Christofer

High school is a hell hole on its best day, but today isn't even that day. The metallic clang of my face smacking into yet another locker is a familiar sound for me, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. They sure know how to do it. They it hard enough for it to hurt, but soft enough for no marks to be left as evidence. What seems like the entire Lacrosse team is raining down punches and kicks to my abdomen as I stay still on the floor, not daring to make a sound because that will only make this worse.

Ever since I started high school here in the early stage of my junior year, this has become a sort of ritual torture for me. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the jocks hunt me down, drag me into a bathroom or an empty classroom and have their fun. You might wonder, why these specific days? Football practice starts a couple of hours late 3 days a week, so the team occupies their time otherwise.

Why don't I try to escape them? How about I just not be in the same place at the same time while I know they are looking for me? Believe me when I say I have tried my hardest to pick a different route, leave early, leave with other people, anything, but they always somehow manage to find me when they need me. Do I wish I could get away from them? Yes, I really need to get away because I'm sinking everyday. Can I escape them? Of course not.

They should be finished up by now. I feel one particularly hard kick to my gut and then they are walking away, but not before one of them spits at me and whispers "faggot." Luckily for me, the spit landed on the floor near my face, but it is still disgusting either way.

Why do they do this to me? The number one reason is that they are a bunch of bigots and stereotypical football players so they have to act this way. Another contributing factor might be the way that I dress in over-sized knit sweaters and skinny jeans. The biggest issue that these jerks seem to have with me, ding ding ding you guessed it, is that I am gay. At least school, I never fully cam out to more than a friend or two until I was leaving my first high school. This is high school number three. I had hid so much of myself from everyone that I felt like I had been living a lie. When I started her, I decided that I should just tell the whole truth and not go back into the closet. I'm still not sure how good of an idea that was.

The same week that I started school here, I had already had this unwanted schedule for myself of constant torture from those [s] jerks[/s] jocks.

I roll to my side on the floor and stare at all of the tattoos on my arms. I believed I did this for a long time. My mom's job as an apple executive means moving around a lot. At the age of 7, I made a deal with my mom that "once I'm 16 I can get one tattoo for every place we move to." In the past 10 years, we have moved around the world 23 separate times.

Five minutes is all I need before I am rolling to my feet and leaning against the lockers in the Spanish room. I stumble to the door, using the desks for support. I cross the hallway to the boys' bathroom for my usual check up. Just as I suspected, nothing is bleeding. I lift my sweater to check out the worst of the damage. A set of deep purple bruises litter my abdomen in an interesting array, layering on top of the ones from earlier in the week.

Notes

This was meant to be a super huge s/a, but am to lazy to type it all at once, so you guys are getting this in chapter form :) It's better this way, I swear. I have a lot planned and a ton written.

Comment, I need your feedback to know if and when I should continue ;D