Elsewhere
an excerpt

An ant had drowned in the honey.

Creed Marco stared at it for a few minutes, watching the honey from his knife slowly drip back into the jar. It disgusted him, somehow. Not the fact that there were bugs in his food, but more the fact that the ant had died by getting its wish of decadence granted. He sighed and closed his eyes. Creed tried to remember the last time he’d felt this way. Sort of bitter-sweet anticipation. Drowning in honey. Drowning in the pursuit of decadence. He shook his head, and opened his eyes, letting the knife fall from his hands and watching it fall in slow motion. It hit the ground, honey splattering against the linoleum. He kicked at hit half-heartedly, and left it there, grabbing his school bag. HE hesitated. Would his mother even noticed if he stayed home? Would she drag herself out of bed if she didn’t hear the door opening? Would she even notice if it didn't? He could probably stay home all day, making as much noise as he wanted, and she wouldn’t even come down to check. She’d just assume that it was her husband, come back for some reason, and let the deluded fantasy lull her to sleep.

Creed considered staying until the thought of being in the house any longer began to make him feel physically ill. He shoved the door open and stumbled out, letting the screen door bang loudly against the step. It had rained overnight, and now it was cool and fresh outside, unlike the stagnant air inside the house. He ran a hand through his too-short hair. It had been dreadlocks for the holidays, but his school—St. Augustine’s—had made him cut it. It was spiky now, and he couldn’t be bothered to brush, let alone tame it. It had been a jet black mop that almost hid his eyes, then dreads, and now this too-short fuzz. He tugged at the longish bits of his fringe, pulling them into view. In the sunlight, they were almost blue.

Twisting around, he threw one last glance at the house. No, it was more like a glare than a glance. The paisley curtains didn’t even twitch. He didn’t feel disappointed. It was what he had been expecting, after all.

He began to trudge down the garden path, opening the rusty gate and closing it again. The road was empty, all the houses closed up. He was the only teenager on this street. All the other houses belonged to retirees, or glamorous couples with young children. He didn’t know where they fit, except that they didn’t. Lillian Marco hadn’t left the house in months, or her room in weeks. Creed hadn’t seen her for at least four days. Sure, he would take food to her, but if she was depressed it would just sit there, if angry, it would be smashed against the wall or forced under the door. He’d just collect it, clean up if he could, and move on. Some days, she didn’t know who he was. Most days, she didn’t care.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair again, and the tantalizing smell of bacon drifted past as the wind began to blow softly. Creed walked up the street, listening to small children playing with their parents, and smelling homemade—familymade breakfasts. It made him want to throw up. Not cry. He didn’t cy.

I want to be somewhere else, he thought, not looking at the cheerful houses. I wish I was somewhere. Anywhere. I wish I was elsewhere.