FicWad

The next few days at school leave me feeling empty. Everything has a schedule, and everyone an agenda. There's no time or desire for the pointless small talk that brings so many people the feeling of humanity. I'm inching closer and closer to the edge of the cliff which supports my sanity and logic. I'm honestly ready for the year to finish, and the second semester hasn't even started yet.


When Thursday rolls around, I'm especially drained. The night before had been a complete waste- what with having to spend an extra hour at church, waiting for my mother to finish her usual inspirational conversations. By the time I got to bed, I felt entirely too keyed up to fall asleep and ended up killing a large chunk of time just thinking. It hadn't occurred to me that television was even an option, and so I proceeded to upset myself far more than usual with a constant wave of doubt and generally off-putting ideas.


As I approached my locker, a ball of paper smacked the back of my neck, causing me to turn around in surprise. I was met by the faces of the people I try hardest to avoid: the jocks.


"Hey! Hey, faggot. Iero, what's the matter?!" one of them yells. I shrug and turn away; trying my best to grab my books and leave. A chorus of annoying laughter and trash talk follows my action, and I realize it'd be best to forget the books all-together.


"Now, Frank. We all know you'd rather stick around for the show." a sandy-haired boy calls. Curiosity overwhelms me, and I ask them what they mean.


"We're gonna show that new kid how friendly we are." another guy laughs. It takes a moment for their words to sink in, but once they do I'm practically chasing after them to see if I can change their minds.


"C'mon, don't ruin the guy's day." I find myself pleading. They all just shake their heads and laugh. "The opportunity's just too perfect. Mind your own business and go cut yourself like a good little emo." one replies. His words sting, and I'm half-tempted to just lunge at him with everything I have, but I stop myself and decide to switch tactics.


"He's down by the office, right now. I doubt you'll be doing anything to him in front of the principal, jackoff." I spit at the leader of the group. Realization flashes across his face, and he turns to his right-hand man for advice.


"Shit, he's right." a guy whispers. A collective eruption of "Later, later. Like after school or something." sounds off among their little group, and I instantly start to feel sick as I realize I've probably only made things worse for the guy.


I quietly drift away from them and head for my locker once again. After retrieving my sketchbook, I make my way over to the fiber optics classroom and take my seat a few minutes early. I'm surprised when I walk through the door and see my teacher with a student this early in the morning. My shock only doubles as I observe that this student is none other than the boy I just screwed over.


"And you see, if you extend the line further, like say... to the corner of the page right here, you'll get a more three-dimensional effect." the teacher explains. His small nod is the only sign given that he's even listening, as his eyes have left her tracing pattern, and fallen on my face. I can't look at him. To know how badly he'll be treated once we're all dismissed, and being unable to do anything about it, is feeding me with a guilt I never thought I'd experience.


"Oh, Frank. Have you met Gerard, yet? I think you all sat near each other yesterday." Mrs. Ranger states. I shake my head No and give a single nod in Gerard's direction to feign politeness.


He only looks. His seemingly green eyes simply studying whatever they want, without shame or embarrassment. The feeling is intense, and I'm mentally begging him to look away, but he doesn't. I'm left to feel subjected to his assumptions and it's nearly as painful as any aggressive physical contact would be.


"Class is about to start, Gerard. If you'll just grab a chair, maybe we can go over this a bit more tomorrow?" she says kindly. He collects his paper and sits next to me without a word. I take a glance at his work, and feel stunned by how detailed everything is. A dragon with eyes of the deepest color red faces me. Its mouth and nostrils breathing out a putrid fire no one would dare extinguish. I can tell it isn't finished, but somehow that leaves no room for disappointment. It's beautiful and I can feel the jealousy conjuring deep within as I go to hide my measly excuse of an art project away from this artistic stranger.


I want to warn him. To nonchalantly whisper that he should watch his back. But something stops me. An icy fear that pulls at whatever portion of my soul it can grasp. I open and shut my mouth a dozen times, each one with the intent to tell him. Class shoots by, and with it, my creativity. I'd barely drawn for three minutes, spending nearly every moment in my own head. Why am I such a recluse? Why can't I muster the courage to just talk to a person who'd benefit from my statement?


But something tells me that he doesn't want to be warned. That he's very much aware of the danger he's in, and he's fine all the same. Something on his face lets me know that it isn't my job to save him, because he's given up on those attempts, himself. I know these are only assumptions provided by my imagination, but they're enough to weaken the gripping feeling in my chest. These thoughts are gifts which allow me to rest easier. I've convinced myself that he wants this, and suddenly a large burden has been lifted from my shoulders.


The bell rings, and I leave for my next class. I don't bother to turn around and see his sloth-like movements, but just walk out of the room and on with my life.


And what a fucking twisted life, it is.


Once I'm far away from his presence, the reassurance wears off. I'm left feeling like the biggest prick in the world; like the epitome of betrayal. I want to fix this for some reason, and it hurts me to know that I blew my chance in that art room.


I carry on with the necessary classes; going through the motions with a willing attitude so I can make it through the day. When I get home, I feel the urge to hurt. I want to cry and bleed and settle the score. I wish to bruise and scrape away the coward inside who causes me to do such foolish things. I want to feel that sting of punishment and justice. And so I do.


Over, and over again. Until I no longer feel remorse, but rather gratitude at being given a chance to make things right. All is forgiven, in my book. I fumble through the medicine cabinet and grab the family bottle of peroxide. I allow it to freely pour over my cuts and saturate the free-flowing blood with something cleansing and potent.


Once I'm finally finished, I feel happy. Well, as happy as I'll ever be. And he'll never know that I faced the consequences of my silence in a very similar way to how he is right now. I can almost hear his groans and screams, and the laughter of those over-muscled freaks, but it's all okay. Because I'm screaming and laughing with them all. In my mind, and out loud. And during all of this, what's so fascinating is my inability to determine which instance is vocal and which is only trapped in my mentality. I'm so glad my parents aren't home, and I can properly behave the way a sinner should.


After a while, I reach for my guitar and strum the best I can. Her song is peaceful and her cooperation, perfect. I love the ridges of each string as I hit them with my fingers, and I adore the fact that I'm in pain as I carry on with one of the only things that brings me true joy. It was inevitable that this feeling would be tainted as well. I don't deserve to feel comfortable when someone else is having the fucking life beaten out of them.


When it feels like the right time to stop, I sit my Les Paul down and recline on my bed. My good arm is tucked behind my head, allowing me to have the proper view of everything around me.


Without warning, a small laugh escapes my lips and I instantly jolt in shock with how unexpected it was.


Am I going insane? Have I finally lost that part of me I'd retained? I wish I had someone close by to give me an answer. But the truth of the matter is, I'm so desperately alone. And I've done this all to myself. I had friends at one point, and I scared each and every one of them away. All my talk of death and damnation finally drove them out of my life.


And I'm... thankful? I think. If I still had them on speed dial, I'd have an even harder time maintaining this double life. It would be difficult -well, nearly impossible- to keep this hobby alive when they're always there to observe and speculate.


I don't need anyone to look at me. I don't want them to think a single thought about my safety or stability. It's my concern and mine alone. They wouldn't be looking because they cared, they'd be staring because I'm the closest thing to a freakshow they can find.


This all is getting to be so clear. I'm lucid for the first time in what seems like months, when I make the rash decision to get the fuck away from this place. No matter how even we are, I don't need to see his transformation into a punching bag tomorrow. I don't need to feel the guilt pour back into my body like a never-empty drink. I just need to run. I have to.


So I grab a jacket and my loyal music, and leave the house before anyone can come home and stop me. So what if it's only for a night? So what if I'm simply going to the same place I go when times get rough? It's still a temporary escape that I'm more than willing to take.


Because that's what life is. Nothing is long-term, or terribly fulfilling. It's all short-lived. It's all temporary.