Happenings.
Introductions.
My forehead hurts like hell. Or actually like I've just sandpapered the entire thing. Which is strange, since I'd actually just done that to my arm. It's obviously the zit cream. I swear the army actually makes that stuff to test out their latest chemicals for use against terrorists or something.
So, anyway, this is me, and I bet by now you either don't know what to think of me or you've dismissed me as hopeless. Most people do. They say I'm a "very interesting person", or, more commonly, something like "loser" or "faggot". The latter actually happens to be true, but please don't go talk to them about it, they don't need any encouragement. Oh, and the sandpapering my arm, that wasn't for some kind of self injury, I just wanted to see what the texture was like. I like textures. Which reminds me of a story, so I think I'll tell it to you.
I had just gotten a new bag. Beautiful thing. Found it in a catalog, saved up for it for ages, and then it finally arrived and was a gorgeous as promised. It was a school bag, and though I was worried about taking it to school, I was determined that it be used for what it was intended to do.
So I took it in, and of course there were immediate jeering comments. "Oh, look, he's got a fag bag now." I got the "fag bag" comments all day, guess they were proud of their new name for it. Brilliant, boys, you can rhyme. I'm very proud of you. And just as long as I had my beautiful silver and black bag, nothing mattered. Soft, too, and with a surprising number of pockets for its outside appearance.
The first day, it never left my arm. The second, Mr, Devis nearly tore it off of me, and so I had to give it up to prevent any damage to it. But he didn't return it at the end of the day, and so it ended up not to matter anyway.
They got the bag, and so when I returned to school there were about ten strips of material stacked neatly in its place. I carried it around for the rest of the day. It's a pillow now, can't let something that lovely go to waste.
But really, I guess I owe them. Because at the end of the day, Jared came up and talked to me.
"Sucks about your bag. It was cool."
"Thanks."
I know, I'm such a great conversationalist, right? But wait, just let me tell you a little about the guy before
you judge.
He had dark brown hair a little longer than shoulder length and brown eyes with a hint of hazel. He was fairly skinny, too. In appearance, he was actually quite normal, except for the occasional silver glint as he moved his hands around his pockets, the blur that hinted at knives, though no one was quite sure.
That was why I first started watching him.
They watched him too, taunted, but they kept at a distance. They'd forget though, and overstep their boundaries, and each time they'd again be confronted by these hints of violence and back off. And one day, it went slightly further.
They decided to chase him down the hall, but as they got to the next set of doors, they found the handles handcuffed together. They went around to the other side, and there he was, sitting calmly, palms outstretched, come in, I've been waiting. They left him alone after that.
So, anyway, this is me, and I bet by now you either don't know what to think of me or you've dismissed me as hopeless. Most people do. They say I'm a "very interesting person", or, more commonly, something like "loser" or "faggot". The latter actually happens to be true, but please don't go talk to them about it, they don't need any encouragement. Oh, and the sandpapering my arm, that wasn't for some kind of self injury, I just wanted to see what the texture was like. I like textures. Which reminds me of a story, so I think I'll tell it to you.
I had just gotten a new bag. Beautiful thing. Found it in a catalog, saved up for it for ages, and then it finally arrived and was a gorgeous as promised. It was a school bag, and though I was worried about taking it to school, I was determined that it be used for what it was intended to do.
So I took it in, and of course there were immediate jeering comments. "Oh, look, he's got a fag bag now." I got the "fag bag" comments all day, guess they were proud of their new name for it. Brilliant, boys, you can rhyme. I'm very proud of you. And just as long as I had my beautiful silver and black bag, nothing mattered. Soft, too, and with a surprising number of pockets for its outside appearance.
The first day, it never left my arm. The second, Mr, Devis nearly tore it off of me, and so I had to give it up to prevent any damage to it. But he didn't return it at the end of the day, and so it ended up not to matter anyway.
They got the bag, and so when I returned to school there were about ten strips of material stacked neatly in its place. I carried it around for the rest of the day. It's a pillow now, can't let something that lovely go to waste.
But really, I guess I owe them. Because at the end of the day, Jared came up and talked to me.
"Sucks about your bag. It was cool."
"Thanks."
I know, I'm such a great conversationalist, right? But wait, just let me tell you a little about the guy before
you judge.
He had dark brown hair a little longer than shoulder length and brown eyes with a hint of hazel. He was fairly skinny, too. In appearance, he was actually quite normal, except for the occasional silver glint as he moved his hands around his pockets, the blur that hinted at knives, though no one was quite sure.
That was why I first started watching him.
They watched him too, taunted, but they kept at a distance. They'd forget though, and overstep their boundaries, and each time they'd again be confronted by these hints of violence and back off. And one day, it went slightly further.
They decided to chase him down the hall, but as they got to the next set of doors, they found the handles handcuffed together. They went around to the other side, and there he was, sitting calmly, palms outstretched, come in, I've been waiting. They left him alone after that.