Little teardrops fall from the dark overstuffed irate clouds that hang over head. Alone in a large empty unappealing room, lay an unconscious teenage boy. His face covered in pure white gauze and tubes, hiding unsightly cuts and bruises that now disfigure his almost perfect face.
His high cheek bones and strong jaw no longer dominant, the only feature left untouched by the disparaging gauze was his almost too large nose, that looked as if it had been broken one too many times.
He is alone, eyes peacefully closed, not noticing the chaotic world around him. Oblivious to the fact that there is no one there to talk to him even though they know he cannot hear them, no one to cry by his bed praying for him to open his deep green eyes. There are no friends, no family, no one to stand up for what he wants, or what's best for him.
A woman walks in, her stride strong and confidant. A look of deep and unchanging disgust and disappointment find their way across her petite features, bringing out her eyes that are untouched by the tragedy.
She thinks she knows him, his wants, his needs, his secrets, but she doesn't, not really. She doesn't know about the time in his woods behind the house, the time across the street at the neighbor's house, or the secret he keeps so dearly.
No she doesn't know him at all.
His high cheek bones and strong jaw no longer dominant, the only feature left untouched by the disparaging gauze was his almost too large nose, that looked as if it had been broken one too many times.
He is alone, eyes peacefully closed, not noticing the chaotic world around him. Oblivious to the fact that there is no one there to talk to him even though they know he cannot hear them, no one to cry by his bed praying for him to open his deep green eyes. There are no friends, no family, no one to stand up for what he wants, or what's best for him.
A woman walks in, her stride strong and confidant. A look of deep and unchanging disgust and disappointment find their way across her petite features, bringing out her eyes that are untouched by the tragedy.
She thinks she knows him, his wants, his needs, his secrets, but she doesn't, not really. She doesn't know about the time in his woods behind the house, the time across the street at the neighbor's house, or the secret he keeps so dearly.
No she doesn't know him at all.
