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For years, he was told the same thing. Regular blood loss accompanied by broken bones and concussions to make sure it was engraved into his mind like stone. Unwillingly getting dragged along by his father to watch him beat those people up. He learnt to repeat it in his head like a prayer. It was disgusting and vile, unwanted and quite frankly just wrong; he knew this. So why did he feel this way? Did he have a death wish?
Droplets scattered at the thump of each step he hurriedly took. Rain was bustling down onto the empty streets of the neighbourhood; the cold weather and the late hour of the night ensured nobody was around to bother him right now. The boy needed a break from the noise and so he began climbing the gate to his schools baseball field. As he landed on the other side and started lighting up, a bright orange head of hair stared back at him — he wasn’t alone.
A smirk fought its way onto his face as the two boys moved closer to each other. Filling his lungs with smoke, his head hung low — shielding his face from the rain. It was easy to make conversation, words spilled out of his mouth without him having to overthink, it felt nice. While they weren’t really friends, and he would never admit that he liked spending time with him; it wasn’t so bad when they were together. Whenever they met up a rush of serotonin enveloped him and his nerves seemed to fade away — and so did his common sense. As blue eyes met green, a smile creeped up onto his face. A warm feeling travelled through his veins, startling him — it was bound to be pushed down and locked away like he’s taught himself to do. He wasn’t stupid. But perhaps he could allow himself to feel just this once? Even if it was him. After all, his father didn’t need to find out. Maybe he does have a death wish after all.