FicWad

This chapters a bit longer ^^ sorry if these aren't that exciting, i'm just sort of developing currently c: R&R for more? c:

My room was silent.

I go to bed earlier than everyone else. Mikey should go to bed before I do, but his stamina is longer than mine because of the hyperactivity that comes with his age. He usually appears just after and crawls in beside me – then, Brendon appears, and finally, George, who sometimes slips into Brendon’s bed and curls up beside him.

Tonight George appeared soon after I was tucked under my sheets – except I wasn’t, really – I had my sketchbooks, and pens, and pencils, and a flickery torch which I had had since my father gifted it to me.

George stood in the middle of the room. He was angry.

He was breathing fast and his fists were clenched, plus, he was burning little holes in the furniture with his eyes, which were in flames. Unsure of whether I should get involved or pretend that I was spontaneously asleep with a torch in my mouth, I proceeded to question him.

I dropped the torch from my mouth first.

“George, are you okay?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound gentle and caring, when in actual fact, I really didn’t care much at all. George shook his head, flicking his dark hair about and into his eyes. I think he needed a haircut. “Why are you not okay?” I persisted.

George sniffed and looked up at me with round, tear filled eyes, which I wasn’t expecting. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, none that were audible, or comprehendable, anyhow. He blinked at me.

“George?” I repeated. His nostrils flared like my father’s did when he was angry, and his eyes combusted a little more.

“Don’t you dare call me George anymore,” He hissed. “My name is not George.” He insisted, tears spilling profusely down his milky cheeks.

“Why?”

“I’m not telling you,” The now unnameless boy sobbed. “You’ll think me stupid, and I am not stupid. You’ll probably tell everyone!” He snarled. He was trying his best to be horrible to me, but there was no venom in his voice; he looked as though he was too tired for that. And, of course, he was wrong. I didn’t talk to anyone, unless they spoke to me, and I was even less inclined to go about sharing secrets. Sharing secrets wasn’t right; I knew that.

“No I won’t.” I replied, trying not to appear sarcastic and to ridicule him of his mistakes and assumptions about me, even if they were drastically wrong.

“You won’t?” He sniffled, gazing up at me like a little child, a littler child than he already was. I forgot that I was ten now – my birthday was the day after the accident and I had spent it in bed, letting Mikey sob on me – so in my head I preferred not to count it as a milestone.

I shook my head in response and he sniffled, and calmed himself down, nodding inwardly at himself. He walked a little closer to my bed, and sat down on Brendon’s, which was beside mine.

“Did you like your daddy?” He asked, innocently. I pondered the question – yes, I liked my father. He was odd but so was I, and I prided myself on the fact that we were alike. I nodded.

“I don’t like mine.” He sniffled, wiping his large, hazel eyes. I didn’t bother asking why; I assumed this prequestioning was just a starter for his explanation, like in those movies Mommy would watch, where she’d sing along and mouth along the words because she knew every single line. “My daddy is very mean to me.”

I nodded to show him I was listening.

“My daddy used to come home all silly. He’d drink a lot of this stuff and he’d get silly.”
I had literally no idea what the boy was talking about at this point and frankly I don’t think he did either.

“Sometimes he’d get angry at me and he’d hit me.”

Ah.

“And he was just at the home a second ago.”

Go on, go on.

“And he was trying to take me home!”

I wasn’t even saying anything in response. Every little tilt of my head spurred another cry from his lips.

“But I refused and he hit me again, and now I will not be called George!”

I raised an eyebrow.

“He’s called George too..!”

I raised the other one.

“..You can call me Ryan now.”

Ryan seemed to calm down at this point and after staying silent, he crept onto my bed, cuddling his small frame beside me, as if I were Brendon. I don’t know why he told me all this, instead of Brendon; He was his best friend, after all.

“Does this mean that we’re friends?” Ryan asked, quietly. I took the opportinuty as it landed; I wasn’t good at making friends and by the tone of Ryan’s voice it sounded as though he wanted to be.

“Yes, yes, we’re friends,” I reassured him, patting him lightly on the shoulder. He sighed almost satisfied and nodded, climbing up from my side as Brendon danced into the room (not literally, may I add, but it was pretty close to that.)

Ryan clambered into his own bed but as soon as I was under the covers of my own, Mikey securely beside me, I heard the patter of his footsteps as he crawled into Brendon’s and snuggled in beside him.

I think during the night I might have even heard Ryan tell Brendon the whole story.

Brendon was a lot more comforting than I was.

But I think he just likes him better.