The Difference of One-Hundred Pounds

I am nobody.

I am nobody, but I am somebody.

I sit in the back of the class; the fat kid who you poke and make fun of. I couldn't make it in high school, so you drove me away, to a public school for "problem children." But I'm not a problem. You were the problem. You teased me when I sat down at lunch with a cheeseburger on my tray. You laughed when I nearly passed out in P.E. because I was too unhealthy to withstand such strenuous activity. You called me "diabetes boy" and made me believe no girl would look my way.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I punched you as hard as I could, then nearly knocked a teacher out who tried to help. I wanted to say it was an accident, that you made me do it with your constant cruel jokes and name calling, but no guidance counselor would ever listen because I had hit Ms. Caldwell.

And then I ended up here--"Children Learning for Brighter Futures" because I was too dangerous and unruly to be with you any longer.

I've never had a girlfriend. I've never been kissed, or even hugged in a romantic way by a girl. I've dreamt about it every night--dreamt about how it would feel. A girl with dark hair, a small, petite body, who liked 30 Seconds to Mars as much as I do. I would treat her like a lady. I would open the door for her; hold her hand; tell her how beautiful she is to me, inside and out.

But no. I am 250 pounds at only 5'10. You can see the damage I've done to my body in my face--feel it in the sweat that drips off my neck when I climb the stairs, clutching tightly to the railing. And you do see this--you see it all too well.

But there is something you don't know. Maybe it's cliché and overused, but I hide behind that cheeseburger, behind my sagging chin, and extra-large pants. I hide because I am afraid of the real me. I'm afraid if I shed this skin, I'll still be the boy who can't talk to girls or tell anyone how he feels.

Despite this, I'm outspoken. I have a fiery temper, and my sister is never know by her first name, only as "Daniel's Older Sister." She never did talk to me at school, and I was gone before the end of my freshman year.

You never understand my humor--my love for technology--my constant gaming addiction. I'm not a bad person, yet you think otherwise because I'm misunderstood, because I'm 100 pounds heavier than I'm supposed to be.

I'm just within reach of your desk, a simple phone call away, yet you don't care. I have the bottle of pills in my hand; I have the gun to my oversized chest. But all you have to do is care!

I am ugly, gross, fat, stupid, greasy, oversized. You could never love me even if you tried.

You were right all along. No girl would ever be with me, never accept all 250 pounds of me. And even if she did, she would never try to keep me. I would always and forever be the fat boy, and everyone would tell her that she could do better than me, that she could be with someone taller, smarter, and most importantly, 100 pounds lighter.

I will forever be that boy you could have saved, the boy who bled out all over his mom's new rug laid down for Christmas, snow-white and once unblemished.

I think about my mom right before I pull that trigger, and my dad as I swallow all those pills. They won't have to worry about a big, fat mouth to feed anymore. I'm sure their food bill will go down, and dad will stop talking about divorcing mom because they have no money. And then I think of my sister--with her over-sized smile and long slender body. She will never be known as simply, "Daniel's Older Sister." Finally, you will acknowledge her by her name for fear of mentioning me.

I was a nobody and a somebody.

But I no longer want either.

A somebody no more, a nobody any longer.