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Thirteen. Sickly Truth
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Laurie Santiago hated nothing more than living. It was a drag. He was depressed, whatever. He was hateful, whatever. He was angry and mean, whatever. He was a drug addict, not whatever. But, it was definitely whatever. Because, drugs made it a little easier to live. He could bare it. Plus, the drugs were killing him quicker— a bonus, per say.
But, here was the thing.
Like any stupid teenage movie, he fell in love. Like for real in love. Not like 'I think I'm in love and I'm in like forth grade love', no this was for real shit. Like 'we should get married and spend the rest of our life's together' shit.
But, the girl you love, loves someone else. And then suddenly you're left all alone again with a body that can't love you and a will that doesn't exist and won't save you.
But, shit— the way Laurie was staring at Ivy right now could've kept him alive for God years. A God boy he'd be. She was driving his truck. Driving them to the local motel. Because, she wouldn't go home with him. And trust me, if they did end up at the Jacobs' house— Ivy would see her best friend (who she loved . . . And probably still loves) and brother acting like a married couple or some shit. Whatever.
Ivy slid out of the raised truck, hurrying to the other side as Laurie pushed himself from the passenger side. He hoped Ivy wouldn't pay mind to his winces, but she frowned regardless. She heard everything. She wished she couldn't. They walked awfully closed: Nothing entangled, but their arms brushed one another like swaying palm trees.
Laurie had his eyes screwed shut as Ivy got them a room— Cal's credit card. No matter how hard he'd try and blink them away, they still would come to fall. Men shouldn't cry, but fuck, he wanted to cry, badly. Did that mean he wasn't a man..?
He wasted no time sinking into the bed as Ivy closed their motel door— for the night, leaving out the sign for no cleaning on the door knob outside. Her back pressed against the cold door, and all she could do was stare at his limp form with a shiver. His eyes were screwed shut, and she watched his tears fall slowly from the cracks. Ivy didn't know what to do. I mean, she was going to clean up his cuts, obviously. She wasn't a bitch. But, she didn't know what to say. All her fears regarding him, were true. His home was bad. His mind was sick. He was broken.
