Time. Truths. Hearts.

Let me hear you call my name.

Well, we meet again.

I'm Alexa, but you already know that. However, you might call me Lexi, which is cool. Like me, cool that is. I make my own friendship bracelets like it's my job. But it's not. I work at a seasonal restaurant. I have an iPhone and we all know that makes me superior or something. Oh yeah, I'm like 21 or something like that. I love photography and have a Nikon D60... which I don't use. What more could you want from me? Just read.

More than words.


You know you love me, too.
Layout is by Cia: (Blog | Acc)
Icons/banners are from: Stopthetime / Reviviscent respectively.
Links inspiration are from: Alissa. xoxo
The Boy (Not Finished)
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The boy was running in the field. The waist high grass danced in the wind and intertwined with his body. He cut his way through with his arms extended away from his body; he let his fingers run across the tips of the grass. His heart was pounding inside of his chest, threatening to explode. He kept holding on to the feeling of his feet beating on the soft ground, and let his body embrace the euphoria of the endorphins. He ran for a destination unseen, unknown to any others.

The boy stopped in the middle of the field. He breathed in the sweetly perfumed air and whispered his secrets to the gentle breeze. This was the one place he felt safe; where he felt like he belonged. His moments here were scarce to few, and he relished every second he could spend here in this magical place.

He danced around in the grass, and let it graze against his stomach as it reached beneath his shirt. He laughed when its magical fingers traced his belly button, and collapsed when the arms tangled around his feet. He let himself sink down into the tall grass, and bathed in the damp dirt.

He calmed his breathing and looked up at the blue sky. White clouds were scattered across the sky. He tried looking for familiar shapes, but they refused to form. He stared harder only to lose any image he could muster. He didn't let it bother him. Instead he let the warmth of the sun reach his body, trace his outline and then fill in his center.

He touched his face and felt the soft, smooth skin. He felt around until his fingers traced his lips. He let them dance along the full, silky skin. He brought his index finger up to his nose and traced the mound of cartilage around the holes and then up. He followed it up and over the bump that had formed long ago. He now ran four fingers along his brow, just above his thick blonde eyebrows. He brought his other hand up to his face and aligned it parallel to his other. He then dragged his hands down over his blue eyes that were shielded by his eyelids, then down his full cheeks and down until his neck, where he let both hands coincide.

He took a deep breath in and opened his eyes. The sun had disappeared behind a set of clouds now, and it didn't look like it would break back out. He felt as if the warmth had forever left him. He felt lonesome and weary. He got up from his bed in the grass, and looked around him. He made a three hundred and sixty degree turn in a painfully slow pace, taking in the absence of life, the thing that had vanished with the sun's light.

He walked back slowly in the direction that he came from. He felt as if he was drained, and he lacked a certain bounce in his step. The grayness of the light was settling in, and it took whatever was left of him with the strangled light of the yellow sun. His hands were held at his side, and his eyes held no meaning. He walked like a zombie, lost in his own worlds of thought.

He reached the end of the field, the beginning of his journey in more than half of the time it took him to get to the center of the field. He was starting to get upset that he had to go back. He didn't like the world he was forced to live in. If he could have his way, he would live in the world of yellow. He maneuvered his way through the thick woods, the solid line dividing his dream world with the one he lived in. The tall trees trapped the darkness around them, and gave a morbid life to the things growing out of the earth.

The boy shuddered as a cold shiver ran up his spine. The woods were a forbidden place, and he didn't enjoy being there. He felt the last bit of himself drift away in the darkness, like a candle being snuffed out from lack of oxygen.

When he reached the edge of the woods in his backyard, he looked about himself. There was no one in sight and he deemed it safe to return back to his house. The grass here was dull, and didn't raise more than an inch off of the ground. His house was an off pale blue. The shutters that lined the windows were a deep gray. Lacey white window curtains lined the house’s bottom windows, and solid white curtains lined the house’s second story windows.

The boy dragged his feet up to the back door, and pulled on the brass knob. He entered his kitchen; it was black and white from floor to ceiling. He scoped out the room, but his mother was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t concerned; he knew she was somewhere else in the house. He kicked his shoes off of his feet onto the black rug next to the door. He then proceeded through the house on his bare feet, receiving a chill from the coldness of the hard tile.

He walked into the dining room that branched off of the kitchen. Inside this room it was all dark wood. The table had four chairs lining it, two at the head and two on the sides. In the center was a vase with daisies; the centers were the only color throughout the whole room. A china cabinet stood in the corner with plates and crystal glasses that were saved for special occasions, but were never used. He noticed the mail on the corner of the end table by the half wall and opening to the living room. He walked over to the pile, and scanned the addresses to see if he had any mail; he didn’t.

He moved on to the living room. The TV was in the left corner of the room. It was on a wooden cabinet that had unread books and magazines inside of it. The knobs looked like worn down gold, but the boy knew that it wasn’t from use; his parents had it bought like that. The radiator cover was off-white, dusty and a little rusty. The lace curtains dripped off of the window and barely grazed the radiator. The gray rug beneath his feet felt scratchy, and he remembered when he was younger how he hated to play on the rug. A brown recliner chair was on the right center of the room, diagonal from the off gray, slightly blue three-seater couch. The shelf that ran along above the fireplace, left of the TV had family pictures lining it. They were in color, but it was dull to the boy. There was exposed brick on the left side of the wall near the opening to the computer room. The boy turned away from the room, and looked to the stairs less than ten feet away.

He walked towards them and started to ascend. The carpeted stairs made muffled creaking noises as he climbed. He hit the first platform and made the right turn to continue up to the second floor. When he reached the landing, he looked straightforward to the door to his room. It was white, and the knob was black from all the years of touching and using it. He quickly looked away down the short hallway. He saw his parents’ bedroom and felt a static sensation creeping out from his center. He quickly ran for his door and slammed it shut.

He leaned against the door, his hands balled into fists. He felt his finger nails bite at his palms, but didn’t stop until he felt the twinge of going too deep. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in and out slowly. As his breathing eased, he felt the static sensation dissipate. He opened his eyes and looked around his room. It wasn’t as vibrant as the field, but it did hold some color to it. The carpet was a rich navy blue, and his TV stand was a lightwood. His small television sat on top, and had a game station by it. He looked to the sliding closet, off white like his walls. Behind it were some of his clothes that he never wore, and other things that boys are supposed to have.

His comforter on his bed matched his carpet. He had a pale yellow, ratty baby blanket strewn across the top of it. He had two pillows resting there, and they both were white. The two windows on either wall had white, opaque window curtains that could be pulled across to block out some of the morning light. He usually kept them shut, trying to avoid the dismal outside world. He had a lamp on the wooden end table, and some old toy cars he used to play with when he was younger; he didn’t have the heart to get rid of them.

He sat down on his bed, and looked at the dresser that was filled with his clothes. He didn’t like his clothes; he thought that they were too bland. His mother always bought them for him, and he never went shopping with her. They were usually too baggy; he was skinny and very tall for his age. He flopped back onto his bed, making the springs groan under his weight. He sighed and closed his eyes; he fell asleep listening to his breathing.

He woke up to the sound of feet running up the stairs. They were familiar. Then suddenly his door crashed open and a little girl fell in. She had short blond hair that fell over her face, blocking it from him. Her pale arms pushed her up and off of the floor. She sat up Indian style on the floor. Her face was pale and it brought great contrast to the shockingly hazel eyes that sat perfectly on her face.

He smiled at his little cousin; she reminded him of the field. She was bright, she was fresh air, and she had everything in the world presented to her. He got up off of his bed, and even though he was only a year and a half older, he loomed over her like a big boy. He presented her his hand, and she happily accepted it.

When she grabbed it, she felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn’t a comforting feeling, and so when she was pulled up she yanked her hand away from him and rubbed it up against her pink and yellow dress. She tried to remove the yucky feeling from her. It had already leached onto her and settled somewhere deep inside of her. She was confused, and as she thought of it, it disappeared from her.

The boy smiled and turned on the television. They both sat down together; he was very close to her. She shuffled a little bit away, and grabbed a few action figures in the far corner. She set them up in between them, the guns facing him. She smiled and whispered “bang, bang” at him. He smiled and went back to watching television.

After about four hours, his little cousin had to leave. She waved goodbye to him in a cheerful manner, and then rushed down the stairs. He didn’t bother going downstairs and saying hello and goodbye to his aunt or uncle. He just went to watching television. He heard the family leave and he breathed a little bit easier. He hadn’t realized how much air he was holding in the whole time she was next to him. Something tightened within his chest, but he ignored it. He just focused on the television.

He was called down to dinner and he went down as soon as he was called. He didn’t like being late to dinner. His father got very mad at him if he did, and he learned that it was just better to appease his father and not anger him. He sat down next to his father and across from his mother. His father was sitting down when he came down. He noticed the can of Budweiser in front of his father’s plate. The boy found himself wondering how much he had had today. He looked into his father’s eyes and found the answer.

His mother came in and served them macaroni and Hamburger Helper. It was a basic dinner that she usually served; it was really all she knew how to cook. She filled his father’s plate, then his and then her own. She moved to sit down, but then remembered to ask if his father needed more beer. He grunted, which meant “no” and so she sat down and they all went upon eating. The boy grabbed his glass of milk in front of him, and thanked his mother for the meal she had made. He didn’t tell her he was sick and tired of it. That he wanted more.

It came to the end of dinner, and it was the boy’s job to do the dishes. He waited at the table patiently until his father finished with his third beer at dinner to take his plate. He knew what would happen if he took the plate too quickly. He asked his father and he put down his last empty can if he could take the plate. “Away with it boy,” the man said and shoved the plate towards his son. The boy turned to his mother and took her plate too, piling it up one on top of the other.

The plates weren’t sturdy in the way that the boy was holding them. As he trudged along, trying to make it to the sink, the plates toppled over a little too far. He saw it in slow motion. He watched as the middle plate slipped too far to the right; it sent both of the plates into the air. The top plate flipped over onto the opposite side, and the second plate followed on its side. They made a loud crashing sound as they hit the floor, and the boy cringed. He knew what would happen next.

His father stood up quickly and grabbed him by the shoulder, pinching his collarbone. The movement and pressure caused the boy to drop the last one in shock. It caused his father to grab on tighter. The boy braced himself; he knew what was next. His father whipped him around and brought an open hand across his face. The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t whine, and didn’t cry; it only would have made it worse.

The boy took it and forty-five minutes later had both the kitchen and he cleaned up. Only when he was upstairs in the bathroom did he allow himself to cry. It wasn’t fair, why did he have to be in this cruel world? He lay down in the shower, letting the hot water beat against his skin.

He went to bed around eleven that night, about an hour and a half later than he usually did. He lay curled up with his baby blanket with his thumb in his mouth. He wished the world away, tried to silently cry it away. Nothing worked, and he grew more and more upset. He finally concentrated on the field, but tonight it lost its vibrancy. It was less blue, less green. He was losing it slowly, and he could no longer imagine the soft whispering of the wind. He drifted off to sleep with a sense of loneliness.

His week went by, he went to school and he spent the rest of the week in silence. His mother walked on eggshells around him, and he avoided his father like the plague. He hid in his room, did his homework, and stayed upstairs for the most part. The bruise on his cheek faded by the end of the week, and his mother told him that they would be going to his aunt’s house for dinner that Saturday night. He was unhappy about it, but he couldn’t argue much about it.

He took a rather quick shower and got dressed in a red shirt with jean shorts that ended below his knees. He wore tube socks that pulled over his ankles and had a red line at the top of both. He wore Nike sneakers that were black and white. He looked at himself in the mirror and looked at his pale skin. He was never one to be tan, and he always looked like a ghost. His family members used to make that joke quite often.

His mother called him down around five o’clock, and he ran down the stairs. He brought his portable CD player with him with an Eminem CD inside. He put on his headphones as he followed his mother and father out of the house and towards the car. He sat behind the passenger seat in the back, and his father drove. He didn’t really listen to the music going through his ears, but paid more attention to the world outside of the car. The houses all looked the same, so did the cars. There were many different types of people walking the streets, but they all seemed the same. The people seemed to lack something sincere, something that brought life into their eyes.

The car pulled up to a big white house with a long driveway. There were four cars in the driveway, a red jeep, a green van, a green truck and a blue car. They all belonged to his aunt and uncle.

Goodbye.
Facebook Twitter Tumblr Email

Private/dead blogs are strike-through.