The Boy Without a Voice
There once was a boy who lived without a voice. Nobody cared to hear. He wasn't a mute, just tragically alone, and on top of that painfully misinterpreted. He wanted a friend, a mate, to care for and joke with, but that was too much to ask. He sat on the sidelines watching everyone play. This boy wasn't one to get faced and the others joked that he was bent. But that did not stop him from lifting his head.
Days like this, however, were harder to handle. After being kicked to the ground with insults he felt mental standing back up again. Because each time he did he would get kicked back down. His frail frame already shivering against the snow covered ground, and his hair loose, falling into his eyes made it all the more difficult to stand his ground. But he did it once more, as a joke to the poor blokes. He stood up only to be pushed back to the snow covered ground. Time and time again he took the same stance only to be kicked and beat till they were tired out from their game. From the only play he would ever be a part of.
But on this day, as he lay still in the dropping temperature, he shed a tear. It was the first of many and they did not stop. Tears were rare for he always tried looking up. He lay in the snow, ignoring any signs of frostbite seeping through, and balled his eyes out. They had left him to die, rot in the ground, but he knew he could not have that happen. He stood up, bowed legs shaking under the weight of his still frame. And he held his head up high to the sky. Tears strolled down his cheeks as he repeated the word, "Why?"
His momentary insanity, or maybe it was sanity, was cut short when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow walk by. In an instant he pulled himself together, not wanting to be seen in such a state, and watched the figure stroll through the trees. Without a thought he followed the creature, ignoring the falling sun. Ignoring how cold it was. Ignoring the trees and branches that caught against the fabric on his sleeve. All he could do was run.
Where the figure led him was a single bench, farthest from the pond. He was faced with the back of a black haired man who, even sitting, was tall. Like a scared animal, beaten and bloody, he approached the boy and took a seat next to him. His eyes stared in awe at the beauty in front of him. Jet black hair and pale skin, but not sickly like the beaten boy's, and eyes that stayed focused on the water that was before him. His hands sat ever so gracefully in his lap, fingers tapping to the beat of whatever tune was playing in his ears. And the oddest thing was he was wearing all black.
It didn't take long for the beautiful boy to notice the blond sitting next to him. He pulled out his earphones and asked, "Do you have a problem?"
And the music that rung through the buds were elegant and soft. Harmonizing peace sang through. An orchestra and small voices were heard. And in that moment the boy without a voice opened his mouth and spoke words just as small as the ones strumming through the ear buds, "I love Vienna Boys Choir."
"Me too."
Okay, the song I had Damien listening to is Ave Maria (totally not because I love that song) because I imagine he would laugh at it. And that he would listen to boys choir music. Like if you listen to that by yourself at 3am it can be creepy sounding and I think he'd dig that mess. I know I do.
Anyways. Thank you for reading my mess, hugs, love, and kisses.