'𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘿𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙡𝙚.'
They weren't suppose to. It was illegal, they're parents enemies. He was suppose to hate every fibre of his being, he thought he did at first. That stupid laugh, that unruly...
He only made his dad proud once, he hated every second of it. A metal tray in his sweaty hands, he was thirteen. His face cut up and bloody, the bruises burning into his skin. The alcohol scent ingrained in him regardless of the amount of times he could bath. His first school, a quint prep school in Italy. His vans skidding across the varnished floors, why couldn't he be normal? They were standing in a group at the edge of the cafeteria. Speed came easy that day, he had to do this. He couldn't be a nice boy. He couldn't show mercy. His hands grinding into the icy metal. No one questioned it, they were too busy talking about what their parents would buy them next. Clenching his jaw, one noticed him. They all turned snickering, the leader was last to turn. "Back so soon-'' he slammed the tray into his face, cutting him off mid sentence. They all gasped, he got on top of him, a red splat on his face. He trashed him into the floor, he felt like a brand new person. Blood splat after blood splat. They all circled them, the boy didn't fight back, he felt bewitched. All he could do was stare into those gray eyes, waiting for death to hit him in the stomach. After what seemed like decades, the teachers finally got Elio off of him. Elio struggled, spitting in his face. His hands shook as he waited in the office for his dad. The hushes of Italian creeping into his ears. He winced, bouncing his leg. He was expelled that day. His dad told the principal that they would get him help now, but how soon was now? All he got was a ring as a congratulations. "Is that what you wanted, a congratulations? Are you happy now?" his dad clapped his hands slowly.
