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Derick First Person Point Of View

I kept my composure and didn't even crack a smile when I removed my helmet.

"Out," I muttered in a gruff voice and simply walked past without looking up. I knew what was next for certain.

She wasn't going to let that go either. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and trailed after me, her voice rising as she moved in behind me.

"Out again?"

"Seriously, why can't you simply stay home for a day, Derick?"

I stopped in the corridor and turned to her, my voice steady but icy.

"This is the reason. You yelling like this," I muttered, gritting my teeth.

She puffed on her cigarette, all the pent-up frustration simmering just below the surface. "I just.I don't want to see you caught up in anything sketchy."

"Come on, eat something, come home," she implored, her voice softer but with a hint of desperation that had reached my hearing.

I looked over at her for a second, not uttering a word.

"Yes, I'm not hungry," and with that, simply turned to go to my room.

I could absolutely sense her staring at me, but I just kept my eyes ahead. This sort of thing always happened.

I had almost dozed off when somebody knocked on my door. My mother spoke immediately after, a little muffled but firm, as always.

"Hey, Derick! You should definitely get your bike worked on. Otherwise, it could simply disappear on you overnight."

I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes. "I'll deal with it in the morning."

"No, you'll do it now. Get up!"

I thought that she wouldn't relax until I did, so I stood up and stuck my feet into my shoes.

I could hear her lighting another cigarette on the balcony as I descended the stairs, the sound of the lighter clicking together with her hacking cough.

The night air was so nice and cool, really chill. I walked over to get my bike, which was just propped against the garage.

I rolled it in, locked the door, and then returned to the house, shutting the door after me.

That was incredibly quiet now, the only sound being the buzz of my mom's TV from down the hallway as I trudged upstairs. I removed my shoes and flopped down on my bed, hoping sleep would come quickly.

But I simply couldn't relax.

Instead, it sort of reminded me of earlier in the evening, and of Cyrus.

The look on his face when I asked him what had happened; he seemed so small, as though all the troubles of the world were falling on him. He didn't want to tell me why he had been weeping.

He wouldn't let me in, but something about him tonight stuck with me.

Honestly, I couldn't care less. Like, for real, couldn't. But seeing him all. lost sort of got to me in a weird manner.

I just figured I'd help him out, or at least let him know he wasn’t alone. But yeah, that's not really my style.

I rolled over in bed and looked at the ceiling, my hands lying cold behind my head.

Why was he crying? Was it something family-related? That's what I figured, but when I invited him to stay over for the night, he completely freaked out like I'd crossed the line.

I didn't intend to, but I suppose he completely overlooked it. He completely freaked out, on me, on everything.

I couldn't shake the image of him, walking away with his shoulders all slumped, as if he was carrying something very heavy.

I breathed a heavy sigh and rolled over onto my side, attempting to brush it off.

So what's the fuss all about then? I don't care about what people have, especially not that person. Still, something about Cyrus kept coming back.

That look on his face