Chapter Text
|| Troye's POV ||
The sound of my timid footsteps joined in the chaotic echo of the hallway. Chatter and shuffling, yelling and the sound of slipping shoes, all condensed into the maddening drone bouncing off the walls, threatening to burst my eardrums. I really wished I had access to a pair of earbuds and a device capable of paying music, but my mother never cared enough to allow for me to have one, despite having more than enough money to pay for all the alcohol she drank.
I kept my head down, thus easily avoiding eye contact with everyone. Maybe I'd be able to avoid them, though I'd always tried to do so by stay as unnoticeable as possible, and it rarely worked, as manifested by the bruises littered across my arms, legs, back, and torso. Why else would I wear long sleeves all year, even in August and May?
"Hey, twinkle toes!" A cruel voice flew from behind me. I mentally cursed myself for wearing my pastel blue knockoff Converse, which apparently wasn't a common, or acceptable, thing to wear at my school. I let out a quiet, sad sigh as I slowly shut my locker door. A trio of boys approached, towering over my all-too-tiny frame.
The first one, Greg, sneered, snapping his foot out to land a subtle but painful kick on my shin. The other two smirked, and Greg seized my hand, hard. He leaned in until our faces were inches apart, and his piercing blue eyes bored into mine. "Come on. You know what's coming, don't you?" I did, in fact. After years of them taking it upon themselves to consistently beat me up, I always knew what was to come.
I remained silent, averting my gaze from Greg's. The second bully, Felix, cuffed Greg's hand out of the way and grabbed me by the back of my collar. "Of course he does. He knows what we do to worthless faggots like him. Come on, twink." Felix roughly tugged at my collar, half-dragging me across the rapidly emptying hall. No one really noticed, and if anyone did, they didn't care, as always. Not even the teachers thought it was any of their business to help me; but seeing as most of them here homophobic themselves, it didn't come as much of a surprise.
We arrived at the bathroom, the one in the gym hallway that no one used except to smoke and have sex. Even with the common happenings that occurred in there, it was still empty. Felix and Greg held onto each of my arms, while the third boy stayed behind and watched rather bemusedly. Tyler usually did, though the reason why was lost on me. He always just seemed to stand back and watch, looking at the scene before him. I'd have assumed that he was the 'boss' of the trio, but considering his small stature compared to the other two, it had to be something else. He was also often the butt of the other two's jokes; many times I saw Felix and Greg making fun of him, in a friendly manner (well, as friendly as two homophobic bullies could be), but he didn't always laugh. Not that I'd blame him; the other boys' senses of humor weren't the most accommodating.
My thoughts were occupied with a million different things and emotions as I was shoved up against the far wall. A large fist pounded into my abdomen, knocking the breath out of me and sending me down on all fours. The toe of a boot was thrust into my side, and once I was down, another kick landed on my spine. I curled up, protecting my face with my forearms and covering my ears. I screwed my eyes shut and just waited for it to end. Their cruel voices, shouting slurs and insults, danced through my hands and echoed in my mind.
Stupid.
Faggot.
Twink.
Useless.
Worthless.
Should just go die.
Like all the other fags in the world.
Then my hands were harshly pried from my face, and for a split second, I saw Felix's wild expression: his face twisted into a sneer, his eyes squinted into evil slits, and he was very obviously enjoying my suffering. He always did.
His fist collided with my face, and everything went black.
~~~~~
The last thing I wanted to do when I regained consciousness was open my eyes, because I knew exactly what would happen. I'd been inflicted with this scenario enough times; I could recite the order of events by memory. I cracked one eye
I shakily and painfully rose, then observed myself in the dirty, cracked mirror. There was a large red and purple mark on my nose, as well as a cut on my forehead and a rapidly forming black eye. Who knows what new maladies were beneath my blue hoodie? I didn't want to find out. Instead I cautiously walked out of the bathroom, constantly looking over my shoulder for any sign of my torturers.
I made my way down the halls and out one of the side exits; there was no way in heaven that I was going to show up to class in my current state. There wasn't any snow, even though it was nearing the end of November. I pulled my hood up, halfway over my eyes, and dug my bony hands into the thick middle pocket, clasping them together for warmth. As the cold subsided, and I was able to ignore the freezing wind, the numbness and thoughtlessness melted away. A crushing dead feeling pressed down onto me. The words of my oppressors played over and over in my head.
Worthless.
Stupid.
Faggot.
Twink.
They repeated, growing louder and louder, until my mind's voice screamed, as if trying to force it into my memory, and make it especially well known. I was simply a worthless, stupid faggot who deserved everything he received at school and at home. I deserved to be hated and beaten, and I didn't deserve to exist. There wasn't one person in this world who thought I was a good thing, not even my mother, who had only stayed around so she wouldn't be accused of neglect. Now that I was nearing age eighteen, who knows what she'd do? Sooner or later I'd be a worthless, stupid, homeless faggot. Then maybe I'd be able to just die out on the street, alone and unnoticed. That seemed like the proper way to go.
Above all, above the fact that I was unwanted and useless and gay, was the fact that I was merely nothing. I meant nothing, I contributed nothing, I did nothing right, I was simply nothing. Nothingness has no purpose, no reason to be there, it's only a burden to whatever's around it, and I fit the bill perfectly.
I found myself turning down the street that led to the library instead of the ghetto I so hatefully resided in. I often went there when I needed quiet. It was such a peaceful place, where you were guaranteed never to be disturbed, and could sit and browse and read all day if you desired. I felt a rather nice sense of closure whenever I went there.
But this time, there would be no peace, no quiet. My mind was reeling, screaming, torturing itself with the intrusive thoughts. None of the senses would be nice. I needed some music to calm me down at least a tiny bit, before the voices in my head drove me insane.
The building was mostly devoid, on account of it being the middle of a school day. I kept my head down and avoided looking at the bright-faced men and women behind counters or restocking shelves. If they saw my face, they'd question and confront me, and that was the last thing I needed. I hurried to the back, into the study room, where a few rows of computers sat, lonely and waiting to be used.
My desire for music forgotten, I chose the one in the far corner, with the screen facing the back wall, so no one could see what I typed into the search bar.
ways to kill yourself