His Guitar L.P.

"He's just a boy on the street with no shoes on his feet, but man is he good at playing guitar."

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3. Encounter 2

 

~Encounter 2~

 

  Harry makes his way down the steps of the small community college in which he attends. If he had a better home life, maybe he would be excited to be away from the dreaded school for the weekend. Unfortunately, that isn't the case though.

 

  Clambering down the last step, he's too worried about what might happen when he gets home to notice the cup of coffee slipping out of his grasp. Wincing at the sound of the shattering glass, Harry looks down to see the large caramel stain on his ragged white shirt. The fact that this is one of the only items of clothing he owns makes the day a little worse than it already is, if that's even possible.

 

   His eyebrows furrow together in sadness as he bends down to pick up his broken black mug, the name "Harry" no longer being scrawled across it, as the letter "y" is gone, along with the rest of the cup. He hears the sound of other collage attendees laughing nearby (most likely at his clumsy mistake), but he ignores them, as he has many times before. Perhaps if he stood up to them they would stop making fun of him, but hes to much of a scaredy-cat to do so. 

 

   "Whimp," he whispers to himself, the four-letter word being carried away in the wind for the whole world to hear. Not that they need to; anybody can tell by just looking at Harry that he is weak.

 

    "He gently places the fragmented desitasse in a near bin, turning his head away while doing so. The small item was the last thing his mom gave him before she got sick.

 

  Harry reaches into his overall pocket as he continues down the gravel road leading to downtown London. Disappointment flashes across his dirt-stained face as he turns the pockets inside-out, realizing fairly quickly that he doesn't have any change for the subway that normally transports him home.

 

   Although he can feel the rocks underneath his shoes wearing away the soles of his sneakers, he merely carries on his way with nothing more than a tiny sigh. See, some would say Harry is having a bad day; tomorrow will be better. That's where they would be wrong though; Harry doesn't have good days. 

 

   The coffee that was originally meant to warm Harry from the chilly weather now renders him cold and shaking due to the wind coming in contact with the blotch of wetness on his front. No, Harry doesn't have a sweater.

 

    Tilting up his large bifocal glasses, a shiver racks through the 18 year old's body. "What if I don't go home tonight?" Harry wonders to himself. He quickly shakes the thought away, quite ashamed of himself that he would stoop to the level of the other naughty college students 24/7. He imagines that they rarely appear at home. Still, they probably get treated better than Harold. 

 

  Finally reaching the familiar city sidewalk, Harry looks around at the massive amount of people around him. It's always like this; so many people crowded around the same area, just inches apart from one another. Sure, they're all humans. They all have flaws. But Harry can't help but think how different every single one of them are from himself; and by different, he means happy. Maybe every single being seems so much happier from his perspective because he's just so irrevocably depressed. I mean, each individual can't possibly be loving life, but it sure does seem that way.

 

  That is, until Harry sees a boy about his age on the side of the road. At first, Harry thinks that it is the large foreign object in the teenager's hands that carries his legs towards the lad, but he soon discovers that it's the look of sadness in his eyes that draws Harry in. Scary enough, the boy is a spitting image of Harry, almost as if he is his mirror. Even sicker, that's what Harry has needed all along; the proof that he isn't the only one out there hurting.

 

  © BrydonXx

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