There, again, was the irritating noise. That giggle. I mind you, this is group counseling for those with suicidal tendencies; and every week he’s here and every week he giggles. It’s always the same thing. He sits in the seat nearest the window and alternates between smiling, looking out the window, and giggling. Of all the insane people here, he is the most annoying.

Sinking back into my uncushioned and uncomfortable chair, I sulked, glaring at the man who was so cheerfully taking notes as I finished my well familiar words. Being the youngest here, other than the giggle kid, their attention seemed to linger on me. Probably the reason I was forced to speak first today. And I hate these people so much.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand the logic behind group counseling. How can listening to other people whine about their life make me not want to kill myself? The answer is, it doesn’t. I hate talking in front of groups, so it only makes me want to kill myself all that much more.

But I silently thanked whatever god people were worshipping this week when it all ended. Furthermore, I damned him when I realized that it ended half an hour over the scheduled end time. Thus meaning my means of transportation was long gone.  I always knew there was no such thing as god.

Unhappily I trudged forward, exiting the building that was hell, with every intention of walking home, but not before purchasing another pack of cigarettes. Imagine my surprise when I no more than five steps later, my hair was yanked, and I was pulled backwards at least two steps. Now I mind you that I like my body, I find my body attractive. I’m damn thin, I’ve nice fairly tanned skin, dark blue eyes, a nice figure, black hair...

Particularly, though, I care for my hair. It tickles at the back of my thighs, so tending to it is no small job. Currently it’s pulled into a hasty braid, but I do not appreciate someone messing, much less, pulling my hair.

My lips instantly pulled into a snarl, and I spun around on heel, hands pulling my offended hair around to soothe it. “Why the fuck did you do that?!” I was biting already, and I didn’t even know at who, but the words remained even when my eyes landed on the criminal.  Giggle-boy. Of course, what other crazy would pull on my hair.

“It’s pretty.”

Why thank you, my mind replied dryly, none too amused. So you see something pretty, do you have to pull it? Do you have to cause pain and damage and destruction to everything? That fucking hurt. No, there were not shimmering tears of pain in my eyes. I was not that much of a wuss. Growling, I turned my nose up to the kid, “Look brat, that’s a shitty way to tell someone they have pretty hair. It fucking hurts to be pulled.” 

He didn’t seem to falter at my words though; he was still smiling up at me. Had he not been completely crazy, he would have been, actually, a little cute. Dirty blond hair, most unfortunately it was always a complete disaster sight, eyes that could pass for the color of chocolate syrup, pale skin with a few cutely placed freckles, and a figure like a pencil. His actual age I was left to wonder, though. Either he was terribly tall or he was really close to my age; his head was eye level with my chest. A nice place though, because my chin would be just comfortable resting on his mass of mop.

Whatever way, he was petting my hair.

I was left sighing, my eyes narrowing dangerously. Call it hormones, call it being a teenager, call it being a seventeen-year-old suicidal gay boy named Adam, but I couldn’t stand anyone for more than five seconds. His five seconds were up.  Yanking my hair away from his hands, I tossed it over my shoulders, safely out of his reach for the moment.

“I suppose your parents aren’t here for you, no?” I said, honestly sympathizing with him a little on that part. Some people had cars, some people had parents that cared, some people had a gun to their head.

I was far from surprised when he shook his head a little, saying quietly, “Daddy never comes to get me.” 

Snorting, I placed a hand on his head, ruffling blond spikes and gently petting them at the same time. Like this, he confused me, being so happy while surrounded by the world, but he was just a kid. He probably didn’t understand a thing. I wonder if he even knows what suicide is.

I withdrew my hand slowly and let it hang limply at my side, just looking down at the nameless lunatic who was still staring at up at me, expectantly.  “Shouldn’t you be getting home or something, brat?” I finally asked, putting my hands on my leather clad hips, and lifting a brow at the kid.

“Daddy would like for me to stay out more.”

And it sounded like it had been repeated too many times, like it was rehearsed or something. It was creepy, and it made me ponder walking away from the kid really fast. The baggage he obviously had was honestly not the kind I needed in my already fucked up life. I enjoy watching people suffer, but I don’t enjoy being dragged into the suffering. 

“Right, of course, so I’m going now, I’ll see you next week, brat.” And with that I turned on heel, waving a hand over my shoulder.  That was it, thankfully enough, and the kid didn’t follow me or even attempt to get me to stop.

And from there on, the week proceeded normally. Monday came and school continued, teachers still assigning homework, and bitching when I came in an hour later. By Wednesday I had suffered enough of the shit, particularly after my first hour teacher threw a chalk eraser at me for sleeping. Overly, that I had been hit by a sixty year old lady with a chalk eraser and that I now had a nice amount of fucking chalk dust speckled through my black hair.

Needless to say, I skipped my second class for an escape to the bathroom. For thirty damn minutes that’s where I stayed, cursing the bitch to hell, and trying to clean my precious hair of the obnoxiously white spots. It wasn’t all coming out, not without taking a shower that is. And my school being as shitty as it was didn’t have anything I’d care to shower in. Thus my resolve was a tattered dark purple headband I found discarded in some lonely corner of my book sack. It was decent though; velvety with a few interesting ebony designs.

So that left me roaming the halls, spiting the teachers by not bothering to show for their classes. I wasn’t about to wonder the halls for long, though. While I knew the teachers were too damn lazy to get off of their asses, our principle rather enjoyed torturing students, particularly little girly gay students like me, and eating twinkies. Fat bastard.

But that was fine by me. I knew the school like the back of my hand; being somewhere for four goddamn years generally has that effect. There were a number of rooms that were never to be used and a number of teachers that wouldn’t mind harboring me.

Today though, with my book sack slung over one shoulder, I decided me and my art could use some solitude. That and I’m unwilling to show off my speckled hair, not even with the girly piece of clothe covering it. There is always the possibility there could be some other superficial way to fix it in my bag. That in mind, I make a bee-line for the first empty room, only to find it not unoccupied.

So, do imagine my surprise, when not only am I greeted with a non-empty room but with a giggle-boy that isn’t smiling. The room was dark, the lights didn’t work, and there were desks cluttering the room, but the streams of sunshine running past the blinds and bits of open space showed me enough to get a clear understanding of what was happening..

He was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, his back against what was obviously the teacher’s hard wooden desk, his cloths are a mess, his shirt barely buttoned and certainly not in the right holes, and one of his shoes was completely absent. What really caught my attention was what he was doing. I didn’t notice it at first, but when I did, it took me all of three seconds to get to him and jerk his hand away. I heard the smash of the shard of glass hitting the wall, and saw several small splinters come sliding across the linoleum floor.

In honest unshielded surprise he looked at me, eyes wide, and bluntly confused. It was only then I realized he was crying. It was hardly the same boy that had pulled my hair; he wasn’t smiling, his lips were swollen and broken, and bruises were scattered across his pale skin. My major concern was that he was bleeding, right now. The idiot had grabbed a piece of glass from the broken windows and had been intently sitting there slicing a nice clean line down his arm.

“You fucking idiot,” I muttered already grabbing the clean cut and applying pressure. He wasn’t just doing this to hurt himself; he was quite intending to die this time. The kid hadn’t left anything undone; he was in an isolated place where people weren’t supposed to go, he had set himself up in a place his body wouldn’t be found for days possibly weeks, and he had cut right along with the vein.

And I was completely torn at what I should do for a moment. The infirmary would turn this in... but... shit. Grabbing him I pulled him up to standing and then switched hands, so that I could place one hand on his waist deciding it would be easiest to usher him to the infirmary. My clothes were already bloodstained as it was, but holding his bleeding arm that close to me only proved to add more. My ash-colored shirt was turning a dark crimson.

I wasn’t thinking about that though, or that he could possibly have some disease or something else irrelevant to the fact he could bleed to death. Biting on my lip, unsure of how to deal with someone else trying to commit suicide, I pulled him towards the door. He resisted; his feet were semi-firmly planted and he was intent on not moving. He had either cut open a vein or had come amazingly close to it, and he was refusing my help. Something about that pissed me off.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

My voice was rising and there was a good deal of malice laced in the tone. My eyes were on him, and it was then I regretted my words, having to see him flinching and quickly lowering his own gaze, wet traces of tears still evident on his face as were sickening blue bruises. Even in such a bluntly submissive position, he replied in the same soft voice he had used just days before, “I would be sent to an asylum.”

That was a good enough reason, sure, but I wasn’t about to let him bleed to death. It wasn’t like I cared if he died or not... I honestly don’t know why I didn’t leave the instant I saw my space was occupied... I think, though, there are some laws about that sorta thing or something. I’d probably be labeled an accomplice in suicide or something stupid.

But he was already taking care of the situation, surprisingly. All the energy and all of the good decent concern I had showed had been wasted. So I let him. He had pried my hand from his bleeding arm and was busy stealing the headband that was covering black hair with chalk spots. Once he pulled the dark purple cloth off, I actually heard him laugh. I honestly bristled at what he found humorous; bleeding to death or not, I don’t want him laughing at my hair.

“It’s still pretty,” He quickly said, obviously catching the fact I took offense to his laughter. It was good to see him smiling again though.

  I snorted at him, sulking, but pulled the violet and ebony cloth from his red hands. Folding it appropriately before fixing it around his arm and tying it. It made me a little nervous; I needed to tie it tight so that a decent amount of pressure would be applied, but I probably shouldn’t tie it too tight and stop all blood circulation.

But he grinned when it was finished, lifting his hand and stretching his fingers in and out, before returning his attention to me. I didn’t know why he kept looking at me, but it made me uncomfortable. I chose to ignore him this time; I busied myself with setting my book sack on one of the desks and rummaging through it. The last day the kid and I met I had spent the last of my money buying two packs of cigarettes; one tattered but precious package was in my bag and I well-deserved one cig for my days good deed.

Once it was lit and in between my lips I turned my gaze back to the bruised kid, asking in a huff, “So what happen?”

He smiled, a small meaningless upwards pull of his lips, and answered my question without falter. “I was late for class and three guys stopped me in the halls. I didn’t have any money.”

In other words, all of this because of bullies. Looking at him though, it made me wonder just what all those bullies did. Was a beating really something enough to drive him to suicide? There was nothing I could do anyways, though, so I settled with another puff of hazy smoke.

It wasn’t reason enough; his parents obviously didn’t care for him, neither did the school bullies, but he was a kid. Things would get better. Me, though, things would only get worse. Me and my parents fight, everyone hates me, I’m failing school, my bestfrind and love of my life uses me, and I honestly have nothing to live for. By the end of the year my parents already told me that they were kicking me out, so I had every intention of being dead by then.

“I’m leaving,” I stated after a long, awkward pause. Cigarette firmly between my lips, I tossed my bag back over my shoulder and made for the door.

It was a quiet question, in a shy voice, but I heard it. “Can I come?”

That I had to think about. Like I said, I can’t stand anyone for more than five seconds. His five were up, but…  After a long drag of my cig, I took it between two fingers and glanced back to the kid. “I don’t see why you’d want to, but...” Letting my words trail off, I just shrugged, obviously uncaring if he came or if he didn’t.

It might have been a show of indifference on my part, but the kid looked happy with my decision; a bright smile was already treading across his lips. I rolled my eyes at his behavior, finally exiting the room with him behind me this time. And he followed me in silence, down the stairs and out the back entrance and through the student’s parking lot. The nameless brat heaved a sigh of obvious relief once we stepped foot on the sidewalk that was safely out of school grounds. Guessing he’s never skipped before.

I just ignored the boy’s innocence, casually flicking my still burning cigarette in some random direction… It would be interesting if it found someone’s hair to land in. But it didn’t. Instead it landed harmlessly in the middle of the road. Alas.

And so the walk to my house continued on in silence. Well, not completely but... That was only because several people muttered and gasped at me and him. I’m not sure if it was because of me or my bloody shirt or even if it was the kids state of dishevel but either way I was content. But anyways, there were no words between the kid and me, which honestly says something because it takes thirty, forty minutes to get to my little house.

Once we were there, things didn’t change much. I grabbed the key that was hidden behind one of the few plants on the porch, not quite caring the kid now knew how to get in my home, I opened the door for us both. I didn’t welcome him in or show him around, I just muttered something probably incoherent to him about this being the damnable house of hell. As always, my parents were both gone. Probably, with my mom at work and my father somewhere getting laid or stoned.

I kicked off my shoes and socks and watched as the kid did the same before making a quick stop to the kitchen. I savaged through the fridge for a moment, only leaving it once I’d found two canned sodas. I tossed one to the kid who just barely caught it and laughed sheepishly at the surprise. With that I grabbed a bag of Doritos and left the room, the kid following closely behind.

From there I made up the stairs to the safety of my room. Once we were both in I shut the door and locked it. No offense, but I didn’t trust my parents, home or not. Particularly my father.

My room however, wasn’t arranged for me to have company other than my lovers. There was one chair and that one went with the computer. Altogether my room was small and dark; a small shelf of books in one corner, a computer in the center against the wall, and the window to the other wall. A majority of my room was empty; just an expanse of blue carpet.

I didn’t much care though. I tossed my booksack to the ground, half-heartedly wondering what happened to the others bag. I didn’t have the decency to ask though; I figured it wasn’t any of my business. Considering that there was absolutely nothing in my room that would amuse him, I grabbed a notebook off of the self, or rather the sketch pad, and a box of colored pencils.

He was honestly content with that, the coke, and the Doritos. And so I went about contenting myself. I indulged myself in a long hot bath and emerged in only a pair of silver leather pants; I had a special friend to meet with tonight. Well at least, so said an ‘urgent’ text message left on my cell. Thus I was quick to return to my room, you know, the room that holds most all of my meager belongings. Shockingly enough, I was rather surprised to find the crazed youth still in my room, sitting on the floor, happily drawing. The can of soda was empty and lying beside him and the Doritos were long since forgotten for the sheer pleasure of art.

I paid him no attention and sat down on my bed and started reapplying my make up. First base, then blush, eye shadow and eyeliner, followed by lipstick, lipgloss, and any extras I felt the need of. Sparkles were for today. Glitter eye makeup.

It took a while for me to finally accept the art piece my face had become, and then I set my bag of makeup back in it’s drawer and recovered my brush from it’s place of solitude. Dried tangles were hell to brush, thus, while my hair was still damp I was brushing it. And not putting it in a braid. I was sick of the little waves. My hair needed to be straight.

Some time later, when I was just decidedly brushing my hair to be brushing it, as no tangles or snarls were left. I noticed the kid, still happily scribbling, blonde hair sticking in all angles, tangled and a mess. Horrible, naughty thoughts were invading my innocent mine and stealing it away. Aliens were attacking.

“You.” He looked up at me. “Get over here,” Alien me continued with a small smirk, motioning for him to sit on the floor in front of the bed. Aliens were so taking over my brain; why else would I be concerned or even vaguely interested in making his hair less of a jungle? Bleh. Perhaps this was Brian’s fault. That was the answer... he always had some odd effect on me.

 He smiled in his confusion, but crawled over to the designated point. From there I moved him with my hands, forcing him to look forward, away from me. I settled him between my legs, letting both of my leather clad legs dangle on either side of him. And I started to brush the tangles out of his hair.

I tried to be gentle, to not pull his hair, but it still pulled. And when I finished, I petted his hair for a moment. Enjoying this sense of closeness without question. There was no doubt, though we didn’t even know each other’s names there was still some bit of friendship... trust... in this twisted relationship.

Running my fingers through the honey colored tresses that were hardly as soft as they looked, I drew him up onto the bed with me, even while making a note to give him some conditioner or something. Similar to before, I placed him right between my spread legs and pressed my bare chest to his clothed back. I draped one arm casually over his shoulder, while the other hand was still busily playing with his untangled hair, while he kicked his legs back and forth childishly.

“How’s your arm?” I muttered, quietly realizing it had been hours since he had cut himself. Had he cut one of those arteries he would have been dead within minutes of it; obviously he hadn’t touched the precious things.

He bowed his head for a moment, looking at his hand curiously. “It’s fine, I guess.” I could hear him smile, honestly. Fingering at the violet bandanna wrapped around said wound, he questioned, “I don’t suppose you want this back?” 

I shook my head at the words, raising a brow at the cloth in question. “If you can get the blood out, I’m sure you’d look lovely in it. On that note, you need to take better care of your hair.”

He laughed at my words, but wiggled out of my grip, bouncing back to the sketchpad and colors. “I have to leave,” He said, gathering up the objects into his arms. A small smile still on his lips he returned to the comfortable closeness we had previously had. This time though, it was a fleeting closeness.

He kissed me.

It wasn’t anything romantic or passionate. Just a brief, simple, and meaningless meeting of his lips to my painted ones.

The could-be-kiss ended just as quickly as it began, with a chuckle from the boy. “I’m borrowing these! Thank you!” By the time the words were out, he was closing my door, leaving my house with my art supplies. Bastard. The soda can was still on my floor as were the Doritos. Bitch boy.

Being myself, the kiss really wasn’t all that much of a shocker. I was left to blink in a bit of confusion for a second, but that was a quickly ended moment. In good mood, I clicked my tongue, breathing out a chuckle, “So he is a fairy boy.”