City of Blood [boyxboy]

Chapter Two

With five minutes to get to a class we don't know the location of, Andrew and I sprint through the musty halls of Centennial that quickly swell with people. We found our lockers straightaway - they happen to be right next to each other, which relieved me too much because I hate being crammed between two people who I don't know and who most likely are disgusted at the thought of me - so we discarded our bags there, grabbed our biology notebooks, and ran down the hall we thought had the best chance of leading us to class.

It's quite a challenge to try and run as fast as possible when the crowds are so thick you can barely actually run. If you also have severe nerves from being in such a place, then that's just going to make it even harder than it already is.

"Slow down, Andrew!" I call ahead, but he doesn't hear me. I can barely see him anymore, only flashes of his hair as he darts around everyone. But then he turns a corner, and he's completely out of sight.

"Andrew!" I shout, worming my way around the corner, and I find myself face to face with someone else's chest. I fly backwards, my foot catching and sending me to the floor.

"Watch where you're going, freak!" The person screams at me in a low, dumb voice. He stomps on my foot, and I try to hold my mouth shut but a small groan escapes.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Jesus Christ, how bitter was your coffee this morning?" I mumble the last bit more quietly, in hopes he won't hear, but apparently he's got the ears of wolves. He wraps a large, meaty, clammy hand around my throat, picks me up, and slams me against the lockers with an audible rattle. I wearily open my eyes, viewing my predator for the first time. And smelling him too; I don't think he even knows what cologne is. Or a razor. Or a barber.

His long, shaggy, greasy brown hair almost covers his mud coloured eyes, his beard is coming in rough patches, and his flabby face is completely covered in huge, bulbous red spots - not to mention his smell that makes me want to vomit. All in all, he's your typical first class bully: the ones who are sensitive about themselves so they take it out on others. I sometimes wonder what the hell could possibly be going on in their brains.

"What did you say, squirt?" He whispers like ice, and my stomach quivers. I might start heaving if he doesn't let me go in thirty seconds. He squeezes my throat tighter and pushes me into the lockers harder, and I find it hard to breathe, more or less respond.

"N-nothing," I croak.

"That's what I thought," He growls. "Got a name?"

"Ga-Garth - Riggs."

"Oh, you're Riggs' son, ain't ya! Well, pretty boy, since you think you're so special, I'll just have to be super nice this year, won't I?" He gives me an ugly grin with yellow teeth. "You know ..."

"What?" I snap, my voice barely audible.

He lowers his voice too. "I heard you're a faggot, Riggs. Is that true? We don't like fags in our school."

"N - o," I choke, shaking my head. Instinctively my fingers find their way to his hand, weakly attempting to pull it off. My face burns and probably looks ridiculous. Why is everyone letting this guy torture me in public like this?

"Aw, no need to lie, fag," He teases, gripping even harder. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret. I'll just have to give you the best treatments. Now stay out of my way, because you ain't wanna see me again, mm?"

I nod as quick and sharp as possible, and he suddenly releases altogether. I drop to my knees, gulping down air and coughing, my hand lightly pressed to my neck. There's a slight tremble in my body, and the floor looks a bit cloudy. What a way to start the year. Not that it's any different from my other years, but I at least had a few days of peace before they found me and decided I'd be the perfect little doll to play with.