The Property Of: Neena Eellante | ✓ |

21. A secret of ours

I met the black haired kid again. Soren, that's his name. I would think up a code word for him but that would be childish— right?

I was well, I don't know if you want to know why I was walking the streets at  two in the morning. In the short; a particular boy's family came home early and he obviously didn't want to introduce the schools slut to his quiet family.

He pushed me into a bush. I don't blame him, my ass did get stuck in their doggy door. Let's just say, I've never had to sit in a bush for an hour until the family went to bed. The guy was meant to give me a ride home and I had to leave my phone at home because my parents have begun to track it (since the train incident.)

Anyways, Soren, he was sitting on the curve of a damp road as I walked home. I didn't know it was him until he called out my name as I scurried past not wanting trouble with anyone.

His face, lit by the moon, was stained with lines where tears had carved into his cheeks, his voice was clogged with emotion.

"You alright?" Soren had asked, his voice husky and dry from crying. He watched me carefully, refusing to wipe away the stained cheeks and stuffy nose — he didn't care or maybe he cared if I was okay more.

I had shrugged, the words leaving my mouth weren't with thought, "I'll be okay."

Soren Mckinin cradled a bottle to his lips, "I didn't ask if you'll be okay." He had swallowed hard and sniffed once, "I asked if you were okay now." 

For an unknown reasons, I sat next to boy in the early mornings and got drunk.

"Do you think I'm a slut?" I had whispered to him, the cold grass sweeping through my shirt as we lay on someone's neatly cut lawn.

"What does it matter what I think?" Soren said to glass bottle, "You are the one who has to live with who you are."

"I don't think I care." I had closed my eyes, feeling the coldness of tears slid down my cheeks. "Don't care if I live or not."

Soren Mckinin had taken my hand and held it in both of his hands before he pulled up the sleeve of his hoodie. Eyes still closed, he pushed my fingers against the harsh, thick lumps — lines of skin.

Scars.

"Open your eyes, Neena." And I had.

And I read the words that had freshly been writing with permanent pen over the thick scars on his arms.

'You are loved.'

He dropped my hand and fell back onto the grass next to my body as he closed his eyes before scoffing in amusement, "Yeah, that was my expression too."