I couldn’t help but glare at her. I felt bad, but, then again, I didn’t really feel bad at all.

My sadness and loneliness just turned me into an angry person. I didn’t particularly enjoy feeling so mad all of the time, but I also couldn’t help it.

‘Vic?’ she brought me back to reality, and I straightened up in the cold, rickety chair.

‘Sorry,’ I murmured.

‘It’s okay. Just talk to me. Talking will help me help you.’

‘No one can help me,’ I muttered inaudibly, but the way she looked at me made me feel like maybe talking would be a good idea. So, I began telling her about a typical day, back when things were—well, not normal—but not as fucked up as they were now.

I stared at the long, empty pathway before me. It seemed wide enough, now, but, in a few minutes, it would be packed with other people so it would be like trying to slither through the tunnel of a vein. I was a tiny little blood cell amongst many others when it was full, mindlessly flowing to the next destination. Although, I preferred it to be empty. Everything was just easier that way.

I walked quickly—this was my chance to get to the next class without being trampled on by the herd of animals. My footsteps echoed as I practically jogged down the cold, emotionless hallway.

“Where are you in such a hurry to, Fuentes?” a voice behind me snickered. I gulped, tucking some of my long, straight, brown hair that had fallen in front of my face back into my beanie and turned around to confront the unfamiliar voice.

“Do I know you?” I asked, but I left it at that, turning away again because any second now the bell was going to ring, releasing the wild animals from their cages.

“Don’t you dare turn away from me when I’m talking to you!” the boy—who I still didn’t recognize—snarled at me. I was used to this, so I ignored his spineless threats. I never even bothered to learn the names of those who harassed me; they were all the same, faceless monsters.

I rolled my eyes, continuing to class. I didn’t know this kid, so how did he know me? Nobody knew me…

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” the boy yelled again, and, this time, his voice was louder—to my disadvantage, it sounded like he was closer. I tensed my face up, ready for my scalp to burn when he yanked at my shoulder length hair. That seemed to be the first thing they always did.

I yelped in pain—I was right. He yanked my hair back, making not only my scalp tingle in pain, but also making my head snap back and my neck crack.

“Dude, what the fuck!” I yelled back, swatting his hand away. Just because I had no friends, just because I was a little shorter than most guys (and not even by that much), just because I didn’t wear the right clothes, listen to the right music, or do the right things, didn’t mean I was incapable of protecting myself. Hell, I’ve been alone the past four years in this nightmare of a school, having to fend for myself. I was physically very strong—it was my mind that was weak. I was an easy target because I hardly ever brought myself to use my muscles against another person.

“Just leave me alone, Jesus,” I hissed, shoving the guy away and continuing through the hallway. I used to be a scrawny guy in my earlier years—like, freshman and sophomore year—but now I was a senior in high school. I wasn’t the same person as fourteen-old me. But all of these people around me, including the stranger harassing me today, unfortunately didn’t see that. They have and always will see me as the little, weak pre-teen, despite how much I’ve grown up and changed.

“It doesn’t work like that,” the guy growled as if he had some sort of superiority over me. I mean, maybe he did, but that still gave him no right to bother me for no reason.

Just one day, I thought to myself. Just one day of peace is all I ask for.

“What did I ever do to you?” I turned abruptly and spat at him, tired of feeling so vulnerable and weak all of the time.

“I wanted to know where you are going,” the boy snarled, not answering my simple yet complicated question and eying me up and down like I was a piece of meat.

“How is that any of your business?” I shook my head, and then I adjusted my beanie. “I don’t understand you people,” I muttered as I turned away again, walking faster than before. I could have just told him that I was going to class and be done with it, but no, for some reason I was feeling testy today. I wasn’t about to give them what they wanted so easily.

“’You people?’ What’s that supposed to mean, Fuentes?”

I shook my head—why was this kid still talking to me?

“You are the only one us people don’t understand. I mean, you claim that you are a dude, but everything about you, like your hair or those little marks on your arms, suggest that you are, in fact, a little girl. A little drama queen, that’s what you are. And we really don’t understand it,” he said, venom dripping dangerously off of his tongue. I closed my eyes and sighed. His words were sharp like knives, and they hurt a lot when they sliced through my mind. But they were just that: words. I could get over them, I guess. In a few months, school would be over, and none of this would matter. They were all just ignorant and heartless. At eighteen years old, I was an adult, so I didn’t need them.

“Fuentes! What are those cuts on your arms for, anyway? I thought only emo girls did that,” he teased in a hiss. “Oh wait,” he added after a moment’s reflection, igniting the fire inside of me.

I had enough. I couldn’t bite my tongue any longer; I gritted my teeth and spun around quickly again, slamming the unnamed boy against a wall, my small hands wrapped around his thick neck. “You have no right,” I growled lowly.

The boy just laughed. “You’re so pathetic,” he said—his breath barely affected by my attack—and he pushed me off of him, the force sending me tumbling onto the tile floor. My backpack slid a few feet away from me.

“What are you, thirteen? Beating up innocent guys, just to show how big and tough you are? I might have problems, but they don’t compare to your insecurity issues,” I glared at him from the ground, sending him daggers with my eyes.

Sometimes it was good to stand up for myself. Key word: sometimes. And this time—when I was already on the ground—was not one of those times. At my words, I felt a heavy pain hit my left side—a foot being kicked into my rib cage. I wheezed after the impact, my vision spotting and my breaths catching. That’s all they normally wanted—all they wanted was to beat me up for some reason. For no reason. They would draw me in with their words and kick me while I was down. That’s how it always happened.

“Don’t speak to me like that again, Fuentes,” the kid spat, kicking me again. I coughed after he kicked me, holding my rib cage tenderly and slightly curling into myself.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” I retorted. I wanted to kick myself when I talked back—I just couldn’t control my words, though.

A flash of rage crossed the kid’s face, and I have never felt so relieved to hear the bell ring. The hallway immediately flooded with students, and I found it within me to scurry up, snatching my backpack and darting away from that hallway, turning a corner and slipping inside of a bathroom.

I was relieved to find that I had made my way into a teacher’s bathroom—they were individual, so I could lock it and not be bothered by other people. I sat down on the floor, sliding down with my back against the door and not worrying about getting my black skinny jeans dirty. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

I couldn’t breathe, and there was no way that I could continue my day. I wouldn’t be missing much, though, for there were only two classes left in the day. Nobody would notice, anyway.

I sat on the floor in my own self-pity for a few minutes, not thinking about anything in particular. Everything was just numb, and nobody understood how it felt to not feel. The only thing I felt currently was the aching in my ribs.

I pulled my backpack onto my lap and rummaged through it, sliding out a small moleskin notebook. This little book was the key to my sanity; I used it to write out everything in my head. Sometimes the words came out in the form of a journal entry, but, more often than not, they would come out in poetic or lyrical form. I liked to sing—my confidence was not so low to tell me that I wasn’t any good, because I knew I could sing well. Even if I couldn’t sing, though, I would do it anyway. It just made everything bad disappear. I put my headphones over my ears and blasted music as I scribbled thoughts on to the paper.

What did I ever do to the kids in this school that justified the way they treated me? I wasn’t a baby, but I definitely wasn’t mentally strong, either—this made it difficult for me to move past the torture I received here. I wished that they would just leave me alone and let me do my own thing.

“Now hold on, this is innocent blood, all the beach boys look like sharks!” I wrote, humming a catchy tune as I murmured the words. All of these preppy 'tough' boys around me were like blood-thirsty sharks, and, to them, I was just a little minnow, an easy meal. “I scream and wave my arms; but you don’t understand me!”

I jotted down a few more lines, until a banging on the door behind me interrupted me. My heart thumped right along with the heavy knocking. I gulped, pausing my music, sliding my headphones around my neck, and stuffing my notebook and pencil back into my backpack. I zipped it up hastily and stood up—groaning a little in pain as I did so—unsure as to what to do next. Do I open the door? Or do I pretend like I’m not in here?

“Fuentes! I know you’re in here!” the same voice from earlier called to me. Damn it. That was when I realized that I had sat in here until class ended, and he had probably noted that I was hiding in here, ready to block me in as soon as he was dismissed from class.

But there was one more class period left, and all of these people were goody-two-shoes, and they wouldn’t dare cut class. So I just had to wait out the five minutes of passing time until this guy disappeared, and then I could leave.

“Oh no, Fuentes, are you cutting yourself again?” the guy exclaimed in mock concern. “Maybe I should go get the nurse! Or are you already dead?” he asked through the door. I remained quiet—maybe he’d believe I was dead, snicker to himself, and walk away. That was good enough for me. “Oh no, he’s already bled out on the floor. What a pathetic, waste of space. It’s a good thing you’re dead. No one wanted you here, anyway,” he hissed, not sounding sorry at all. I never cried in school—I always saved the tears for the nighttime—but his words made tears well up in my eyes. The way he described me as such filth…

I sniffed back the tears from falling, though, and let my anger take over. I swung open the door, the kid’s face contorted in surprise and amusement. “Oh, look! He’s risen from the dead! Thank Satan!” he sniggered, and, with that, I wiped his smirk off of his face with my fist, punching him squarely in the mouth.

“Fuck!” he muttered, holding his jaw. My punch had a lot of force in it, but I didn't stick around to admire my handiwork. Instead, I darted away in the opposite direction. Without looking back to see if the boy followed me, I exited the school building and raced to my car.

As soon as I collapsed into the driver seat of my car, I locked the doors and relaxed a little. I was shaking from adrenaline, but I was also crying. ‘It’s a good thing you’re dead. No one wanted you here, anyway.’ I knew I wasn’t liked by anyone in the school, but how that justified him to say those things to me was beyond me. Nobody knew me; nobody took the time to get to know me. That was the problem with going to a small school and being different—there was a low chance that you would find someone just like you. In bigger schools, it would be easier to find a place. It would definitely be easier to find a friend—that was all I wanted: just one person who understood. In bigger schools, that was easier to find because there was more variety. But not here. Here, if you were different, you were completely and utterly alone.

I rolled up my sleeves of my t-shirt, tracing the bumps on my left wrist. I never meant to become the kid who hurt himself, but I also never meant to become depressed. It just happened—I had no control over it. I hated it, but I also, ironically, lived for it. It was the only thing that strangely kept me going in the day. Music helped, but not as much as the sharp cool metal pressing into my skin.

He was right. I was already dead. On the inside, at least. I had no one, and no one would notice if I was gone. Not even my brother.

I wondered where he was, anyway. We used to get along so well—he used to always be there for me. Maybe Mike was a year younger than me, but he was also at least a foot taller and much more liked, and he was definitely my only friend. I don’t know what happened, though, because ever since the start of this school year he has been distant and careless. My only friend ditched me, essentially throwing me to the wolves.

I really was pathetic and a waste of space wasn’t I? Not even wanted by my own family.

I knew that they didn’t want to deal with me. They provided me antidepressants just to shut me up (not like I ever complained), but that was it. I didn’t even take the pills, though. I had an entire two bottles stashed in my room, handy just in case I ever decided to die on the outside, too.

I sighed; these kinds of thoughts were not going to help me. I shook them out of my head, knowing that they were wrong, and turned on my car stereo. I didn't want my mom to ask questions when I walked into the house early, so I decided to sit here and listen to music until school ended.

“Vic!” I jumped when someone called my name and I heard a light knocking—I must have fallen asleep slumped against my window.

“What, Mike?” I rolled down the window and addressed him, confused as to why he was talking to me. He hasn’t talked to me all week.

“Why did you do it, Vic?” he asked accusingly, anger clearly written on his features.

“Do what?” I asked incredulously. Last time I checked, I have done nothing.

“Punch Shane in the fucking mouth, you ass hole!” Mike spat. It was then when I noticed how fucked up he was—his eyes were very red and his eyelids were very heavy. Since when did Mike do drugs?

“I don’t know a Shane, Mike,” I said, but then I realized that Shane must be the name of the guy who harassed me earlier. “Oh,” I said.

“Why would you punch him, Vic? You broke his jaw and now you’re in so much trouble!” Mike said, the anger never leaving his features.

“Fuck you, Mike! I didn’t punch him unprovoked! I have sore ribs to prove that,” I retorted, my breathing catching as I remembered how painful it was to move. I tried not to let a smirk appear on my face—I broke Shane’s jaw! Awesome.

“Oh,” he said, wobbling around a little. “Well you’re still in trouble,” he warned, but his features weren’t as angry as before.

“Fuck that,” I muttered. I wasn’t about to turn my self in for protecting myself. This would happen—years of being taunted by Shane and his friends, and they never got in trouble for it, yet the second something happens to them, I get the consequences. Bull shit. I turned my keys in the ignition, starting my car.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going home. Would you like to join me?” I asked, nodding to the passenger seat. Mike stood there, leaning on the car door, staring at the empty seat. “Hello?”

“Uh, no,” he finally answered, stepping away from the car.

“Suit yourself,” I mumbled, and with that I pulled out of the parking lot and sped home, resisting the urge to cut the wheel a little too far to the right.

I didn’t bother to announce my presence when I arrived home, taking three steps at a time until I got to my room, slamming the door shut. My room rattled at the force of the door closing—sometimes I forgot how strong I could be if I actually tried.

“Damn it!” I cursed angrily, throwing my backpack on to my unmade bed and collapsing to the ground in exasperation.

“When will this end?” I asked to myself angrily as I toyed a blade in between my tan fingers.

‘Did you try to kill yourself?’ she asked. I shook my head.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wish I did, though. I wish I did it that way, otherwise none of this would have happened,’ I said, my voice breaking a little as guilt and anger pressurized painfully in my chest. I clutched my chest when I found it hard to breathe.

‘Vic, are you alright?’ she asked, reaching out to comfort me. Her soft fingers lightly touched my shoulder, and I shivered at the contact, subconsciously jerking away.

‘No, I’m not. I am nowhere near alright,’ I spat. She didn’t understand. And she wasn’t going to understand why I was so hard on the outside yet so broken on the inside until I told her everything that happened back then.

‘There’s more, Vic. Keep talking,’ she pressed, as if she knew what happened. Well, she probably did. They probably told her already. This was probably just an additional form of therapy—getting me to talk about it.

‘Can I talk more later?’ I requested, stifling a yawn. I mean, this woman in front of me was undeniably beautiful, and I would love to be graced by her presence more often, but I was tired and the memories were beginning to get too intense. I hunched over in the unsupportive chair, holding my head in between my hands as it throbbed.

‘Of course, Vic. Take as much time as you need,’ she said warmly, patting my shoulder gently.

Time. Yes, Time. One thing about my life was that I lately unfortunately had a lot of it.

Notes

Chapter 1!
I'm kind of 'framing' this story: if you are confused, the italics before and after the main text are the present day, where the main text is kind of like Vic telling a story, kind of. The conversation in the italics is still vague, anonymous, and ambiguous. But, uuuumm, I don't want to give anything away so that's all I'll say about that. ;) (Except I'm sure I've made it obvious because I suck but whatevaaaa)

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