so I felt like writing a story. read, or not

SiNgItFoRtHeWoRld123's picture

so I felt like writing a story. read, or not

I melt inside my heavy jacket as the heated air from the school thaws my frozen body. My fingers and toes begin to relax, and I wiggle them, in an attempt to warm them up. My boots make obnoxious squeaks as I stomp on the slippery ground, trying to shake the snow off. It had snowed three inches the previous night, and I prayed to God to have a snow day. For most kids, a snow day means a day to relax with no homework to worry about. To me, it's one less day of being thrown away in a trash can like worthless garbage, one less day of getting punched until I bleed, and one less day of trying to explain to mom why I came home with bruises on my face. Since Dad left, her anxiety has been acting up tremendously. Dad's pathetic excuse for moving out of the house was because of some “new project for work.” I try so hard to keep Mom calm and happy, but I'm so tired of lying to her.
My goal for the day was to leave school without any problems, and of course with my luck today was not that day.
“Hey fag,” barks a voice from behind. Not again... I won't let them break me. I dig my nails into the straps of my backpack and say nothing.
“Worthless piece of shit,” one of them spits in my ear as he yanks my backpack off and tosses it over the fence. He throws me up against the gate and pins his forearm across my throat. My lungs begin to shrivel and it feels like my heart is crawling up my throat. Warm tears trickle down my face.
“Grab him,” one of them growls. Two of the boys grab my arms in a tight grip, sinking their nails into my flesh. I've learned by now that struggling to escape only makes things worse, so I just stand there, grinding my teeth. Once I blinked the tears away I notice a kid from a few of my classes standing with them. He looks nervous, and I see the guilt in his eyes. After some encouragement from the group, he gives me a quick shove on the chest. My vision is spotty but I catch his eyes flickering across the scars on my face, the bruises on my arms, and especially the dullness in my eyes.
“Come on,” I hiss through my teeth, “I know you can hit me harder, you mother--”
“Shut up!” he snapped. I can tell he's resisting the urge to make eye contact, but I keep on looking at him in disgust. And then I notice his eyes. The disappointment that bled through them reminded me of my father. I don't remember much about the actual goodbye, but I do remember how he looked at me, and how he didn't even have to say anything. His eyes said everything.
The boy's mouth quivers, and a film of tears coats his eyes. He curls his hand into my jacket and hoists me up to the gate. Finally he looks me in the eye.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, but still he raises his fist and drives it into my cheekbone. With that he lets go, and I drop like a bag of sand. I couldn't even feel it. Slowly I opened my eyes, surprised to see a pair of sneakers only inches from my face. The boy was still there. My eyes rolled up, and I saw him staring at me, with a tear rolling down his cheek. Quickly, he brushed it away and turns back toward his friends.
“Let's go,” he ordered.
“Come on, Jon,” they whined.
“No,” he shouts, “we're leaving.” They scuffled away, leaving me motionless on the ground. Finally I pick myself up and limp home.
I dig to the bottom of my drawer and finally find a fresh razor. My fingers tremble as I bring it closer to my skin, and I hiss at the cool metal. Quickly I swipe the blade across my upper thigh, and a gasp of relief escapes my mouth. As numb as I had been feeling lately, I am surprised that my senses still exist. I slice another cut, and watch the dark, crimson blood leak from under my skin. Tears begin to drop from my eyes and onto my shaking thigh.
In a way I was getting what I truly deserve for being me.
My mom calls and tells me that she'll be late, which gives me enough time to smoke. By the time she pulled into the driveway, I was already on my sixth cigarette. I release my last breath and watch the smoke dance into the air. A strange burst of anger sinks into my body as I see her get out of her beat up Chevy. I turn my arm up and press the burning end into my skin. Sure, it hurt like a bitch but I felt like I had to. Tears sting my eyes and I choke up as the pain hangs on for a bit longer. I can't take living like a broken record anymore. Every day is filled with the same shit, and the same people who try their hardest to make my life a living hell. When people start calling you worthless, you soon begin to believe it. When people start telling you to kill yourself, you soon believe you should. When people tell you the world will be a better place without you, you sure as hell become convinced.
“Babe, I'm home! I'll get dinner started,” she calls up from the stairs.
“Okay,” I reply, hoping the crack in my voice wasn't noticeable.
Immediately I ditch the cigarette out the window and grab the Febreeze under my bed. I honestly don't even know why I still air out my room. Habit, I guess. Mom hates the smell. Says it reminds her too much of dad. He'll come back, I say. Though I know deep down, we both have a feeling he won't.
I was about to leave my room when I stopped in front of my mirror. I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. It was haunting, honestly. There were pictures tacked in frames of me in the hallway, but that boy seems like a distant memory. Like everything else, it's fading away.
My name is Oliver.
But that doesn't matter anymore.