power to the local dreamer

e i g h t

tyler's pov:

it's the first day of school, and i've been dreading this for weeks. my first class is maths with mr. whitehall. as i walk in the hallway to my locker, i get a lot of stares from people. it's probably because of the incident last year. i hate thinking about it. i try to attract the least amount of attention as i grab my books, but of course it doesn't work.

i feel my head being slammed against my locker door.

'hey faggot,' oh shit, chris. 'so i guess you didn't slit your wrists over the summer. it's a shame, you know?'

'get off me.'

'no, i'd much rather punch you.'

'get. off. me.'

'pretty tough for a faggot!'

'don't call me that.'

'depressed emo faggot.'

he tightens his grip on my hair. it's at this point that i begin to freak out.

'go on, say something!'

he pulls my head away from my locker, and i can see a crowd forming.

'fuck you' i manage to spit out.

i feel a sharp blow to my cheek. then another. then another.

he drops me, and i slide down the wall.

he kicks me in the stomach, one, two, three, four, five times.

it hurts, oh god it does. i let out a quiet whimper.

'weak.' he spits on me.

he walks away and the crowd disperses. i quietly pick up my bag and books and hurry to the classroom. some people have already picked their seats, so i pick somewhere in the middle, because i don't want to be near the obnoxious assholes who sit at the back, and nobody is really here yet. the thing with mr. whitehall is that the seat you choose will be yours for the rest of the year, so you have to choose carefully.

the bell finally rings, and as i look up i find that everyone else is here, and i, of course, am sitting alone, as usual.

mr. whitehall comes in, and i begin to doze off during his annual speech about respect and organisation.

i am woken by a tap on my shoulder.

'hi,' the voice of an angel, 'i'm josh.'

i look up slowly.

it can't be. it's not. is it?

there's only one thing to do. run.