The Summer.Mature

Teen Romance/Drama. Love, Pain, Betrayal, and a decision between life without the one you love, or the blissful novacaine that is death?
This is a work in progress guys, so bear with me if it seems a long time between chapters :)

Exams were over, and a strange feeling had pervaded the air for Brad’s year group. They had finally left Dellwater School behind them after 5 years of unbearable forced education, and were drifting along leisurely awaiting the start of college, and a new life. Summer beckoned to Brad and made him think; so many parties, so many hangovers, so many memories. But amidst this rave of short-term frivolity, a single thought stood more prominent than the rest – the one thing he did not want to have to face.

Brad was an unassuming young man, slight of build with short dark hair and dark, almost black even, eyes. People often whispered to one another of their fear of him, despite his skinny build. He would often laugh to himself when he’d chance to hear these verbalised thoughts – he knew he was feared, he wanted it that way. It was his way of surviving. Of burying his true self down in a deep dark pit of self-loathing. So every morning he’d get up, take a cold shower, spray on a face and paint on a smile – raising the razor-wire fence around himself. And so the day would begin; the endless barrage of harsh comments about anyone and everyone’s appearance, mocking those below him, slandering the few above, mixing it all in with false niceties to his ‘friends’. Because that’s what school social hierarchies are for, isn’t it? Bitching? But to Brad, it was much more than that; it was his sweet salvation in life to make people feel a fraction of the abhorrence he had for himself. Brad was good at that, very good, he held pride in the fact he was following in his mother’s cold, heartless footsteps, revelling in their shared ability to utterly destroy a person. Despite these ‘gifts’, he still despised his mother almost as much as himself. He hated her for making him. But he took this hatred and turned it into his fuel, fuel he used to maintain his grotesquely perfect coldness. Yet despite this cold, powerful mantle he donned, there was one thing, one minor flaw, in life that caused his facade to waver: Samuel Dean Smith, the boy with the Midas touch.

Brad did not like the way Sam affected him so profoundly. He made Brad’s words freeze in his throat, caused his heart to pound ferociously within his chest and heightened his senses. Brad could feel the very moment Sam entered the same room as him. It was as if the world entered slow motion, and everything about Sam went into high-definition. He could even taste Sam’s scent when he was nearby.

And that’s why Brad hated his final year of secondary education. He could, just about, accept the fact he was gay. But why, oh God why, did he have to be in love with the only friend he actually cared about?! It just wasn’t fair.

And yet Sam remained blissfully ignorant of Brad’s feelings because he could never manage to see past the mask Brad fought to keep raised around him. He couldn’t imagine that his best friend was constantly battling daemons on all sides within. He was oblivious to the pain he caused Brad, of the sleepless nights he caused.

In fact, that was the most maddening part for Brad, the tears he shed alone in the depths of night, the muted sobbing in the silent darkness – All for the mentally unconscious being that was Sam, with his Adonis-like physique, bubbling laugh and loveable nature. Everyone loved Sam, but none more so than Brad.  He knew he should remove Sam from his life, but he simply couldn’t bear to do it. It would be like taking a knife to his own chest and carving out his own heart. So he simply swallowed his instinct to turn tail and run, and tackled life head on, savouring the fleeting moments that made his heart melt, and coldly blazing through hose that made him want to tear his heart out from his body.

Life goes on, regardless of the players of the world’s stage.

Brad awoke, not to the sound of birdsong and the smell of flowers and mown grass, but to an empty house and the clinical coldness and impersonality of his bedroom. He saw clutter and dirt as weaknesses in human nature, sharp edges, black and white colour scheme and hard surfaces hiding any form of delicacy described his room, but defined his character. All forms of comfort were denied entrance to his chambers, as it was in his own life. Comfort creates debility in one’s very nature. As his gaze flitted coldly from edge, to surface, to black, to white, his intellect whirred backwards tracking the source of his sudden awakening, as a predator stalks its prey. Then it clicked, or rather, it beeped. His phone had emitted its usual singular beep to denote a text message. He reached across to his bedside table and grasped his phone delicately in his fingers, flicking it open sharply as he brought his arm around to view the message.


If the message had been from anyone else, they would have received a blunt reply involving many sharp objects being jabbed into multiple unmentionable places. However, it was Sam.

Brad lay in his bed contemplating his options. He could stay there, and thus avoid the pain associated with being with Sam. But the mere thought of missing being with Sam made his heart feel like it was shattering into a thousand pieces of burning glass. He had reached his decision.


Once his phone assured that Sam had received his text, Brad propelled himself out of his bed and padded over to his wardrobe, gathered his towels and showering paraphernalia then walked out of his room and headed down the corridor to the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he removed his boxers and stepped into the shower. Turning the tap to cold he turned the pressure on high. He recoiled, as usual, when the water hit him. Despite the shock to his system, he always started his showers like this. He forced himself to face the stabbing sensation of the cold water for a minute before rotating the tap to hot. Once the water reached a level he was satisfied with, he began his ritual of obsessive scrubbing.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower and slowly dried himself, careful not to catch his reflection in the mirror. His self-loathing did not limit itself to his personality and orientation. Once dry, he padded swiftly back to his room, turning on his hi-fi as he passed it. Panic! At The Disco began to pound out of the speakers mounted around his room. Within minutes he was dressed in a nondescript pair of shorts, white diesel t-shirt and black flip-flops. On his way past the bedside table he pocketed his keys, phone and lighter, then reaching into the drawer he pulled out his 20 deck of Lambert & Butler. Assured that the cellophane wrapper hadn’t been opened, he pocketed them.

As he left the room, after turning the hi-fi off, he remembered he needed his drink. He went to his wardrobe and collected his sports bag, inside of which there was the usual 15 crate of Stella Artois.

Closing his bedroom door, he stepped lightly down the stairs, pausing in the kitchen to check for post and any telephone messages. Once it was obvious that there was nothing there for him, he walked out of the family home, locking the door behind him.

Five minutes later, and Brad was outside Sam’s house. Brad had a strange feeling about today, something was out of place, and infuriatingly he was unable to place what it was.

The End

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