Dedicated to The Second Coming.
Or that's what the sign hanging above seventeen year old Atem Yami's head said.
The teenager was promptly ignoring it, opting instead to twist his cigarette butt into the ground. He leaned against the wall directly beside the sign and closed his eyes.
Here he was a junior in high school and smoking all his troubles away. Atem pulled out his half-used box of smokes and lit himself another. He took a long drag, expelling the gas from his nostrils. His ruby eyes slide closed, relishing the addictive fumes on his tongue. Yeah, he was a fuck up. He had known it for a while. Did he care?
That's probably why he had gotten himself so screwed up to begin with. In all honesty, he had no reason to be the way he was. His life at home was anything but hard. Two married parents who loved each other, a nice house with two levels, a full refrigerator, and a neatly trimmed garden. He spat bitterly onto the hot cement and took a long draught from his beer. They were the perfect family. Atem almost crushed the flimsy tin can clutched in hand. Too bad they never saw each other. Yeah, wasn't it ironic?
He closed his eyes to fight back wave after wave of bitterness. Hell, he hadn't eaten dinner with his parents in two years. They worked overtime every night, only stopping in their busy schedule to make room for each other. Yet as glad as Atem was that his parents were still married and loved one another enough to keep their marriage going, he wondered if they could stop fucking each other like rabbits long enough to remember what their son looked like. He was lonely, and had been caring for himself ever since they moved from Egypt four years ago.
But he knew that wasn't the only cause for his steady decline. No, he hadn't actually minded being by him for the first three years, because up until then, Atem had a friend that he could confine in: Mahaad.
Mahaad had always helped Atem fight his loneliness by being his one true friend. Most people tended to stay away from the dark-haired youth because of his unusual looks. Strangely enough, he possessed completely blood red eyes, and that was what usually alienated most people. It wasn't normal to have even such a dangerous looking color in one's eyes; the light that reflected off of them seems to be swallowed in his dark orbs. He was an odd youth. Atem both knew and accepted this fact. He had also realized it was part of the reason his parents didn't see him more then a few seconds a day. He unnerved them. But for as long as he was alive, he didn't care what they thought of him. He always had Mahaad.
Atem's dark eyes narrowed as his suppressed agony for his friend re-surfaced. He closed them and kneaded his temples with his knuckles. He didn't want to remember that day. He tried not to, pushing the memory back to the farthest corner of his mind, using drugs and any other means necessary; but lately it had been treading to the surface.
It was a January and very cold. It had reminded Atem of the desert nights he had spent bundled up. Mahaad, also from Egypt only smiled and laughed at his friend's discomfort. The two were waiting for the bus, because Mahaad's car was in the shop. They had been running late that day and of course, Mahaad being the sensible one was the one to suggest riding the big Twinkie. Sometimes, Atem wondered what would have happened if he had insisted on walking.
Mahaad had been forcefully pushed into incoming traffic by some fool in a hurry. Time seemed to stand still for Atem as he watched his one and only friend tumble to his death. So when the first splatters of blood smeared across his face, it was a moment that would remain etched in his heart as long as he lived. Even now, with his dark eyes stinging with unshed tears, Atem could see Mahaad's shocked face. It was sad and resigned, as though he had known this was the way he would die. He seemed to say to Atem, 'Don't blame yourself'. But it was too late, he already did. With Mahaad's death, it all went down hill from there. It was one year later, and Atem couldn't see the end of his madness.
He crushed the tip of his cigarette into the ground. There was no use sucking on the cancer stick any longer if it was about to burn a hole in his fingers. Atem stood up fluidly and kicked aside the can of beer. The teenager watched idly as the amber liquid spilled out onto the pavement, a small hiss sounded with a thin stream of smoke that curled around his foot.
The roads were hot, not yet cooled from the setting sun. He was sixteen and already drowning his life in alcohol. He gave a bark of a laugh. What did he care? Things couldn't get much worse and if they did; Atem gladly welcomed the trouble.
The teenager took down the street at a trot; his hand rested on the butterfly knife strapped to his side. The knife was a friend that would never leave him, not willingly at least. His ruby eyes took in the rapidly darkening sky, by now the sun had set, for that Atem was grateful.
The worms of the world, yes even lower then himself, began to crawl out at this time and boy was Atem ever itching to step on a few. He continued to trek his way home, not even caring when he passed through hostile territory. As far as he was concerned, he was just walking down the streets he had been walking on for the last four years.
This was the same path he and Mahaad had walked together when the latter was alive; Atem had trouble letting go. He wasn't about to let some thugs scare him away. The gang members usually narrowed their eyes and scowled, but didn't do much else. Atem had earned himself a name in these parts, choosing not to join a gang but never taking orders from either side.
He was no man's lackey.
There was one of person though; who didn't share Atem's believe. It was just one person who wanted to be a part of the brainless, lackey gang. His name isn't important. The only thing that was important about him was that he wanted to join a particular gang that very day Atem was walking by him.
"Shoot him." Was the cold order, and the fool raised his gun obediently.
Admission into this particular gang was free and very simple: Kill the first person outside of the gang that you see. Today, that person was Atem. The boy, barely fourteen needed to kill someone he had never met in cold blood. His finger squeezed the trigger, and he was surprised at how easy it clicked back.
It might have been his steady decline of sanity that made him do it, Atem couldn't be sure, but he found himself oblivious to the feeling that spread through his leg.
I've been shot…He noted, almost blearily. It had been sudden and silent, barely even noticeable. His assailant must have been using a silencer.
Oh yes did it hurt like a mother fucker, but the wonderful thing about it was… He didn't care. He was sick of this life, and all the things that had been promised to him. He was through, and it didn't matter to him anymore.
He was sick of being lonely. It got old after a while. Atem was blissfully unattached, a smile creeping on his face for the first time in a year. It was so liberating, a feeling of euphoria stole through him.
The bullet didn't hurt him, because the teenager's mind was too far gone to feel the pain.
If this was not dieing felt like, hell he should have jumped in front of a train long ago. It was such a solid, joyous-feeling, he didn't even mind his life's liquid oozing out of the gash on his thigh. Normally, that would have been something that would severely irritate him, but now he didn't care.
The fight had long disappeared from his blood-like orbs.
He had finally came to grips with a thought that had been plaguing him from the moment his parents began to abandon him.
He didn't matter.
He was dispensable.
His parents would probably be overjoyed to find their only son dead. Of course, he imagined that they'd parade around for a bit with a shattered look on their face, just to keep up the image of 'the perfect' family. Maybe they'd go to church and lean on the shoulders of the ministry for a while. He mused, his calm smile widening.
Another shot seared through his chest, bringing along all the glorious, wonderful and deadening pain Atem craved. The bullet was lodged an inch beneath his heart. It was over. He crashed to the ground, as though boneless.
The injured teen was feeling very tired, having lost too much blood for him two injuries to keep himself conscious. So sliding coal eyes shut, perhaps for the last time, Atem Yami drifted off into a black slumber.
Part one of three! Yeah, I don't normally like any amount of angst, but hey... Believe me it doesn't last! This was an idea I had for a while and I'm glad I finally got a chance to write it down! This will be a bit darker then anything else I've written I guess. I know that Yami isn't quite this emotionally stretched out, but I decided to pick on Yami after I saw his 'Honor, my Anti-Drug' thing on Youtube. Don't worry, he'll bounce back :). This was unbetated, so please excuse my shamefull grammer and spelling... :(.
Dedicated to The Second Coming!
Read and Review! (By the way. My computer is about to melt down completely and I'll be moving soon, so once I have everything unpacked and fixed you can expect an update.)
(By the way. My computer is about to melt down completely and I'll be moving soon, so once I have everything unpacked and fixed you can expect an update.)