Eighth Grade

Why in the hell am I here. Who really fucking gives a damn whether I am here or not? Who really gives two shits for the little emo boy? 

I grab the razor that was laying so peacefully in my back pocket. It shined in the glow of the bright second floor restroom as I twiddled it in-between my pointer finger and thumb. It felt like it weighed a ton, like it was so much heavier than I would have once anticipated. 

I couldn't help but stare at the blade that was in my hand. I was in control now. Any action that I did in the next five minutes is going to be only my idea. I was in charge and no one could stop me now. 

Sure, I'm afraid. I haven't ever stooped so low to actually cause physical harm to my body. I heard of all of the bad warning signs like infections and addictions; not being able to stop once it's started. But I am not the type to get addicted to anything so quick and once I am addicted to something I can stop easily. If I even do this more than once. 

If someone asked me what led me to this I would tell them that I didn't know. But what really led me to it was the abuse. The mental and physical abuse from home and at school. I never get a break from anything. Yet I sometimes think I do deserve it. 

I look down at the blade once more, then back to the bathroom door. I can't help but imagine myself doing this. Taking the blade and slicing it across my wrist fast, so the blood comes out long and thick. The way it would sting for a second but then it would all be gone until another slash was added. The metallic smell would linger in the air just the right amount of time before it would disappear, just like the blood as it drips out of my veins and into the sink. Yeah, that sounds like it would be good. 

Yet as I pause there for a second, letting the cool blade rest against my wrist, I can't help but think. Maybe I really shouldn't do this. Maybe if I did this then they would  really win. Everyone that had ever hurt me won. They got the last person that could ever hurt me to finally cave In and do it. Even I wouldn't be safe for myself. 

Fuck it. I was my hand up with the blade and get ready to do the first slit, my hand almost quivering in anticipation, when the door to the mens room swings open. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" 

I drop the blade automatically and it falls to the ground with a small clank. I stare up at him as he looks at me, wide eyed and open mouthed. He looks like he wants to punch me again. Just like I got the bruised eye I have right now. 
 
I didn't say anything to him. I just starred right back at him in disbelief. I could have sworn I locked that door. 

His face looks twisted and for a second I thought he actually was about to pummel me into the ground again. But then, remarkably his expression turned into a look of worry. He began to walk toward me, the look of sadness and Remorse playing on his features. He sat down next to me and picked up the blade. 

My first thought was that he was going to start slashing me with it himself. But disbelievingly He Gave one glance to it and plucked it into the nearest garbage can. 

We sat In silence. 

"You do know I see you starring?"     He questions me. My eyes grow wide, like a deer in headlights at his words. 

"Gerard I-" 

He silences me fast with a wave if his hand. I keep watching him, trying to decipher when the next punch is going to be coming my way.  But with the look that he is giving me now, I don't think one will. 

"Frank it's all just a show." Gerard starts. "All the bruised eyes, the bathroom beatings, Its all just for show." 

My mind goes back to all of those times. All of the times that I got the shit beat out of me in the bathroom or in the hall, really anywhere that a teacher couldn't see. All of the times where I thought about changing schools but I never did. All of those times that I was about to give up and just let him beat the living day lights out of me. To now hear him say that it's all just a show. 

I am pissed. 

"This is a fucking joke isn't it?" I seethed. "You fucking asshole, wheres your pretty girlfriend? She outside the door waiting for me to walk out all bruised up and bleeding? Or are you recording this for her? Your fucking gig is up, man. You use me all the time as your punching bag but I am fucking done now." 

Gerard looked like he took a blow to the gut. His face twitched just slightly at my words, like he was the one that got beat up every single day.

"I'm sorry Frank," he apologized, calling me by my first name and not by Fag. For once. "There is no way your going to believe me when I tell you this," Gerard spoke, black hair falling like a curtain over his hazel eyes. Like he was ashamed of something. 

I sat on the floor, waiting for what he was going to say next. He seemed to have a hard time fishing the words out from his head to speak them. But when he did, I could hardly believe what he said. 

"I like you Frank. I have always liked you, so much. I just didn't know how to handle it, cuz you are a guy and all and that's really frowned upon here." Gerard explained. "So I beat you up to make people think I was straight, and not going gay for you." 

Punch. 

My fist collided with his right eye, and he went flying back, hitting his head against the white wall that lay behind him. His hand hurried to cradle the now throbbing part. He looked at me bewildered, like he was even surprised I would do that. Now he was the one looking like a deer in headlights. 

"Now, were even mother fucker." He smiled a broken little smile and nodded his head. I shook my hand and let it sway to my side. I really punched him good. 

"Oh and by the way, ive always liked you too." I whispered to him as I leant in close. 

He looked straight at my face and began to slightly close his eyes as   I leant in closer, gently bringing my hand up to caress the side of his face that wasn't injured. 

I closed my eyes as my lips met his, and in that moment, all of the pain that I had felt for the past years was suddenly okay. It was all worth it now, just so I could be with him. I was finally happy, and the razor was forever forgotten. 

Nothing can ever compare to eighth grade.