Running in Circles
by Dude Lord of Weird
Disclaimer; if I owned this, do you really think I'd be generous enough let you read this for free?
"Another day
Another sunrise
Another factory call
Another night
Another sunset
Another free-fall."
If there was a God up there, He apparently didn't give damn about Marco Del Rossi.
The icy rain was soaking through his jacket, the wind piercing any exposed skin with a thousand invisible knives. The more he curled into himself, the more the nauseating waves of pain radiated from his chest.
All he wanted was to die.
The way they were looking at him. The way that people passed right by him, as if they just knew. Some didn't even spare him a glance. But some did- and the emotions he saw dancing in the eyes that dared to meet his own disturbed him. Disgust...fear...even anger...
Dirty faggot got what he deserved.
His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he refused to let them see this particular display of weakness. Not these people. He would wait untill he was somewhere safe. Not sitting on the curb of a town he had never seen around strangers...because after today, he would never doubt what a human being was capable of inflicting on a fellow person.
He shuddered as a particularly savage gust of wind ripped through the air. He wondered how long he had just been sitting out here. He wondered if he honestly cared. He wondered if he'd ever find himself back where he actually belonged...
Because he didn't belong here.
"You have to order something to stay."
The waiter's voice was stern, but his eyes betrayed his sympathy towards the shivering mess of a teenager before him. Marco just shook his head, but his lips just wouldn't form the words.
I don't have money.
I'm alone.
I have nowhere else to go.
Please?
But the words are caught behind the lump in his throat. "Are you ordering anything?" The waiter is looking at him strangely, his gaze fixed on the stain on Marco's filthy shirt. "God- is-is that blood?!"
He starts to reach out in a dazed sort of horror, but Marco backed away until he was pressed against the wall.
A woman suddenly banged through the door seperating the dining area from the kitchen. "Bobby! There are customers waiting- cut the crap!"
The waiter turned, shaking his head. "I think this guy's hurt."
The woman turned to Marco, her hard eyes studying him. They took in the shivers that coursed through his whole body. The stain across his shirt. The beginnings of some truly terrific bruising across his cheek and eyes.
"Take it somewhere else."
He never said a word. He just turned and hurried from the restaurant.
Would he ever find himself in a safe place again?
He tried to imagine himself at the Dot with Ellie, drinking ungodly ammounts of caffeine and gossiping about how stupid Heather Sinclair's outfit was that day. At Craig's, sprawled across the threadbare couch out in the garage after band practice. In his room after a long day, trying to focus on homework but actually thinking about Dylan and replaying his memories.
He couldn't see himself in any of those places.
The only place he could see himself was right here, surrounded by strangers rather than those who loved him.