Loser. Weirdo. Faggot., chapter 1
Pinole Valley Middle School. C. A, 1988
A sharp whimper of pain escaped his lips. "Fuck! What'ja do that for... " He asked, eyes slightly weakened as another punch slammed him into the lockers. He fell to the ground.
"Yeah, well make sure I never catch you sniffing around our locker rooms again, Fag Boy." The boy on the ground stumbled upwards.
"It's a free fucking country." He held his head up with a sort of dignity. "I can do whatever the hell I want." Another punch. To the floor again.
"Just keep out of my way."
He had no idea how long he just sat there, on the floor, but he knew it wasn't long enough to be missed. He felt like crying, lying there all alone in the hallways. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Distantly he heard a school bell ring, but he was pretty much too far gone to notice.
* * *
Tight Wad Hill. The ideal place for potheads and attics to hang around, especially during football games and to skip class. Usually, the hill would be mobbed with crowds at the base of the hill, but today just to sat alone.
"Bill, come on! You can't let them do that to you." His best friend, Mike Prichard, barked. Bill shook his head, peppery red hair waving into his eyes.
"It's not that easy, man. This is fucking high school. They can do practically get away with anything. Bitchy little jocks." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve again.
Mike lit up the joint he had rolled, and offered it to him. He took it warmly, but his tone still was bitter. "See what I mean? Get away with fuckin anything." Mike smiled, and lay down on the grass.
He felt his insides squirm. Bill was a wreck. He was constantly having the shit kicked out of him. He was a pot head and a meth addict. He was a dealer. He was only 16.
Mike took a puff of his joint. "Bill," He asked warily, "Why do you... " He sighted deeply. He had no business in trying to help him. He was going through the same situations- he was only a few months younger than Bill, but already winding down the same road of self-destruction. His good grades were the only thing that redeemed him. Bill didn't have those grades. He was on a mission to die at the age of 20.
Bill sat up. His eyes were sunken in. He had been crying next to Mike the entire time, and he hadn't spotted it. "I'm going home."
"What? We have class."
"I don't fucking care anymore Mike. I'm going home." Mike would have gone after him, but he didn't want the faculty on the other side of the hill to spot him with a joint hanging out of his mouth. So he just sat.
"Damn my infidelity." He thought.
A sharp whimper of pain escaped his lips. "Fuck! What'ja do that for... " He asked, eyes slightly weakened as another punch slammed him into the lockers. He fell to the ground.
"Yeah, well make sure I never catch you sniffing around our locker rooms again, Fag Boy." The boy on the ground stumbled upwards.
"It's a free fucking country." He held his head up with a sort of dignity. "I can do whatever the hell I want." Another punch. To the floor again.
"Just keep out of my way."
He had no idea how long he just sat there, on the floor, but he knew it wasn't long enough to be missed. He felt like crying, lying there all alone in the hallways. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Distantly he heard a school bell ring, but he was pretty much too far gone to notice.
* * *
Tight Wad Hill. The ideal place for potheads and attics to hang around, especially during football games and to skip class. Usually, the hill would be mobbed with crowds at the base of the hill, but today just to sat alone.
"Bill, come on! You can't let them do that to you." His best friend, Mike Prichard, barked. Bill shook his head, peppery red hair waving into his eyes.
"It's not that easy, man. This is fucking high school. They can do practically get away with anything. Bitchy little jocks." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve again.
Mike lit up the joint he had rolled, and offered it to him. He took it warmly, but his tone still was bitter. "See what I mean? Get away with fuckin anything." Mike smiled, and lay down on the grass.
He felt his insides squirm. Bill was a wreck. He was constantly having the shit kicked out of him. He was a pot head and a meth addict. He was a dealer. He was only 16.
Mike took a puff of his joint. "Bill," He asked warily, "Why do you... " He sighted deeply. He had no business in trying to help him. He was going through the same situations- he was only a few months younger than Bill, but already winding down the same road of self-destruction. His good grades were the only thing that redeemed him. Bill didn't have those grades. He was on a mission to die at the age of 20.
Bill sat up. His eyes were sunken in. He had been crying next to Mike the entire time, and he hadn't spotted it. "I'm going home."
"What? We have class."
"I don't fucking care anymore Mike. I'm going home." Mike would have gone after him, but he didn't want the faculty on the other side of the hill to spot him with a joint hanging out of his mouth. So he just sat.
"Damn my infidelity." He thought.
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