Promise?

Lyric wanted to know if today was a good day. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully. He wasn’t sure. Sometimes, he was more certain of it than others, even on the unsure days. He found himself contemplating it. It wasn’t a difficult task; it wasn’t. There were multiple ways to perform the job; if done correctly, they would have the same result. Lyric overthought the idea as he walked to school, the pouring rain soaking him down to his core. He tried his hardest to keep his earphones dry. He’d spent so long saving up the money to buy them and would refuse to let the rain destroy the one good thing he had in his life. He hummed along to the music, which blessed his ears. "Oh, love, how I miss you every day when I see you on those streets. Oh, love, tell me there's a river I can swim to bring you back to me. Because I don't know how to love someone else." Lyric wanted to know if it was weird to desire a love like that. A love where you could rely on one another and love each other without a care in the world. To feel loved and wanted. To be someone’s first choice without thinking about it because they loved you so much. To wake up to their face every morning and be content with each other. The destination was the bathroom, near the side entrance he had entered through. Lyric kept his head down as he slipped into the room. He opened the door stalls, making sure they were empty, and once he realised they were, a sigh of relief escaped his mouth. He went to the mirror, pulling his brown contact lenses out of their case. He slipped them in, giving his eyes a few minutes to stop watering and adjusting. Since it was pouring down, he didn’t want to get rain into his eyes. Not when he liked looking up, feeling the rain on his face. Lyric paused as he looked at his reflection. He didn’t hate what he saw but didn’t quite like it. He had simple brown hair and odd-coloured eyes, hence the brown lenses. He pulled his eyes away from the mirror, shrugging off his wet coat and shoving it into his backpack. He would cry about the soggy notebooks another time. He kept his main notebook inside a small ziplock bag. He protected it with his life. The bell went especially loud in the bathroom, causing Lyric to jump slightly. He contemplated whether or not he should go to his class. After wandering a little, skillfully avoiding the teachers, he arrived at his lesson a little late. “Mr Holloway, you’re late.” Lyric wondered what his mouth would do today. Stay shut or comment sarcastically at Mr. Dexter, a tall, middle-aged man with a raggedy beard and a ridiculous sense of fashion. “Clearly. And if you must know why before you ask, I’ll tell you, I was screwing your sister,” he deadpanned. Ah, so neither quiet nor sarcasm, but an asshole’s reply. Mr Dexter didn’t say anything but glared as Lyric sat beside the girl with ever-changing eyes. Everyone claimed to have never seen her actual eye colour. Some said her natural eyes were blood red, which Lyric found ridiculous. But today, her eyes were blood red, reminding Lyric of Satan. “Clearly,” Claire whispered once Mr. Dexter began teaching again. “You’re in asshole mode.” Lyric ignored her, taking out his notebook and leaving the ziplock in his bag. He opened to a fresh page and began drawing some messy mushrooms. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to remove them. Writing and drawing helped calm Lyric down. It enabled him to release everything he was bottling up inside. Many days, he’d wake up and feel nothing. On other days, he would feel as if he was drowning with the number of emotions he felt, Lyric and Claire weren’t friends. Well, Lyric didn’t consider her his friend. She was the type of girl who talked to everyone, was friendly with everyone, an extrovert. Despite who her friends were. According to the entire student body, Lyrics had three modes. The names of said modes were self-explanatory. There was quiet mode, everyone’s favour sarcastic mode and asshole mode. Fun fact: Asshole mode was when he got beat up the most. However, due to these modes, Lyric had approximately zero friends. No one could tolerate his modes; hell, not even his mother could. It would explain the bruises on his neck when people strangled him or the cigarette burns, maybe even the cuts and scars because they thought it would be fun to watch him bleed. Oh, don’t worry. She wasn’t abusive. Her boyfriends were, but she did nothing to stop them. And since today was asshole mode, boyfriend 23 had strangled him, which he was trying to cover with a turtleneck. Teachers and students both had seen the bruises, but no one helped. So, in a way, Lyric had given up. Every day was a stupid day. He had nothing to look forward to. He’d wake up to wonder when he could return to sleep. Lyric looked down at his page; he’d drawn a variety of mushrooms. He also scribbled a quote from ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’ to be more exact, and said, ‘You will always be fond of me; I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.’ And he hoped the day would go by without much of a problem. ~*~