The Plague of Popularity

It’s been exactly three months since the day my father was placed six feet below the earth’s surface. Three months since I’ve slowly adjusted to being on my own. Three months of constantly putting on the fakest smile, the fakest act just for three people who mean everything to me.

Kids at school still tease me; to no end they tease me. They found out my mother married Gerard’s brother—they also found out we’re still dating despite that fact. I gave myself to Gerard completely last night. I’ve never felt so confused before.

Every touch and every kiss, every breath, every moan was perfect. Each was full of so much passion, lust, love and it was too perfect for our first time—nothing is ever that good the first time around. I sent him off to school with my I love you and told him to go home today.

I went back to my parent’s room, the closet that held my father’s shirt I made for him so long ago. I removed the shirt from its place, the back corner behind the only pair of sneakers—this time it’s been neatly folded.

I picked up the only thing that’s been my saving grace the past few months—that’s right, the only thing. I don’t have the heart to tell Gerard he’s second best; I couldn’t do that to him—not after everything we’ve been through.

Don’t get me wrong, I love him, oh do I love him. I love him more than anything else in this forsaken world. I glance down at the precious contents wrapped neatly inside of the black tee. A smile gracing my lips—a true smile, something I haven’t done in a weeks time.

I heard the faint sound of my cell going off; I wasn’t bothered to answer it. The school stopped caring if I showed up, they said I had a lot to deal with and my teachers pretty much gave me permission to slack off.

I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror over their dresser. The scar above my left eyebrow from where Travis’ class ring caught and tore skin, the black eye that’s slowly fading away and the busted lip is finally gone.

I run my fingers gently over my precious contents, my smile never leaving my lips as I do so. I sit myself down in the middle of my bedroom floor and remember everything. Every name, every kick, punch, object thrown in my direction—everything, I remember it all.

Fag.
Emo.
Freak.
Bastard.
Sinner.
Incestuous Queer.

A fist to my jaw.
A bruise on my cheek.
A cut on my forehead.
A pencil tip broken through my palm.
A notebook thrown at my neck.
A foot to my stomach.

It all comes back to me now. I glance down at my precious items, knowing what I’m going to do—I’ve finally broken down.