't noise of agony or anger, though. Even if agony or anger was usually present, sometimes there were sounds of lust. There were times when I'd wake up in the middle of the night, disturbed from slumber, only to be disturbed even further by hearing the soft screeches and mewling sounds coming from either my father or my mother's bedroom. No, they didn't sleep in the same bed anymore. They may've been too tempted to kill each other in their sleep. It was too dangerous. It appeared that they adored this game they played, this deadly game of who could fight the hardest. So they tried to preserve each other long enough. Just long enough for the brawl.

Anyway, my eyelids would slide apart. And I would hear this:

"Bruce. Oh, Bruce. Oh, Jesus, more, Bruce, more!"

Or this:

"Come on, Debbie, come for me. Come for papa."

Not pleasant. At first, I hadn't a clue what it was. Then I hit sixth grade. Burying my head in my pillow didn't help in the slightest. They were too loud. They were always too loud. I wondered how they could do it. I wondered how it was possible for them to head off when here was their daughter, so young and innocent, trying to sleep in her peaceful little poor excuse for a bedroom.

And then I realized. I didn't exist. To them, I didn't exist.

The night I thought of that was the night I changed. It was one of the rare nights when the two were in their own bedrooms having sex. Dad was with some stripper, Mom was with some pimp. Not each other. Never, never each other. They'd long since abandoned physical relationships with each other. They never touched each other without leaving at least a bruise. Same with me. They never touched me without leaving at least a bruise.

I was staring out the window. Stars winked at me. They winked, and light rained down from them, glittering in my eyes. It was as though they were crying luminescence. Why were they sad? What did they have to be sad for? They were safe, they were locked in calm darkness, darkness that swallowed them so completely that nothing touched them. They were forever safe. Forever, they were promised forever. What did they have to sob about? Were they here, stuck in this broken home, cowering, shaking like a twig? No, no they weren't. But perhaps they had their own problem.

I understand, stars. I know your pain. I know your tears. I feel. Your tears of light nurture me, just as my tears seemed to nurture their violent dances.

Cries, screams, moans. Stop, stop, please make them stop. I pulled my blanket over my head, shuddering. They didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve any sort of pleasure, none whatsoever. They didn't even deserve the pleasure of breathing—

I froze. Did I just think that? Was that my mind? Suddenly, a strange fog swarmed my brain, and it refused to disperse. It was a deadly, dark fog…and I didn't flinch away. It was quick to come on, but it didn't startle me. In fact, I welcomed it to an extent. It assuaged me, fed me, made me feel better. It made me feel better, thinking black thoughts about them. And what was even better was that I knew they deserved it. This was what they deserved.

That was when I began taking care of myself. I knew, then, I suppose. I was freed, then, freed from the binds of being a good little child. I tried. I tried so hard to be good. I tried so hard to make them proud, to make their hearts overflow with delight and happiness, so much so that maybe, just maybe, it could fix this broken home of ours. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted more than anything. How I could've even dreamed that was possible, I don't know. I guess I was just a dreamer. My dad yelled at me for that, sometimes. Maybe a punch here and there for that. But I never stopped. I couldn't. I fought against the darkness, the dismalness that crept in on me each and every day. Hope was something that wasn't in my vocabulary; it was just something I understood. I didn't need to talk about it, to describe it. It was just there.

I couldn't get rid of it. There it sat, nestled in my heart, a dove in the wreckage. I relied on that dove. The dove was my savior. My dreams were my ticket out of here, my escape. When they really went at it, really got into it, my dreams took me away. I flew on the wings of that dove to strange lands, lands that no one had ever thought of. But they still existed. They were there.

No one had ever thought of me. But I still existed. I was there.

I acted like a dreamer. I suppose I fit the description to a T. I was pretty quiet, pretty gentle, pretty soft-spoken, sullen occasionally. Sure, I guess all those would apply. If you really wanted to press it, I was a loner, I suppose. It never bugged me. I had a few friends. They were the bad apples of my school. They were the kids no one wanted to talk to, the kids that no one associated with, the kids that scared the others beyond words. They were the kids. They were those kids.

I was a part of them. I was one of those kids. At least I belonged somewhere, though. I suppose that's something. It was more than I could say for other kids that got beat every day. Nobody, and I mean nobody talked to them. They liked it like that. I didn't. I liked having conversations. Good conversation was hard to come by, but when you stumbled upon it, it was delicious, amazing, so freeing. But I was a teenager. I was in a teenager harbor, a teenager zoo, also known as high school. How could they have good conversation? Where was the room amongst the constant abuse of the word "like" and obnoxious giggles?

I was lucky. I found someone. I found someone that I could talk to, that respected me, that understood me for the most part. I relied on him. I leaned on him. He was my cane, my walker, my wheelchair. In the end, he would've been my coffin if I asked it of him. We were tied. We were one. It was obvious; every time I saw him, I jumped him. Well, I jumped him in my own way. I darted up to him and gave him a small smile each time I saw his face. That was my way. That was my way of expressing when I was ecstatic. And he got it. He understood. Nothing more was needed.

He was like me. His parents didn't understand him either. They were his foster parents, but they were the parents you'd expect from a preppy rich kid, though they were anything but. They lived in the terrible part of town; even I lived in a place better than that. They lived in an area where every thirty seconds, there was a gunshot or ten. They could barely afford to dress their child, let alone afford their own attitudes. How they could support the weight of their own heads, I'd never know. They honestly acted like they were part of the most elite country clubs in the world, as though they ate caviar every night for dinner, as though they only dressed in designer clothes. If they were honest a day in their life, they would've admitted they couldn't afford to even look at a department store. But there they were, snooty as anyone.

He wasn't. He was the opposite. He was so humble, so sweet, so gentle, so nice, so adorable. He was like me in that he knew who he was. He knew who he was so young because he had to. If he'd become his parents, he wouldn't get anywhere. If he'd become his parents, he wouldn't be anything ever.

We were each other. We needed each other. Which was just fine for the both of us; we actually liked each other.

His name was Michael Barker.

I guess over time, we'd just assumed. Not assumed, per say, but it just happened. Maybe it just fell into place. I don't know. One day, when he was introducing me to his friends from a different town, he called me his girlfriend. He didn't look to me for confirmation. He didn't rush to correct himself. He didn't say it was a mistake. He merely continued to speak, his speech as fluent and soft as it would've been if he said it was sunny that day.

And I didn't start. I didn't call him out. I didn't deny or anything. I went along with it. It sounded too right when he said it for me to say anything to the contrary. It was as though he said his own name. It sounded so natural for the words to drop from his lips that I didn't even realize he'd said it until the friends looked at me with gentle eyes.

Nothing happened. It wasn't like that. I think he used the wrong term when he called me his girlfriend. We weren't like that. We didn't jive like that. I still hadn't been kissed, and I don't think he had either. It was a wonder to me, though, that he'd never been kissed. Every time I looked at him, I saw an angel. His long, shaggy black hair capped his head like a helmet, dangling in his sight that sometimes I marveled at how he could see. He was thin and tall, and his skin was rather pale, too. He wore a long, silver cross that dangled from his neck. He liked black a lot and wore it, too. His shoes were pretty cool. I liked to trace the strange, erotic tears in them with the tip of my fingers as we sat on the small grassy lawn of the schoolyard. He would watch me, his massive blue eyes true pieces of ice. I could feel his stare wherever his attention shifted, whether it be from my hand, to my forearm, to my elbow, to my shoulder, to my neck, to my cheek, to my lips, and then to my eyes. Wherever they traveled, I could feel them.

We were strange. Compared to the rest of the student body, we were strange. Either we were jabbering like we hadn't spoken to each other in thirty years or we were dead silent. I couldn't decide which I liked more. When we were talking, I loved losing myself in the perfect contours of his gentle voice. I'd never heard a voice so soft, so sweet, so adorable in my life. It was always yelling, always hollering, so much noise that simply couldn't be stopped. But when we talked, we were low. We could almost not be heard. And he always had such interesting things to say. His speech was so eloquent.

But I loved being silent. Silence was indeed golden to me. I reveled in the silence, grinned when silence fell. It gave me almost as much as conversation did. It gave me time to think, time to wonder, time to dream, time for myself while still being in the warmth of his company. It gave me time to ogle at him, to stare at him, to gaze at him, to marvel at his looks. I got to marvel at him in general. It was so nice, being with someone, being in someone's presence when they weren't about to smack me or make fun of me or scream at the top of their lungs. I truly felt at ease with him. He was my warm, cozy blanket. I got to have company without being on edge. It was a strange feeling to me, to be sure, but when I got it, I enjoyed every breath of it.

No one took the time to get to know either of us. I felt that if they did, they wouldn't stare at us they way they did. Either they wouldn't stare at us the way they did or they wouldn't have their eyes not even meet ours. Perhaps they would acknowledge the fact that we were indeed humans, just like them. We weren't some odd species from a different planet. We were just like them. Perhaps they didn't know that our hearts beat, too, and that though we were different, we felt. A cliché dream, of course, but I couldn't help but dream, as I was a dreamer. I was such a dreamer. A foolish dreamer with foolish dreams.

But he was always there. He was always there to listen to my foolish dreams. To sympathize and perhaps even add a few of his own. I liked his dreams. They were beautiful.

Though he was always there for me, I never expected him to do some of the things he did. It fascinated me, the things he did. Sometimes, he never even thought about it, he just did it. I wanted to be like that. I wanted to be just like him.

I was lying in my bed. The covers were tugged up to my chin, practically strangling me. I had them nice and tight around me. It was to hold in the warmth. I always needed warmth when I was home. They never had enough for each other, so they never had enough for me.

I listened. I listened to them holler. Words, sharp and deadly as knives, flew between them. I could only imagine how each syllable would cut them, would tear at them, would slice them so deeply that they would have to answer with something just as terrible. It must have hurt. If they felt the need to retaliate that harshly, the utterances must've been worse than I could've ever dreamed. I didn't envy their positions. I didn't envy anything about them.

My face seemed to bury itself into the pillow. I didn't even really know when I did it anymore. It just happened. Suddenly my skin would brush against linen, and I would know that it had gotten too much to bear. Whenever I didn't want to hear them anymore, I tried to hide. I could never hide. Maybe that's why I hated it so much. If they wanted, they could hate each other as much as they desired; I really didn't care anymore. But why couldn't I hide? Why couldn't I escape? There was never anywhere for me to run to, and so I had to deal with it.

Somehow, a gentle creak reached my ears. How it was able to do that over the din of my parents, I'd never know, but it did. I pulled my gaze out of the fluffy barrier to see a silhouette creeping through the small opening created by parting the frame of the window and the edge of my wall. I didn't scream. No noise of any sort came from me. If it was a killer, I would welcome him sure enough.

"Hey," the mass of black whispered. I relaxed even more. There was certainly no danger to be had here.

"Hi," I hissed back and sat up. My palm tapped the empty space next to me. He obliged, sliding over and leaping gracefully onto the mattress. As he leaned against the wooden backboard of my bed, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest.

"Figured you could use a little company," Michael said. I nodded into his black t-shirt, and his fingers began to absently toy with the ends of my hair. Silence abruptly seized the room. Well, not complete silence; the war continued outside my door. I only worried idly that they would see Michael. They never usually came in. They were far too preoccupied with trying to hurt each other, with trying to wound each other far beyond repair. I'd say they did a good job with that already. They never talked anymore. The loss of a relationship was a pretty good wound to me.

The quiet sound of his breathing was the only disturbance that I paid attention to. With each breath, there was a little whoosh of air that caressed the crown of my head. With each breath, my body relaxed further and further into oblivion. I was close to sleep, which nearly startled me into opening my eyes. I never slept. Sleep was definitely hard to come by for me. It was all too much, too much for me to drift away. But now it crept upon me, making me float, making me drift…

Then a sickening crack sounded. It seemed to echo throughout the whole house, the noise permeating each and every crevice it could find, any place that wasn't filled with something absolutely concrete. It swooped through the walls and assailed my ears, smashing them to pieces, wracking my brain. Each nerve in my body froze, and abruptly I was tense, my eyelids flying open. I gaped into the darkness.

The part that scared me the most was that there was no shriek. There was only quiet.

"And stay down, bitch," Dad snarled. His heavy footsteps headed the other direction, thudding into his bedroom. Once there was the slam of his door, everything fell. Everything tumbled into an eerie, stifled, hanging silence. Deathly silence. My heart was suddenly pounding, jumping, squealing, ramming against every corner of its bone jail. Why? Why was my heart screaming? Why was my breath coming in shallow little puffs nearly as desperate as my whizzing thoughts? Why? Why was I afraid? Why was I worried?

"It's okay," he assuaged. His voice was choked, his tone was sad. He knew. He was certain. I was certain then, too. With his absolutism came my conviction. He would know. His original parents really went at it, too. They got into a hollering match, and his father beat his mother to death. He would know. He would know better than anyone. If anyone could be certain, it would be him.

I didn't burst into tears. I didn't fear. I didn't worry anymore. A strange, idle sadness did clasp gently around my heart, but otherwise I quieted. No more. There was no more. Sure, I was left, but I'd never really gotten hit. I was never really a target. If I left my room now, sure, he could throw a few punches my way. I could be next. If I left the room. The last thing I planned to do was leave my room. I didn't plan on going to my mother. I actually cared very little, now. I guessed it was finally over.

But I did sigh. I did try and shake the unnerving despair that was tugging at my insides. His hand stroked my hair as he let me bury my face into his collar.

I probably should've jumped. I probably should've pulled away. The second I felt his lips press into my tendrils, I probably should've stopped him. But little bolts of electricity shot through me, and the last thing I wanted to do was pull away. I would've left my room before I pulled away from Michael.

His mouth was calculative. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he tentatively descended, pecking my forehead, my temple, my cheek, and then the corner of my own mouth. I had tilted my face up unconsciously, trying to give him better access, and my eyes found his. The endless ice that hid beneath the sheet of black hair gazed back at me. There was no question. I had no questions. There simply was. We simply were. That was enough. Nothing had ever just been for either of us. We had to work for whatever we wanted, whether it be food or rest. We always had to work for such things to come to us.

We were tired of working. It was time for things to just be.

He gently brushed his lips against mine. My eyes slid closed in time with his, and before I knew it, my palms were clasping around his neck. His own hands wound around my waist, and then everything just was. The world just was. Everything was there, everything was set. It existed, we existed, a harmonic balance that was allowed to just be. We didn't have to try. We just were.


It didn't last long. It was enough. His mouth released mine, and he smiled softly at me as I laid my head against his shoulder.

A/N: Strange, I know. I wrote this on a writing high I got. Yes, I do get those. I'm weird, shut up. I'm a little delighted that this only had one swear though. Like seriously, that's a big deal for me!

Eh, whatevs. I'll probably end up taking this down. It doesn't really have a purpose.