╔══《"Spend your time on》══╗
someone else's sinking ship"

       Corbin held the lifeless body of a bird in the palm of his right hand. He had watched the creature fall from the sky, dying a commiserable death. While staring at the still body, the teenager found that he lacked neither contrition nor sympathy for the pathetic creature.

       It had died, doing the one thing it was born to do. How mundane. With a scoff, Corbin placed the body back down on the pavement gently before trekking back to his front door. Dirtied chucks met the crunched gravel pavement of his walkway. Up the steps, across the porch, and into the house. 17 steps. He counted off.

       Silence greeted him as he slowly closed the front door behind him. The house was spotless. Corbin knew he couldn't dare make a mess. Beside the white staircase, sat a white table; with framed images covering the surface. Family portraits meant to fool anybody who looked twice.

       In the middle of the table rested three candlesticks, standing tall. Corbin ran his finger over one, letting the wax residue adhere to his skin. The pale underside of his hand matched the blandness of his house.

       Treading on the cold tile floor, Corbin followed the hallway to the kitchen. The kitchen was even more chilling than the foyer. The cabinets were unused, and the fridge lay near empty, the bare bones of what it once was.

       Three more candlesticks adorned the kitchen island. In fact, if one were to look around the house, they would notice candlesticks in every room. An odd choice of decoration.

       After passing through the kitchen, Corbin reached his destination: the living room. Here, the couch was soft and comforting due to years of being worn in. On the floor by the ottoman sat his overflowing backpack. The stress of the day's school work slowly crept into Corbin's consciousness.

       Groaning, he sluggishly walked over to the foot of the couch, and flopped down. Knowing his grades were the one thing he had going for himself, Corbin forced himself to retrieve the papers. Chemistry, algebra, and English. He rattled off in his head as he pulled the folders out of his backpack.

       Not only did he have to read 2 chapters of the book assigned in English class, he also had to complete packets worth of stoichiometry problems and polynomial functions. With a heavy sigh, Corbin fished a half broken, dull pencil with no eraser left, out of the bottom of his torn up book-bag. He peered at the hole in the bottom of the fabric, and the broken zipper that only closes half way.

       The navy blue polyester of the bag matched the color of Corbin's sweatshirt. The tattered hoodie had fraying seams, and stains on the sleeves. Regardless, he tugged the material closer to his body and flipped the hood up. In the security of the sweatshirt, he focused his attention on his lap.

       This homework isn't gonna finish itself. Already over it, Corbin forced his hand to move, and his consciousness to think. The pandemonium of his mind had to be carefully sifted through in an attempt to find a train of thought tangible enough to be applied to his homework. The process took two times longer than the average person, but regardless, he painstakingly worked.

       His neck ached, and his back was stiff from the upright position. Yet, he continued without a complaint. He chipped away at each homework problem. Calculation after calculation, line after line, paragraph after paragraph.

       By the time he put his folders back in his backpack, the sun had begun its slow descent under the horizon. Orange was the sky through the large windows across from Corbin. Mesmerized with the sight, he watched in calm fascination. Propping his rigid feet on the stool in front of him, he rested his eyes contently.

       Bang! The sound of a slamming door jolted Corbin up. Instantly, he flung up from his horizontal position on the couch. Standing straight, he attempted to regain composure after the sudden jump-scare. Holding his breath, Corbin pushed himself to listen closely. Silence. Deafening silence. For thirty seconds, no sound followed the slam.

       All of a sudden the distinct sound of clicking heels on hardwood floors began to echo throughout the near-empty house. The sound reverberated, and Corbin listened as it got louder and louder. He heard the clinking reach the hallway, then the kitchen, then it stopped.

       He knew if he turned around, Corbin would see her. The hair on his neck stood up straight, as if the follicles were coated in static electricity. Goosebumps cascaded down his arms and over his legs. The thick hoodie and sweatpants he wore increased the quantity of sweat settling on his slick skin.

       His hands were clammy as he grasped them together in a futile attempt to conceal the tremor that resided in them. Not having time to even consider whether he should turn around or not, his mother called out to him. "Corbin?" Paralyzed, Corbin froze at the voice.

       She clacked her way over until the young woman stood in front of the couch; in front of her son. Her gaze was cold, and her hair was short–the pitch black and shiny strands falling at her shoulders. Her body was cast in a peach hue from the window behind her. She looked almost beautiful, if it wasn't for the scowl on her face.

       Aggressively, she grinned at her son before reaching out and grabbing his hand swiftly. Before Corbin had the time to flinch away and evade her grip, his body was knocked off balance as his mother pulled him forward.

       Regaining his footing, Corbin had no choice but to let his mom have control. Going limp, his mother instantly used the opportunity to force his hand in front of her eyes.

       In silence, she examined his knuckles. They were white–matching the color of his mothers skin. Turning his hand over, she looked over his palms. Slowly, she traced the lines as if she were reading his fortune; as if they had the secrets to the world. She was gentle, and Corbin felt his nerves spike with every brush.

       Moving her attention, the woman slowly turned her son's arm palm down before pulling at the hoodie sleeve. She peeked in, examining the skin there. Once she was satisfied, she threw his arm down, shuffling away without a word.

       Hurrying, Corbin grabbed his bag and bolted out of the room, wanting to escape the cold gaze of his mother. Sprinting up the stairs, Corbin observed the carpet treads on each step. He knew they should be worn in and used, having been on the stairs for as long as he had been alive.

       However, the sections of fabric looked nearly brand new. Not a speck of dirt settled on them; they were as white as bleach.

       Once he reached the top, Corbin made a sharp right turn, immediately entering his room with haste. Pushing his door closed, the teenage boy found himself in complete darkness. His curtains were drawn over the one window in his room, and the light switch remained off.

       Not moving to turn it on, Corbin instead clicked on the small lamp sitting on his bed-side table. The bulb illuminated the room enough for him to see around, but not enough to hurt his head.

       While his eyes were brown like most of the world, light still remained a sensitivity to him. Grasping his temple, he hunched over in pain. His hood fell down, revealing his messy locs. The stiff twists fell by his ears and in front of his eyes. The pounding in his skull continued, starting in his brows and spreading throughout his whole forehead.

       Desperate, Corbin strenuously reached for the white bottle of ibuprofen on his nightstand. With shaky hands, he slowly unscrewed the child-locked lid. Fishing out three of the oval shaped red colored pills, Corbin shoved them down his throat one by one. Gulping aggressively, he swallowed them with no water, too urgent to waste time looking.

       The pills slid down his throat like butter, the sensation not eliciting any gag reflex from Corbin, having been accustomed to the sensation. Corbin wasn't sure if it was placebo, but the moment he swallowed, the pain had already begun to fade.

       Collapsing on his bed in relief, Corbin felt as if his airways had been opened. His nose still felt stuffy, but he could breathe again. In the low-light, he could make out his hands in front of him. He stared at the palms his mother had just been observing.

       If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the phantom of her touch. Shivering, he clenched his fists closed. The sight of his raised knuckles made him convulse, lurching upward in bed. Suddenly, his mouth filled with saliva and he found that he had to keep swallowing rapidly to combat it.

       He knew he had run, but his legs seemed so weak, and the bathroom seemed so far. He would have to walk across his room, and down the long hallway. 23 steps. That's too many, his ankles felt too heavy to even lift his weight for a single step.

       Corbin's choices were limited. He either had to force his body up, force the bile back down his throat, or ruin his hoodie and bedding. Swallowing had a high chance of backfiring. The feeling of vomit going back down into his stomach could easily set off a switch, causing him to simply gag again.

       But in that moment, his legs felt like boulders with the weight of a thousand atmospheres pressing down on them. Knowing he had no choice, Corbin closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The saliva slid down, carrying the lump in his throat along with it. Blinking rapidly, he fully opened his eyes in anticipation.

       He felt his stomach lunge, but all he felt was a little nausea. Sitting up fully with shaky limbs, Corbin slowly used his hands to lift his legs off the side of the bed. They trembled, tingling so much he lost complete sensation in them.

       Still, he needed to get to the bathroom as soon as possible. The taste in his mouth was bitter, and the longer it remained on his tongue, the more uncomfortable he felt. Clutching the bed, he pushed himself up onto his wobbly feet. His body weight shifted around, unable to find a center of gravity on his weak legs.

       They were hidden under a thick pair of black sweatpants. The wide-legged pants hung loose around his ankles, almost touching the ground. His long legs were stark, and made Corbin stand out more than he wished. If he was shorter, he wouldn't have to sacrifice his posture to fit in with a crowd.

       Using all his strength, he slowly hobbled to his door, grasping it for support. His stomach churned, and his vision went blurry. His toes had fallen asleep, the pins and needles shooting pain up his shins. The sensation caused him to stumble, attempting to reach the haven of the bathroom. Now in the hallway, he pushed himself to reach it, his body losing more and more strength each passing second.

       23. He counted, as he gripped the sink in his hands, his knuckles turning white from the strength of which he held the marble counter with. Wasting no time, Corbin turned the sink on, shoving his open mouth under the stream of tap water. He didn't care if the water was unsafe to drink, he gulped it down like he was dying of thirst.

       Instant relief surged over his body, as he went limp against the counter, his mouth no longer tasting of vomit. Lifting his head, Corbin turned to look out the small window above the toilet. The bathroom light, which he had frantically switched on in a hurry, attracted a few moths to the window.

       He pondered the odd phenomenon. Moths were attracted to light because they believed it was the sun, fooled by selfish humans. They settled down on the window because they were led by a false sense of reality, a distortion of the truth. The serene insects would land on a lit bulb, even if it meant their death, simply because their instincts told them to.

       Reaching over, Corbin opened the window, and plucked a pearly white moth off before it could fly away. They'll never be as pretty as a butterfly. 

        He held it between his pointer and middle finger, the pathetic creature being forced in place. He stared at the eyes of the sad bug, who's entire life had led to this. Corbin wondered if it knew it was going to die.

       Without so much as a frown, or a feeling of remorse, Corbin pinched his fingers together, watching as the bug crumbled in front of him. The wings fragmented into millions of ivory specks, falling slowly out the open window. Finally releasing the body that was squished between his two fingers, Corbin closed the window with a smile.

       The other moths had flown away immediately, but he wondered that if had they stayed to watch, would they be sad to see the moth die? Would they even notice? Would they care? Sighing, Corbin pushed himself up, his body slowly regaining its strength.

       It was common for Corbin to get episodes where his limbs went weak and numb, and he had no choice but to sit down and wait for them to awaken again.

       Turning the faucet back on, he splashed water on his face gently. His eyesight became blurry, droplets of water getting caught on his long eyelashes. The sensation was odd, and he quickly wiped his face on the towel next to the sink.

       The bathroom was eerily pale, resembling a hospital. The white floor, marble countertop, and fluorescent blue lighting created a suffocating space. The longer Corbin stayed in the small room, the more his mind sank. With each passing second, the methodical beeping got louder, and the smell of antiseptic became more and more prevalent.

       Forcing himself to peel his eyes off the mirror in front of him, Corbin rushed out the door, his feet no longer feeling like anchors. In fact, his entire body felt as light as a feather. If he were to jump, he was positive his body would fly away. Like Peter Pan. This thought led him to the window in his bedroom.

       His body had carried him here. With a shove, he pushed the window open as high as it went. The wind rushed through the opening, disheveling his locs. The breeze hit his face, his skin chilling instantly. He shuddered, a shiver running down his spine and to the tips of his toes. Corbin pulled the hoodie closer to himself, sticking his face out the window.

       Closing his eyes, he took in the senses of the night. Crickets chirped, creating a symphony of sounds. The air smelled of dew and freshly cut grass. The wind was still. For a single moment, all was silent.

       Corbin relished in the feeling, breathing deeply in the clean air. All of a sudden, the smell of smoke wafted into his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose, slowly opening his eyes. Looking down, he noticed a figure on the porch. They were standing, leaning their weight on the railing. In their outstretched hand was a lit cigarette. Despite the darkness of the night, Corbin's eyes recognized the familiar sight.

       The short frame of the figure, and the signature hairstyle made it clear to Corbin that his mother was the one disturbing his peace. The stench continued to get worse, as if the wind knew to carry the smoke to the only open window. With a huff, Corbin reclined back into his room, closing the window behind him with a loud slam.

       He knew his mom lived her own life, a life that was out of his control. But, her hypocrisy still stung. The cut was small, but boy did it run deep.

       All of a sudden, Corbin's hoodie felt too tight around his neck. The inability to breath came instant, and fast. He was sighing fine one second, and the next he was flailing to get the restricting fabric off his body.

       Eventually, his sweatshirt had been removed from his body and flung across the room, landing in a heap on the floor, where Corbin knew it would remain for a long time.

       Now standing shirtless in the middle of his room, Corbin felt exposed despite being alone. Using his hands and arms, he attempted to cover his body while searching for an oversized t-shirt. Turning his back to the door, he bent over to pick up a tee laying in front of him.

       At that moment, he was too distracted to hear footsteps outside his room, too distracted to hear the creak of his bedroom door.

       "Oh no, son. That's not going to do. You know how it works in this household..."

Question of the chapter: What's your favorite type of bird?

╚══《Word count- 2,849》══╝

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