Fucking emo

Fuck Hate

I'm not sure if it even makes sense—this mixture of hatred and caring that consumes me. How can one both hate and not care? It's nonsensical. Despite my pounding headache and inability to focus, I can still see him. They are dragging him, but in this state, he hardly seems human. Completely immobilized, wrapped and taped up in plastic, mummified,  he's just a lifeless bundle of bones and flesh. His underwear sticks out as a handle for the varsity guys, who mercilessly drag him through the forest.

Usually, during lunch hour, I have the opportunity to catch glimpses of them outside of PE class. It feels as if our worlds exist in parallel universes, only colliding at specific times and places. And at the center of these collisions is him, humiliated.

I had been alone, suffering from this lingering headache, when I noticed them. The rowdy bunch, heading out after classes with him already trapped in that cocoon-like state. They took turns grabbing his underwear, spinning him a couple of times, and throwing him as far as they could. I could swear he was going to end up with a broken bone, at the very least. I joined them.

The leader of the varsity gang was telling me about his family's cabin—a supposedly nice place to visit during the summer, reclaimed from abandonment. It seemed like everyone had reclaimed properties these days. He was sure his mother had one too, but he hadn't been there since he was around 8.

That cabin could be the perfect place to take emo boy and make him suffer I thought. But then again, I already had a house.

All week, I had been avoiding that house and avoiding him. It wasn't that I was afraid of him. I was afraid of myself—of what I might do to him if we were alone.

I wanted him destroyed, and he wanted to die. The words he spoke about the house were increasingly ominous.

Entering that house would mean the death of both of us. Certainly his.

But I couldn't focus on my fantasies of death or anyone's summer house. My mind was consumed by intense pounding pain and a curiosity that drove me forward.

We were getting closer to a creek, and with the rainy weather, the ground around it had turned into a muddy swamp. The mud softened the blows as Alex hit the ground with each throw.

Once we arrived at the creek, the mud was more than a foot deep. The varsity guys didn't mind sinking their seemingly expensive sneakers, and I followed suit.

They dropped Alex into what seemed like a deep pit, and he slowly sank, squirming desperately in the mud.

One of the guys pulled out a Swiss knife and began cutting the plastic to free him, rather carelessly slashing his shirt in the process.

Eventually, Alex was freed, though the duct tape around his mouth remained. He was a proper mess—mud covering his face as though it were hair, his underwear stretched over his muddy skinny jeans. He was missing a shoe, and his shirt was torn all over.

Despite it all, his face remained unnaturally pale, his lips a vivid red. He was beautiful, even beneath the mess. You could hate him for that alone.

Unbeknownst to me, I had unknowingly walked towards him, as if it were the only logical choice. Before I knew it, I was standing right in front of him, my shoes now completely covered in mud. He remained kneeling, too afraid to make eye contact. Slowly, I circled behind him and seized his underwear, yanking it up and over his head, further concealing his already muddy face.

The guys erupted in cheers, and I couldn't help but smile in response. The torment seemed somewhat diminished...

"Let the fun begin!" the main guy bellowed, while the others joined in the jubilation. I glanced at his masked face and realized I need not worry about encountering him alone in the house ever again. I highly doubted he would survive this ordeal.

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