THE STIGMA (BOYS DON'T CRY.)

. D A Y O N E .

Whenever a boy shed a single tear or showed any sort of emotion that wasn't manly, they get sent away to an all boy's boot camp. Even if no one was around to witness, there were cameras fucking everywhere- even in the goddamn bathrooms. The mirrors in the bathrooms were double-sided, somebody was always watching. The stalls had hooks that were secret cameras that had speakers.

The bus was now being filled up with boys with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. It was like all their lives and energy had been sucked out of their bodies. A supervisor was walking up and down the bus, a ruler in his hand, keeping an eye out for any tears. A boy with pale skin and green eyes had been whacked on his arm after letting out an audible sob escape, he held onto his arm- that's going to leave a bruise. He covered his mouth, trying not to let a noise out, biting his cheek so he didn't shed a tear. The rest of the boys in the bus flinched, the loud sound of the ruler hitting his delicate skin echoed throughout the entire bus.

The bus ride was silent, the supervisor kept an even scowl on his old, wrinkly face, glaring at everybody who looked down at his lap or feet. His boots echoed through the bus, making everybody annoyed. Could this bastard be any more of a dick?

While everybody was either looking out the window, down at their legs or feet; one boy kept his head still and let his eyes wander. He stared at the supervisor, his body and head facing straight ahead at the set in front of him- his name was Patty Walters. His blue eyes looked down at his skinny jean-clad legs. 

Hours later, the bus had pulled to a stop.

"STAND UP!" The supervisor roared. Everybody stood up in sync. He ordered where they had to go. They all walked into a big, grey- almost black, stony building and went into one of the empty classrooms, sitting down in some shitty wooden desks. The supervisor then left, leaving everybody sitting in silence.

A few moments later, the large brown door slammed shut, making them look back. A middle-aged man with dark brown hair gelled back, wearing a black t-shirt and army printed baggy jeans entered, scowling at everybody. 

"FACE THE FRONT!" He roared, making the boys flinch and turn to face the front fast. He grabbed a tie and scanned the room, pointing at a random boy. "You..." He said, his voice deep and low. He motioned him to come up to the front with his finger. He slowly stood up, the room filling with the unpleasant sound of the chair screeching as he stood up. "HURRY UP!" The man roared again. They all flinched, the boy that had gotten selected rushing up to the front. The old  man tied a tie around his neck, pushing the boy's chin up roughly when he narrowed up. He clenched his eyes tightly. Once he was done, he turned the boy over so everybody could see.

The day went by painfully slowly. The man, who had to be called sir, had the boys write an essay about what it meant to be a man and how to properly act like one. He had thrown black notebooks on their desks and red pencils. Once it was over, they all had to share one painfully small room that had old and stained mattresses on the floor with shitty thin blankets for everybody. 

Nobody dared to let out a single word, they knew that they'd be checked up on when they'd least suspect it, and get punished by getting hit with the steel ruler he carried around.