will anyone be mine?[OPEN]

Marlyn felt the sand beneath his toes, a few hours earlier it was too hot to bare, but now it was cool to the touch. It was just another analogy for him, life to death, waking to sleep. Bad to good. He clenched his fists as he sprinted, his face had a nasty cut just beneath the eye. Another fight with his father, another scar for him and two more for the dirty, angry old man. What motivated his father to be so violent, especially after Marlyn overpowered him night after night? Marlyn never understood his father, and he never would.

Marlyn saw someone up ahead, resting on the shore. The moon stretched its beams on her, she glistened beneath it. She was just out of the water. She looked as though she was drawing, an art that Marlyn admired. He felt in the pockets of his shorts, his knife was there. Marlyn wasn't good with a pencil, but he was decent at whittling pictures into driftwood. When his hands would cooperate, when he wasn't too bruised, he found it relaxing.

Why should he talk to this girl? Whatever, it was too late now, he already wanted to. "Hey," he said, he realized he sounded a bit imposing. "I'm Marlyn." His voice was strangely gentle, it wasn't harsh or condescending. It was a change for him, he wasn't slinging an insult at her, he was telling her his name, and it felt good to be a little nice. "The beach is nice at night, huh?" He said. He swiped a bit of blood from under is still stinging eye.

Marlyn recoiled at her touch, his instincts told him to strike, but he didn't. He didn't like people touching him, it made him nervous, and this gentle treatment from a stranger? Almost foreign. He followed behind the girl, Arelie, that's her name. "An accident." He said. It was a lame excuse, but why did she deserve an excuse? Because she was being kind to him, that's why.

When Arelie's mother grabbed him by the face, he gasped, quivered, and tried not to lose control. Calm down, he told himself. This woman reminded him of his own mother, so long ago when she'd put ice on the bruises. Ice that was meant for keeping the catches chilled, his father would always say. "Just an accident," he said, stroking the cut. It still hadn't stopped bleeding, so it was likely he needed stitches. "Just be," the word didn't sound right coming from his mouth, "gentle."