u/Livin_deadboy

I’ve been on and off working on a story for a while now. For context I started when I was fourteen and I’m sixteen now, I took a very long break from pretty much anything art related. But I’ve recently gotten my life back in order and I've been writing again. I’m debating if I should just take the parts I like and use them in another story and scrap it or if I should continue. Since I started it so long ago I feel like the base of it might be too juvenile if that makes sense. It feels pretty weak and clunky at points and the overall tone isn’t fully there. I think there’s a lot of fat that can be trimmed off to actually get to the meat of it, but I’m just wondering if that meat is any good in the first place. Any critiques would be appreciated! Here’s the link to the full story if you’d like to read it, https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hsHwfApA0X3KqrXj6eLSAYIZLfTIGEM_/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=103430079360288535961&rtpof=true&sd=true

Daylight filters in through the leaves, painting his face in a new light. His normally dirt brown hair painted in sun streaked highlights, the soft summer light making me notice the gold flecks in his eyes. There's this sort of spark in them, something restless and itching to crawl its way out of his chest like a secret. Clay’s nose is slightly crooked and he’s slouchy but coiled like he's ready to bolt at any moment. His knuckles are bruised and bleeding through the bandaids I gave him. I turn my head since I've been looking for too long, Clay would have cussed me out at best if he knew I'd been staring. He’s more handsome than he ever gives himself credit for, but I'd never tell him that. The sound of footsteps, cicadas, and the occasional yipping coyote were the only noise for an eerily long while. He’s never this quiet. 

“Do you think I'm a bad person?” There was something to Clay’s voice, like he was expecting an answer. 

“I don't know. Shit, you've done bad things but you're not horrible.” 

He just sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets with more force than necessary. His gaze turned downward like he couldn't look at me. “Thanks, but you don't have to lie. I'm failing most my classes but I'm not that stupid.” he chuckles, but it's more of a dry, harsh, humorless sound. “You saw what happened at the train tracks, you don't have to pretend.”

I want to tell him he's wrong, I want to tell him he can change. But I know better than to lie to him. And I know better than to try to force people to change, nobody changes unless they want to. Especially not now. Oh god. Not after what happened. It's like the sunlight is melting away my numbness and it's just starting to claw at my insides. We're done. Dead. oh god.

“We should probably skip town, right? Like, leave for a few days or somethin’.” I say, my voice growing more frantic with each syllable. I'm trying to stay calm but all I can think of is my mothers face when she sees my name in the paper. My palms are starting to get sweaty and my legs feel weaker with each step. A bubbling nausea fills my stomach as my eyes burn with hot tears, not yet spilling from my eyes.

Clay stops in his tracks, grabbing my shoulder and looking serious for once in all his sixteen years of life. He starts talking to me like I'm a nervous dog at high bite risk, his voice all calm and careful.  “Jules, calm the hell down. It's fine, we're fine, everything will be fine. Just… breathe.” For once his touch is gentle before he sees the tears welling up in my eyes. He pulls away his hand like he’s been burned. His smile shifts to a sneer faster than I thought possible.  “Are you seriously crying right now? Jesus Christ, you’re not even the one who-”

“I still saw it, man, still heard it, still…” I tilt my head down as I wipe at the tears I'm desperately trying to stop. “I'm in this as much as you are.” 

Clay chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, his hand hovering over my shoulder before it drops back to his side. “Yeah. You are.” he says with an air of finality. “Stop being a crybaby and walk.”

Clay and I walk for what feels like hours, guilty thoughts rattling around in my head like a grogger. It's probably showing on my face too, I've never been real good at hiding my emotions. Not like Clay can. I feel like I'm losing my mind here and Clay is all cold with a detachment so thick it's almost clinical. Like I'm some sort of germ he's observing under a microscope. I don't ask where we're going and everything feels blurry. It's one foot in front of the other, walking and walking and walking until I’m surprised my legs don't give out under me. The road stretches out before us, cement slowly shifting to gravel. And gravel shifting to dirt and finally grass. Trees seem to close in on us, rusted up old farm vehicles, junk and scrap litter the grass like ash after a bonfire. An old barn seems to appear out of nothing. It looks at least three times my age and has been hit by more than a few storms. Broken windows, busted doors, and the paint that's somehow still clinging to it has been washed out so bad I can barely tell that it used to be red. I'm halfway sure I'm dreaming. I'm really in my bed and everything is fine, that all that had happened at the train tracks was just a nightmare. 

Clay snaps in my face, his eyes narrowed and lip curled up in what seems like disgust. “Jules, what's wrong with you?”

“I think I'm sick or somethin’, but maybe I'm just tired, I don't know.” 

Clay’s eyes narrow, clearly not buying it. But he doesn't comment on my bullshit either. “Yeah, well… I need you here. We have shit to do and you can't be sick and whiny for it.”

I nod, eyes drifting to the grass beneath my feet. He didn't call me out for my lie. He’d usually be the first person to tell me I’m bullshiting when we're alone like this. Maybe he wants to believe it too.