I get bullied a lot. I wish I could get to class one day without a violent encounter. I wish-
"Hey, faggot!" My thoughts are cut off as I'm pushed roughly into a locker.
A popular bitch pushes me from her locker, "Watch where you're going, dipshit." she says, sounding offended that I'd come anywhere near her.
Without stopping to think, I run down the hall until I'm out of the crowd of students.
I put on my headphones and start to turn on Pandora when they're pulled off my head. Miss Johnson holds them over my head and glares at me. "No headphones! You think you're above the rule young man?"
"N-n-no. I'm s-sorry." She clicks her tongue and drops the headphones in my bag. "Stupid kids." She mumbles under her breath.
I continue to the bathrooms, which are usually empty this early. I enter an empty stall and pull my knees to my chest, trying to calm my nerves.
The bathroom door swings open two sets of feet walk in. "Yeah, I punched that emo head-case in the face this week. The bitch hit on me, and I fucking socked him."
I scoffed silently at his blatant lie and tried not to think about the fact that I was referred to only as 'emo head-case'.
"Cool bro. You got the shit?" I hear rustling of plastic and paper and eventually one of the guys leaves without further conversation.
I hear a stall door close and listen as he snorts what I assume is cocaine.
The first period bell rings and I stay hidden in my stall, slightly terrified.
After a few minutes, He leaves the bathroom. I wait until I'm sure he's gone to leave the stall.
I know my social anxiety won't let me enter the classroom late despite knowing nobody cares.
I keep to the wall and slouch until I'm out of the building. Once I get out, a group of sluffing, rebellious high schoolers notice me. I stick to the wall out of fear.
The middle one walks toward me with a smug grin. "Hey ass wipe!" He cracks his knuckles, "Got a second to talk to a friend?" He says aggressively.
I start running as fast as I can. He chases after me and I immediately regret my choices. The last time I ran was probably an elementary school soccer game. I can't outrun them.
He grabs my wrist and I wince. He laughs and rolls up my sleeve, revealing faint red marks all the way up my arm.
"Oh no!" He says sarcastically. "Poor little emo kid cut himself. Let's give him what he's obviously begging for."
He grabs my arm and starts giving me Indian burns, opening wounds, and making blood spill down my arm. I scream and cry, but nothing distracts me from the pain. Sobbing, I fall to the ground, getting covered in blood and dirt. My shirt is stained a deep scarlet.
Two other kids start kicking me in the stomach. My vision starts to go blurry, and the pain starts to fade in a horrible, dull way.
Among the blood and grime, I notice a punk kid watching me and I think, 'how could you just sit there and watch?'
"He's getting hurt!" Someone exclaims sarcastically, "Better go home and hurt himself some more." They all laugh like hyenas.
"Better off just killing himself." Somebody stomps on my head and everything goes black.