I hate my scar. I can't bare to look at it.
I bind it up and wear shirts that cover it all the way.
One night I tried to skin my chest,
Just to get rid of it; just to avoid the mockery;
It grew back immediately with the scar reappearing.
black smoke filled the room;
I didn't even bleed.
I tried to hang myself;
The rope snapped, and when I looked at it, black smoke hovered around the shredded ends.
I slit my throat;
I couldn't see because of a black smoke,
(For the love of all things,
this shit again?)
And my throat was spotless.
I'm not allowed to die, and I hate that.
Why am I damned to never get what I want?
When I was going through high school,
I had gym class.
We had to change to these stupid uniforms in a locker room with a bunch of other guys.
I hated gym because of that.
One day when I was changing,
I hung my clothes up on the door,
But my gym clothes were not in my stall.
When I reached up to put on my normal clothes, they were gone too.
The other boys took them.
I had to sit there until a teacher came to check on me; unfortunately it was coach Crowley. He hated my guts,
because I flipped him off during volleyball time.
"What you doing in there, boy?"
"I don't have any clothes."
"Did you come to school naked?"
"No sir, someone took them."
"Well, come on out and go to the principals office till someone picks you up."
"But I'm naked."
"So? That's your own fault for being unlikable you fag."
Did he just fucking call me that?
I walked out of my stall. Covering my chest. Deadpool boxers only.
All the boys were there; staring, laughing. I winked at them, which made them cringe and feel awkward,
But they regained confidence and energy to mock me once the coach spoke again.
"What are you doing?
Covering your tits like a girl?"
Laughter filled the room.
I just walked out. Not waiting for permission. Straight to miss Henderson's office.
"Call her." I glare at her.
She knows who I'm talking about.
Being sent home was a frequent occurrence. I wasn't exactly friendly, and bullying me seemed to be the
only game in town.
The next day, James Patrice decided to rip my button-up shirt open during algebra. "Woah! What the hell is that?
It looks disgusting! Is that the fag-tag now?" Everyone including the teacher laughed at this title. Where are they getting fag from? Have I fucked a boy or something, because I can't recall ever doing anything homosexual or even sexual at all.
Mary's gonna be pissed.
She just bought me this shirt, and now the buttons are all over the place.
Mary is my foster mom. She gets mad a lot, but only when I'm not normal.
It's hard to be normal though.
It requires too much violence and lack of thinking. I don't like following people's leads.
I know this is late and I haven't been updating like I should.
I'm really sorry guys!!!
The school year is coming to a close and my teachers are like
Oh fuck we were supposed to teach you all this shit all year but now we only have a week
Oh ya and project time!!
So ya. Hope you like this one.
I wrote it while I was falling asleep after cramming math.
Lovelove ppl!!!!
YOU ARE READING
The dead are rich but the living are poor
General FictionBasically a fiction about self discovery. (So original right) but listen, There's a lot more things being discovered than you'd think. The gist: The main character has no soul. Loves coffee. Hates people. Have fun.
