Phil's POV
People say that whenever you meet your true soul mate, your chest glows. Not just a tint, but I mean it fricken lights up.
It happened to my mother when she and my father met. They had been friends and stuff, but when they were left alone for the first time, a feeling came. A feeling of lust, love, desire.
A desire to be with eachother. And 17 years after they got married, they still had that small spark. They chests don't light up anymore (heck, that only happens for the few hours or so that you are in eachothers company for that first time).
Whenever I ask them how they felt when it happened, they use the same word. Magical. And me, their 17 year old son still hasn't found his soul mate. But that's normal of course.
Heck, some people don't find their soul mates until their 50! But I guess my parents were lucky. And I hope thats genetic. Because dayum it would be a miracle for someone to like me. I'm a pale, emo teenager. Well, i'm not exactly emo, but the 'bullies' at my school tend to use that as a an insult.
If they catch me doing anything 'out of the ordanairy' i.e. listening to Muse, they'll call me an emo more. Which just makes them hate me more.
But I really hope this soul mate thing is true. Then I can show off. Show them that i'm not going to be 'forever alone', that i'm not a freak, a weirdo, a lame hipster, an emo. A faggot.
"Oi, Lester," I hear somebody yell from behind me. Oh no. It's Dan Howell. The 'leader' of those tyrants. He may seem like an awkward, sarcastic dude but trust me, when you get on his wrong side, things get ugly. I must already be on his bad side considering he loves hurting me.
I start to run out of the hallways as soon as I hear his voice. The sound of footsteps behind me also increase.
Yells can be hear, such as "Get him!" Or "Come here, you worthless shit!".
My heartrate increases. I still haven't recovered from my last beating. My jaw still hurts and I still have a few purple bruises on my hip and belly.
I see my next classroom! I keep my eyes set, running as fast as I can, knowing there will be a safe responsible teacher who won't let them beat me up in front of them. Hopefully.
I push open the door to see the class too busy talking to notice me. I scan the room for a teacher. There! Relaxing, I take me seat at the back of the class. Sure, they will torment me in class, but atleast i'm not getting physically hurt. But truthfully, sometimes the mental abuse is worse than the physical.
Everytime I hear the word useless, or faggot, or disgusting. I feel as if the word is carving itself into my chest, my brain. I already am carving it into my own arm.
My arm is scattered with scars, some frequent, some old. Different words, like dumb, freak, weirdo. But mainly gay, wrong, faggot, disgusting. All because of them. I wonder if they know the torture they put me through every day. How I wake up, wishing, desperately wishing that I could take the easy way out. Just kill myself. End it all. But I can't do that to my parents. They don't know. And hopefully, they never will. I'm not that selfish. I know how much pain it would cause them, even if its what I need.
Whenever suicidal thoughts come to mine, guilt plants itself into my stomach for ever considering it.
My thoughts are interrupted by a piece of paper thrown at me. It hits the side of my head.
Rolling my eyes, I uncrumple the paper, even though I know what it's gonna be about.
Your dead after school
:P
