He straddled the roof peak and looked out over the neighborhood. Blocking the sound of the distant highway with music that pounded into his head, he screamed along with the lyrics he related with all too well. He cringed as tears wetted his cheeks, letting his salty soul sting the sunburn before he wiped them away. The moon shinned bright above his head; he wished it wasn't so bright. Pulling the blanket tighter around his body he closed his eyes to block the fluorescent light from his bedroom window. Lean too far to the left and he'd fall to his death, lean too far to the right and he'd meet the same end. No escape, just like his life. Looking up at the stars he thought how everyone was special to someone, he wished he was special to someone too. The trees that cast shadows on the lawn knew their path in life, such a simple path it was. The maple tree knew it was a maple and the oak knew it was an oak. But what am I, he wondered. He turned his music up louder in an attempt to blast every thought from his head. He leaned against the house and held his tears back, hiding them from no one but the ghosts of the evening. He moved forward slowly spreading his stomach across the peak and letting his arms and legs fall evenly on each side, imitating heart. Something caught his eye against the siding of the neighbor's house, the high beams of an approaching car. Scrambling, he through himself back inside his bedroom. Welcoming the tumble were faded walls with peeling posters and a bed that seemed too worn. Lying on the floor he pictured the moon that shinned too bright above his head, this wasn't where he belonged.

Hawthorne Heights still screamed the words that consoled his soul, and he began to sing along. His voice was strained and choked as he held back the tears, finally ceasing his singing when crying became inevitable. Rolling onto his side he watched the red light on his phone blink, willing someone to call, anyone to call. No ringing broke the dead of night, and he held his knees to his chest biting at his kneecaps as he cried harder. He longed for a hand to hold, someone to lie to his breaking heart, tell him he was all right. Tell him everything would be all right. He buried his face in his damp hands and whined. I low, mournful whine that formed deep in his chest and bubbled to the surface in despair. His hands were pulling at shaggy black hair now, making the top of his head sore as strands were unmercifully forced from his scalp. He threw his body apart, sprawling on the floor in a sudden burst of anger. His thin pale hand searched for an object in the dark, and grasped the forever-silent phone. Before letting out another rush of tears, he broke the antenna and threw I forcefully into the mirror across the room. His dark and shadowed reflection shattered as he stared at the mess he made, regretting. He looked at his wrists, regretting. Oh, he only wished to be loved, but to be loved, you must first love yourself. And he hated himself, oh, how he hated what grew inside his scarred body. His heart ached from the constant loneliness, and his ankles stung with cuts of desolation. His anger subsided as quickly as it had come and his mind slipped back into the numb state of depression in which it lived. This wasn't where he belonged.