If he could have just tried harder to be one of the boys, he wouldn't be in this mess. If he had made more of an effort to fit in, to avoid standing out -
Blaine thumbed over the roughness of the scrapes on his knuckles, on his knees. He liked sports well enough, and he looked fairly masculine. He didn't have a lisp or anything. It would have been easy. He had had most of them fooled, until that stupid notion of bringing a boy to a dance had kicked him in the head and consumed all his thoughts. Took his breath away with the simplicity of it. Him, with a good-looking date at a dance. As if it would have been normal. As if it would have been easy.
He clicked open the smooth plastic compact of his mother's concealer, pressed his finger into the powder. He dusted it onto his forehead up near his hairline, into the groove under his eye, layer upon layer of it over the blue and purple, until there was almost nothing but his mother's skin tone.
He felt like he ached everywhere, his joints, the bruises on his ribs, headaches all the time. He felt like it was taking forever, waiting to heal. He put the compact back on the dresser, left the room, and closed the door. It wouldn't have been like this, if he could have just tried harder to be one of the boys.
--
Prompts: "One day, you will all work for me." "God. Roxy music makes me want to build a time machine just so I can go back to the ’70s and give Brian Ferry a high five." "Where do you see yourself in the year 2030?" "Jail. Or dead. Or both."
One of the Boys (Blue and Purple)
Blaine thumbed over the roughness of the scrapes on his knuckles, on his knees. He liked sports well enough, and he looked fairly masculine. He didn't have a lisp or anything. It would have been easy. He had had most of them fooled, until that stupid notion of bringing a boy to a dance had kicked him in the head and consumed all his thoughts. Took his breath away with the simplicity of it. Him, with a good-looking date at a dance. As if it would have been normal. As if it would have been easy.
He clicked open the smooth plastic compact of his mother's concealer, pressed his finger into the powder. He dusted it onto his forehead up near his hairline, into the groove under his eye, layer upon layer of it over the blue and purple, until there was almost nothing but his mother's skin tone.
He felt like he ached everywhere, his joints, the bruises on his ribs, headaches all the time. He felt like it was taking forever, waiting to heal. He put the compact back on the dresser, left the room, and closed the door. It wouldn't have been like this, if he could have just tried harder to be one of the boys.
--
Prompts:
"One day, you will all work for me."
"God. Roxy music makes me want to build a time machine just so I can go back to the ’70s and give Brian Ferry a high five."
"Where do you see yourself in the year 2030?" "Jail. Or dead. Or both."