This Jet Black Feeling
Something
*Frank's POV*
This class is so fucking boring. It's not like anyone actually gives a shit about the Cold War. And Mr Grahame expects me to write a four-page essay on it. Not gonna happen.
"Oit, emo!" A voice from beside me called. I kept my head down and continued doodling in my book. My "ignoring techinique" was tested as a pencil was thrown (with quite some force) at my head. And then another one.
"Hey faggot! I'm talking to you! Or are you too busy planning which of your wrists you're going to cut because some other emo guy won't have gay sex with you?"
Pretty much the whole class seemed to find this hilarious, and even more shouts of "emo" and the like were circulating through the laughter. Then someone threw a fucking dictionary at my back. Fuck this shit.
I stormed out of the classroom and down the hallway towards the main doors. And as I turned the corner I crashed into something and fell back onto the tiled floor, banging my already sore head. I looked up to see that the "something" I had crashed into was actually a someone. And a pretty hot someone, too. He had shoulder-length silky black hair, pale skin and probably the most gorgeous face I'd ever seen. It took me a good few seconds to stop staring and take the hand he was reaching out to me to help me up.
"You seem in a rush. You okay?" the guy asked in a confident Jersey accent.
"Umm... yeah," I stuttered. "I'm... s-sorry. I didn't... I didn't hurt you did I?"
"Nah, I'm fine," he said, brushing off his jacket. "Are you alright, though?"
"Mhmm.... yeah... sorry... bye," I managed to mumble whilst walking at an alarming pace towards the doors. I didn't want to be in his presence any longer. It was embarassing for someone like me to be talking to a stranger as perfect as him.
This class is so fucking boring. It's not like anyone actually gives a shit about the Cold War. And Mr Grahame expects me to write a four-page essay on it. Not gonna happen.
"Oit, emo!" A voice from beside me called. I kept my head down and continued doodling in my book. My "ignoring techinique" was tested as a pencil was thrown (with quite some force) at my head. And then another one.
"Hey faggot! I'm talking to you! Or are you too busy planning which of your wrists you're going to cut because some other emo guy won't have gay sex with you?"
Pretty much the whole class seemed to find this hilarious, and even more shouts of "emo" and the like were circulating through the laughter. Then someone threw a fucking dictionary at my back. Fuck this shit.
I stormed out of the classroom and down the hallway towards the main doors. And as I turned the corner I crashed into something and fell back onto the tiled floor, banging my already sore head. I looked up to see that the "something" I had crashed into was actually a someone. And a pretty hot someone, too. He had shoulder-length silky black hair, pale skin and probably the most gorgeous face I'd ever seen. It took me a good few seconds to stop staring and take the hand he was reaching out to me to help me up.
"You seem in a rush. You okay?" the guy asked in a confident Jersey accent.
"Umm... yeah," I stuttered. "I'm... s-sorry. I didn't... I didn't hurt you did I?"
"Nah, I'm fine," he said, brushing off his jacket. "Are you alright, though?"
"Mhmm.... yeah... sorry... bye," I managed to mumble whilst walking at an alarming pace towards the doors. I didn't want to be in his presence any longer. It was embarassing for someone like me to be talking to a stranger as perfect as him.