A Unique and Torn Romance

I stare up at the ceiling, silently telling my dad to stay away. I heard mom's footsteps outside my door a while ago, but I guess dad must've gotten her, 'cause she didn't come in here. I didn't hear his footsteps, but I never do, so that's nothing new.

Me yelling is, though.

Me trusting people in the first place is as well.

I can't believe I trusted him. I can't believe I didn't see through his fake, outer shell and realized from the starts that he was nothing but a sleazeball and a fucking traitor.

I was his victim. How the fuck could I ever let myself believe that he was something more than just my nemesis? How could I ever have thought that he would ever change?

But I got out before I fell in too deep. I know that. I ran before he could hurt me.

It's his fault. He looked hurt when I left, but it's his fault. If he got too into this, then he should've stopped while it was still fun. It's his own fault if he got too caught up in his own prank to notice he went too far.

It was all just a prank. It was a prank.

-----

I sit across from the lovers today. Gerard took the day off from college and decided to visit Frank during lunch. Not me; Frank.

I poke at my food and lean my cheek on my fist, and though I try hard not to, I can't help but look at them. They're cuddled up, talking. I can't hear what they're saying, but it's not their usual lovey-dovey what-kind-of-cookies-do-you-like kind of conversation. It's serious. Without hearing a single word – only tiny whispering sounds – I can tell it's brutally honest.

And I want that.

I want to be brutally honest with someone. I want to tell someone everything about me without missing a single heartbeat and without feeling like I might say the wrong thing or be too open.

I want to be open. I want someone to tell everything.

Without realizing it, my eyes have landed on Bob.

I look away. He's not in the cafeteria, but out on the lawn playing football with his friends. He hasn't looked at me. He hasn't approached me. He hasn't tried to hurt me or send his crew after me.

He has completely ignored me.

I want to be honest with him.

I want him to care. I want him to hold me. I want him to notice me – even if that means getting beat up.

-----

I stand outside the locker rooms. I can feel my heart beat twice as fast as it usually does and my stomach feels like it's grown and gotten heavier while my lungs have shrunken and make it harder for me to breathe.

I try taking a deep breath before I push the door open. My attempt fails and I feel a little lightheaded as I step into the locker rooms.

The yelling I heard from outside has gotten a lot louder and I close my eyes – as if that will protect my ears – when someone right next to me shouts:

“What are you doing here!”

It's not even a question. Just a remark that means fuck off, but I won't listen.

I turn my head and keep my frozen stare, even though I'm about to gag when I see the face of the zombie who yelled at me. I've only seen the zombies from far away, and from far away, they're fine. They've beaten me up, but even at arm's length they're 'okay'.

But right now, when I'm about a foot away from this zombie's face; when I can feel his breath on my skin; when I can see the rotten dirt lodged in the corner of his eyes; when I can smell the maggot-eaten flesh; when I can sense the pure death that's surrounding him, then I feel sick.

But I keep my face determined.

“I forgot something,” I simply say, before I walk past him and down one of the rows of lockers.

I know there's a strong possibility that the zombie will follow me and attack me or that some other zombie will simply just attack me with no real reason, but I keep walking. I stick to my mission.

I reach my own locker, grab the lock and start doing the combination.

Bob's locker is right on the other side.

I get my locker open, and just as I'd hoped, Bob's locker is open as well. Through the vent-holes in both lockers, I can see Bob. He's wearing all his clothes, tying his shoes as he's sitting on the bench. His wet, slightly darker, hair is falling like a curtain in front of his face as he's focusing on tying his converse.

About as quick as I close my locker afterwards, I slip a rolled-up note through one of the vent-holes and then quickly leave.

“Fag,” a zombie snarls at me before I exit the locker rooms completely. I swallow hard and make a run for it.