Immortuos

Larken Stelle sighed heavily. The soles of his short leather boots grated against the obsidian asphalt with each step. He squinted through the amber sunlight, tugging on the crusty strap of his yellow-white backpack. The ends of the pads frayed with fabric cusped tighter along his shoulders.

  He wore free grey pants that bagged around his shin, rustling loudly against each other. The trousers were brushed with a yellow tinge over his thighs. The teenager made no petty attempt to cover the stain.

  The street bustled with primly dressed men and women hurrying to their homes. Kids milled about the house courtyards, running gleefully through the short grass. Larken continued his gait with no mind paid to the scene playing around him.

  His gaze lay focused in counting each passing stone on the road, never flitting up to meet the eyes of another. People avoided him naturally without casting a single glance of pity or sympathy.

  For the neighborhood of Triner St., a usual scene was playing. Ever so often, bouts of laughter rang across the street as the tuft of black, messy hair passed by their raised fences.

  The sounds of screeching tires suddenly filled the lively neighborhood. A huge white SUV rushed down the road, honking at the hunched back of the teenager. Larken cast a lonely glance backwards. The headlights flashed in warning as the vehicle barreled towards the boy.

  Larken exhaled audibly, turning his focus back to the ground. The SUV whistled past him with its side-view mirror narrowly missing his arms. A rabid complaint sounded from the passing vehicle, but the boy trudged on, unfazed.

  He continued his walk for another two minutes, before halting. He gazed up at the old, brown house standing tall at the end of the street. The square duplex sported a dusty dark oak porch, curtain-lined windows, and a heavy chocolate door.

  A wooden roof stood on sturdy pillars, housed the veranda from the environment. Larken walked through the unkempt lawn with renewed vigor. His steps now only mildly scraped along the cemented path.

  He walked up the creaky trio of stairs unslinging the backpack from his shoulders. Reaching the intricate door, he eyed the circular bronze door knock dressed in black rusting, lowering the bag in between his fingers. 

Lifting his unoccupied arm, he grabbed the knocker's bottom end. Metal crashed against the wooden door producing a heavy cacophony.

  "Coming!" A feminine voice called from the inside. Larken dropped his shoulders. The backpack lowered slightly whilst slung against red fingertips

  The door caved in a blinding arc, revealing a blonde girl in a mauve tank top and navy-blue shorts. Green eyes danced across Larken's state. The teenager nodded at the girl before plodding inside. He stopped at the foyer, fiddling with worn-out shoes.

  The boots slid off with much effort. The inside of the house was a stark contrast to the old exterior. Freshly painted, pristine sky-blue walls lined the straight hallway. To the left of the passage, lay the living room and the kitchen, the two cojoined by a small doorway and a wide hollowed platform.

  To the right of the hallway, lay the dark oak staircase leading straight up to the second floor. Larken straightened from his tussle with the leather, pushing his shoes to the designated rack.

  The young blonde girl behind him closed the door with a resounding boom. She walked past him silently, yet her face carried a hint of unasked questions.

  She strode through the hallway, turning the corner into the kitchen. Her footsteps receded without pomp and Larken gave another sigh.

  He walked up the staircase in a defeated slouch. The backpack hit every wooden step with a dull plop, swinging with the slow collisions.

  Larken walked through the new hallway, hunched under the heavy gaze of the faded pink walls. The short passage ended with two doorways.

  The black-haired teenager turned around into the first doorway. The murky blue door slowly closed behind him in an audible click.

  Larken stood quietly in his room with his gaze focused on the wooden floor. Lazily, he slung his bag onto the double-sized bed. The knapsack toiled across the mattress, roiling the pristine white bedsheet.

  He stepped towards the life-sized mirror sitting quietly to the left of the bed. With a groaning effort, he stood straight in front of the silvery screen.

  Brown eyes darted straight at his reflected face. A long, slanted nose, sunken cheeks, wide eyes, and a malnourished jawline. His lips pursed at the sight.

  He brought his left hand up, rubbing the hint of a stubble outcropping across his skin. Shaking his head, the arm snaked upwards into his rough hair. The thick strands parted resistively against the intrusion of his fingers, hiding them entirely under their length.

  Lanky arms fell to the sides in resignation. "I hate myself." His own unfamiliarly deep voice surprised him.

  'Case in point.' He thought to himself as he cleared his throat with a raspy hum.

  His eyes lowered to the white shirt stretched over his shoulders revealing a gaunt frame. He rubbed his bicep wishfully under the crinkled shirt. Unbuttoning the shirt, one by one, he revealed pale white skin hidden under the fabric.

  Glazing over his bare chest, he pried the fabric off him with a grunt. With an audible lurch, he turned on his heels walking to the bathroom door on the other side of the room.

  In transit, he deposited the shirt on the round chair sitting under a small metal desk. The fabric fashioned over the purple cushions of the chair, melding with the white top of the desk.

  Larken walked into the washroom closing the brown door behind him.