NEW WRITING:

He was a boy of stares. He formed them as rote.They meant next to nothing to him - they always did. But they always meant something to others. To him they were a context, another diversion, a story with a closed in, dead-end chapter. To others they were fear and brutality, they were ambition and lust, vulnerability and lostness. He fixed a stare in the bathroom mirror - his eyes hooded, his lips puckered. It was a stare of loose change within the scheme of things, it was seduction without a heart. He fixed another stare - he sucked in his lower lip, widened his eyes. He wondered how many of these he had, and how many really worked on others, they never worked on him. He tried another - his favourite - his eyes narrowed to a bullying slit, his lips tightened to a bloodless gash, his unseen hands formed tight piston fists. Then he let it go. He stared blankly for a moment then did a self stare, one with no agenda, no feral needs or ambitions, or manipulations. Self stares were important to him. He didn't do them all the time, but it was a regular thing - it was a marker, it told you at that moment where you really were, where your headspace was, where your heart and soul were - they were honest. So he did one - and saw nothing, like he always did. His eyes drooped sadly, his lips formed a trembling pout - his head was numb, his heart was dead, and his soul was long gone.