The words over at Three Word Wednesday are appear, dose and pierce.
The boy’s mother thinks the black eye shadow will directly lead to his becoming the most infamous school shooter in U.S. history.
She fears her shame, mostly. What it’ll do to her standing in the community, those various service organizations she belongs to. How it’ll appear at church, the popular one with the rock music and young, dynamic pastor who preaches in earnest, exactly like a used car salesman pushes a late-model beauty. The same service she bitches about before and after, since it takes up two hours of her Sunday.
The kid? Mostly an afterthought. She’s hoping to dose him to the gills with Adderall, Wellbutrin and possibly Zoloft. The quiet fog a blessing, a treat. She’s tired of the back-talk, the questions.
He’s just trying to find his own path. Black T-shirts, silver guitar belt buckle, black Doc Martens – the maroon knit beanie pulled tight over unruly hair. The nipple piercing, too, since it’s one he can hide from her prying eyes.
He’s torn between fitting in and finding his own self.
Mostly he fears the voice, the one that demands he be ordinary.
It’s a voice, low and gravelly, that keeps whispering, “Suicide.”