He was writing, getting all of his thoughts out on paper as the music he listened to vibrated through his body, infecting his brain and leaving behind thoughts and ideas for his stories. He grinds his teeth as the whispers get louder, as every pencil tap and stare intensifies. His hand begins to shake, and he closes his eyes so as to not lose control. The whispers grow louder, encircling his brain and repeating themselves over and over. He throws his pencil down, grabbing his head, bouncing his legs, closing his eyes and trying not to lose himself in it all. Abruptly his eyes open, he scrapes his chair against the floor, and he leaves the classroom. Upon returning, the whispers only get worse.
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He sits at his desk, headphones on, music full blast. His leg is bouncing to the beat, his mind wondering. The music isn’t loud enough– he can still hear the whispers, the laughs. He can feel them staring, and he can’t help but snarl. He can’t help but feel them judging him. Someone makes a comment– he doesn’t remember what it is. He just remembers snapping. “SHUT UP!” He yells. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He’s shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. Everyone turns and stares, the teacher left speechless. He shutters, choking back his tears, and runs out of the room.
He gets special treatment. He always has. He used to get taken out of his 3rd grade classroom to go and garden, as a way to cope. He would be put in a special math class to help him understand it better. Now in highschool, his teachers allow him to listen to music, to go in and out as he pleases, because they know he only leaves when he needs to. He’s allowed to sleep, allowed to not do his work if he is overwhelmed. They knew better than to go near him when he got upset, because more than once, he had chewed out a teacher or a student.
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He watches one of his teachers pace, back and forth, in front of the board. He’s rocking in his chair, bouncing his leg, allowing the music to drown out all other noises, other than the occasional sentence he catches from the teacher. He’s painfully aware of glances and stares, as he can’t help but have to move. He’s painfully aware of the apathy that flows through him. He wants it to stop, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what to do other than let the music take him to a different world.
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He hears them in the hallway, no matter where he goes. His anxiety spikes, he watches everyone’s slightest move. “Look, it’s the emo fag boy,” someone says. “He should kill himself,” he hears. “Imagine being emo” “such a loser” “liar” “whore” “he’s so annoying”. All of these echo in his head, and his soul seems to detach itself from his body as he drifts through the halls, staring at the ground. How could people be so cruel? He thinks. He shakes his head. He should know better.. No one cares about others– they only care about themselves.
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The bags under his eyes are incredibly visible, and are only amplified by his smudged eyeliner. He’s very weary, and oftentimes ends up rambling to his friends, typically not making sense. He’s lost so much weight the past couple of weeks, not from lack of eating. In fact, he’s been binge eating to fill the void he has in his soul. He’s losing healthy hair, and is mostly made of skin and bone. His clothes hang off of him, his eyes dull and set into his head.
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FUCKING KILL ME.
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Lyrics fill his head. No other thoughts, simply lyrics playing over and over in his head, changing as the situation changes. Lyrics for everything. Music is his life line, the only thing really keeping him alive. The only thing that gets his mind off of everything– drowning out the sounds, transporting him to a different place. A safe place.
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“You’ll never be a boy,” he mutters to the slim figure in the mirror. The figure has an hourglass body, its dark brown hair halfway down its back. The tight black shirt, the black grommet belt and the baggy jeans with a hole in the knee went well with the figure's face. The bushy eyebrows, the dark brown eyes, light pink cheeks covered in freckles and light pink lips. A snake and crystal necklace dangling down, stopping right above the cut off of its shirt. The moon earrings on its ears, hair ties and bracelets on its wrist. Slim fingers dangling down, gripping the sink. “You. Will never. Be a boy,” he says to the figure in the mirror. The reflection of himself.
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