Bangers and Mash

This is who I was before

My hands tremble, the scarred skin of my knuckles pulling tight with restrained tension. My breathing picks up, the rate of my heartbeat increasing rapidly. Pretty soon, I can't function properly- my sight turning red with rage.

"Shut your gob Billy"- the words come out wild, unrestrained.

I'm losing control again; my eyes ablaze, my muscles contracting with little difficulty.

"Not gonna fight? Huh? Thought not, you gay bastard" he taunts, a sneer on the spot- covered expanse of his face. He turns away, as if he had won- his back to my front. My fists clench at my sides, a dark look appearing in my eyes-

I strike.

I'm punching the back of his head before I can even think, revelling in the crumpling of his body.

Weak.

I grab the front of his shirt- spitting in his pained face before growling out,

"You wanna say that again?"

He looks scared, his previous smug expression completely erased. I feel a pair of hands gripping my own, before they propel my arms behind me.

I sigh, recognising the voice of Mr Stevens bellowing down my ear about behaviour and fighting.

I'm put in isolation.

[...]

"We've been over this, haven't we Lucas? It is simply not acceptable to strike someone unprovoked- especially if their back is turned!" Mr Stevens drones on, his monotone voice irritating my sensitive ears.

I stare at the blank space in front of me, the white walls are supposedly there to calm us down- yet they only make me angrier. I slouch in the uncomfortable, black seat and pick at the desk.

That bloody boy isn't even in here with me! Something about me 'initiating the fight' and injuring him.

His words echo in my cluttered head, blocking out the scolding from Stevens.

"gay bastard"

I growl, rage building up in my guts once again. The chanting gets louder and Louder and LOUDER-

I punch the wall.

The thin plaster crumbles under my forceful fist, leaving a gaping hole. I stop, my heartbeat slowing down; unable to take back the offence.

I'm put in isolation for two more days.

[...]

"What is wrong with you!" My dad screams in my face- stray spit striking me in the cheek. I wipe it off with my bruised left hand; battered knuckles swiping against wet skin.

I scowl, looking towards my parents- disappointed looks on both of their faces.

"Honey", my mum's high-pitch voice butts in, "we've been talking to the doctors about some pills- to stop your...tantrums."

An irritated feeling washes over me- yet I know better than to argue.

I just nod.

She beams, the enthusiastic expression looking odd on her tired face. Producing an orange bottle from her bag, she hands me two pills- a relieved look in her eyes when I take them.

I look at the drugs, a forced smile on my face- and gulp them down in one fluid motion.

I feel numb.

[...]

I stare blankly at the squeaking whiteboard of my classroom, listening to the idle chatter of the students around me.