Most nights end like this

Wednesday Night

Climbing out the window, Reese is met by millions of stars shining across the street. A beautiful display glimmers over him. Under the moonlight, he scurries to the garage, dashing to not be seen or heard. He was a pro at this, he does it most nights. Opening the garage door with a slight creak, 'Dad really needs to oil it, I'm out here almost getting caught,' he thinks. His lighter flicks on to guide him around the room, behind Hal's toolbox, behind Malcolm's porn mags, it's his 6 pack. He carefully drops them into his backpack. Slowly closing the door behind him, he dashes for his bike. The sky paints a blue glaze over it. He jumps on and quickly speeds away. He's free.

Cycling down the street in awe, he looks to his surroundings; the streets are so beautiful at night. Reese always loved looking up at the sky; ever since he could remember, he found it magical, reminded that there's a whole world out there. Even during the daytime, he would secretly look out at the sky for hours. The clouds always amused him. Reese had a secret, he would call the clouds sky kittens, he felt so dorky when he said it to himself but he enjoyed that maybe one day he could tell someone about the real him; but as for now he's stuck in this town, where life is unfair.

A blue Mustang speeds down the road, heading out of town, 'One day,' he promised to himself. Bright lights blur his vision for a second as they adjust. It's part one of his nightly journey. He jumps off his bike, it was still moving and crashes with a loud thud, disturbing the peace of quiet suburbia. A beep sounded as he walked through the door, hit by the fresh air conditioner he closed his eyes and let it soak in, he would never get that at home. A jingle played over the radio throughout a mostly empty store. Only one employee was manning the cash registers. An old man brushed past Reese on his way out, newspaper in hand. Reese made a small scowl, he didn't like being touched. A middle-aged man stands at the counter, barely awake, a sad sight, honestly. 'A pack of Marblo red,' Reese asked confidently. Thudding it down on the counter, giving a fake smile, 'ID or no sale.' Reese patted down his back pocket, fishing it out of there, trying not to touch whatever else he had put down there. The man took it from him, grimacing the sticky liquid that had dried over it. 'OK Mr McCoy, when were you born?' Reese was considered to be an idiot by everyone he knew but he was smart enough to memorise his fake ID details. He used it for what felt like most nights now. '10.08.1973,' Reese placed the money on the counter with a smug look. The man threw the ID and Cigarettes at him. Reese walked out, putting the Cigarretes in his pocket.

The wheels of his bike make tracks on the road as he rides over puddles of spilled beer. Looking at a house with a party, its front lawn littered with popular teens hooking up. He slows down his riding, longingly looking at the guys confidently having fun and talking to people. 'Why can't I ever make friends like that?' He whispered to himself, but something in his head told him it was more than easily making friends that drew him the look at those boys. A tickle in his throat told him he was weak, and he felt disgusted with himself, 'why do I care so much, I can have fun by myself!' he tried his best to reassure himself. He took a left, trying not to look back at the party; out of sight but not out of mind, the vision of that party wound around and around in his head. 'Francis always had friends and parties, Dewey has friends, even Malcolm has his genius Krelboyne friends, and I have fuck all!' he whined to himself, the weakness that others made him feel was so hard to deal with. He let out a sigh as he passed from road to dirt. Following a slightly overgrown path. Crickets sing a soft sound to the tune of the rustling bushes.

'Ow, fucking hell!' A nettle hits Reese's calf, it's not the worst injury, by far, that he's ever gotten but fucking hell it did hurt. A bumpy journey down a forrest path takes him to his place, his spot. He sits down on a tree stump, squashing a few ants as he does. He overlooks a lake; the lake sits still and quiet, mirroring the sky with an array of stars, only to be corrupted by a rock throw by Reese. Cracking the can open, he downs the beer in a matter of seconds. He flicks the lighter on effortlessly, lighting his cigarette. Sweet ashes hit the back of his throat. 'Thats the good stuff,' he says loudly. It felt amazing to be able to talk out loud, to say whatever he wanted. He felt safe enough to shout everything into the wind. He liked to imagine that it carried away his problems.