Ventures into the Unknown | 𝑩𝑳

A brief whiff of nostalgia hit his nose, spraying venom on his already shabby thinking, he was now wondering if what he was doing was the right thing. Would it be bad? Would it be good? Would it even be worth the bother? But that didn’t matter after all, he had to get rid of his fears.

A cup of crude tea sat on the desk, calling him in to take a sip… although he was focused on lining with black ink, contouring his almond shaped eyes even more. The lines, painted with such dexterity, they felt confident and they were straight and pointy. His fingers longed for the mug, he finally took a sip out of the tea. Despite its warmth and despite its taste, it was rather awful for his taste buds... A bitter aroma jolted his tongue so bad that his face wrinkled all over.

“Val, are you sure you put sugar in the tea!?” he wanted to shout, but he was home alone and he was the one who made the tea.

He forgot the sugar. Such an elementary piece in a simple, yet healing, drink couldn’t be forgotten that easily. Unless some madman brewed it, but not even then they’d forget the white, textured cube. Or was it brown? As healing as it may be, an always welcomed pekoe must rest on each man’s desk with sucrose next to the ceramic. But it couldn’t heal him, not a single drop felt like it was helping him make a slight progress in his life.

Raspy murmurs echoed in the room as the mug was put back on the desk. Outside was supposed to be windy today, the news on the TV said so.

The aggressive blast made the tree branches hit the window. It was a bad weather day, but it would be a shame if he wouldn’t go somewhere. He had quite the energy for such a tall man like him — men his height are more sulky, always reading those goddamn newspapers. A statement one must do, men his height aren’t usually his age.

He leaned on the desk, searching for the news replay. Slight taps on the screen from overgrown nails. The nails were well taken care of, filed and topped with a blue nail polish.

He quickly popped a gum inside his mouth, chewing it. His hand had a few lighter spots spattered, big, aimless shapes sat on his fingers. A beauty so rare as his skin was marked by a disease that he hardly had the will to hide — he always thought to himself that natural beauty was the best beauty there could ever be.

The clock ticked. Already running late, the youngster grasped his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. Beige, with black buttons and a lot of memoirs tied to it. It was just a piece of cloth that had a lot of dreams stabbed inside it like pins into a backpack.

“Val, I’m leaving!” he wanted to shout again, but there was no one else at home. His sister was having a sleepover. Unlike him, she didn’t have any skin disease that could “make anyone sick”, thus she had friends.

A sudden breeze hit his skin; his limbs began to tremble as he walked with a slow pace. His arms snaked around his own body.

Although he couldn’t help but stare at the sky sometimes. A sky so brightly lit by stars could only hand him an uneasy feeling, it was beautiful. Not his cup of tea. The sky was almost smiling, luring more and more people to the heavens of the glooms. It wasn’t raining, no. It was just cold…

The shoes clacked, cars passing by only fed the frosty feeling.

He was also fed up by the lies he himself tells. He was a liar to himself. Depicted deceits sprouted in his mind each time he even dared to think of himself, he despised the idea of speaking about how his day has been. Especially to those neighbours who get too much in his personal life; he never had friends, just acquaintances. And his acquaintances could almost greet him while they pass by each other on the streets, but they never do it properly. He does greet them as well… “Hello, how are you, Mr. Cooper?” he could only chuckle at the voices, faint and barely heard.

Soon enough, he reached the club. The bombing sounds bothered him — they weren’t as peaceful and quiet as he might’ve liked. Adoring the loneliness and embracing the stillness of everything around him, the youngster could only fish deeper for stiff environments. Like the pharmacy he works at.

He stepped between the entrance’s walls, a vexatious and quiet mumble from his throat when he had to show his ID. Everyone around that club knew him; he was oftentimes lurking the corners of the lounge, drinking sly wine from a specific glass with angels painted on it. He didn’t bother anyone, but everyone bothered him.

“You can get in, Reggie,” the man smiled at him, handing him the ID.

He grasped his ID, checking it himself as he entered the club; trembling. His birthday, April 23rd. A cursed day. A day so special for his sister, yet so detestable for him… The day that he was born was a tragedy.

His imperfections were a thing to be afraid of, people are scared of touching him, hugging him, helping him. They’re afraid of soothing his distant, yet embracing, fears. A river of opportunities cannot flow in his life and its salvation can’t reach deep within his bones, can’t feel his purity. Always hidden from everyone, in the sparking hopes of not creeping them out.

He doesn’t usually venture in the unknown… The unknown, a lake of anxiety and uneasy feeling. Fleeting lights in his soul, embedded deep within, like the stars from the sky.

As he advances more to the bar, the song changes. A slow, classic song — most likely played by Beethoven. The villagers around this area had quite the strange taste when it came to songs. They’ve always loved classics and enjoyed their time reading… not on Reggie’s taste.

He came closer to the bar. Or at least he tried to…

A big, gentle hand snatched his waist, pulling him closer to a man. His cheeks flushed pink, the man smiled at him — a friendly and gentle smile sat on his face. But he only wanted to wipe the man’s smile off his face, hating their brief interaction. His heartbeat raised, his body was a mess.

He was moving his body with the man who seemed so concentrated over the song rather than his dance partner. He pulled Reggie closer; that’s when Reggie even got the chance to clearly see him.

White hair, most likely dyed… Very curly, curlier than his, a wide nose, piercings and pouty lips. He wasn’t wearing anything but a tank top, baggy pants and a hoodie tied around his waist. His skin was dark, dark like a fine chocolate. Surprisingly, he wasn’t deadly afraid of Reggie and his vitiligo.

It seemed to be quite the opposite.

The man had a necklace around his neck. “Cade”. He didn’t know if that was his name, or if it was just his partner’s. Alas, he was only enjoying his awkwardness.

Even if he was awkward, he felt sucked in the dance even more by the man and the stiffness dispelled rapidly.

His thoughts were like a jungle of hope as they continued their slow and gentle movements. The man was softly rubbing his left side and hand with his thumb and palm. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped — he most likely thought it was a nice moment and didn’t want to ruin it.

Reggie was forcing himself to dance. Usually, fears get the best of him and he runs away, but the man had something that attached him to it; a strong sense of deja vu.

But the song was over. The pest should be over, right?

The man finally spoke. His voice, a melodic tune that could charm anyone.

“Can I have your phone number?” his head tilted and he already was searching through his pockets for his phone.

It didn’t have to end like this.. not for Reggie. But he got his courage and nodded. A simple nod sparkled the man’s eyes with hope and he pulled his phone out, handing it to the youngster.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Reggie, that’s my name,” he stuttered, giving the phone back to the man.

“I’m Cade. Cade Nelson, I suppose… my dad was a priest around here.” He stuck his hand out, as a greeting.

Reluctantly, Reggie shook hands with Cade. After they stopped, Cade only said goodbye and walked away, leaving Reggie alone on the rink.

Reggie also left. And, back at home, he was helplessly resting in the bed. He was hugging a pillow, changed in comfortable clothes; just a pair of pink sweatpants and a white tank top with thin straps. Him and his sister couldn’t afford new clothes because of the rent and food they had to eat, always sharing almost every piece of cloth.

He picked up the pillow he was hugging, screaming in it. As soon as he did, the door flung open. He put the pillow aside and raised his torso. It was his sister.

“God, Reggie! Don’t yell like that, some of us have school tomorrow!” she roared, but he only laughed. “Don’t laugh, you also have work. Now stop fangirling over silly 2D boys and go sleep!”

But he didn’t want to stop the argument there. He opened his mouth to speak.