I Write, Because Nobody Listens

| Chapter One |

You know all those stories that you read in books that depict high school as a sort of prison? Doesn't it seem kind of like a far-fetched description?

Well to be honest, it's not that far from the truth.

This is how I would describe it. There's the popular kids. They're kind of like the prison guards. Keeping inmates, aka the common high school kids, in line. But even with the inmates there's social structure. The geeks and nerds are the overly smart ones always plotting some way to escape. The band kids are those guys playing blues on the harmonica in the very back of the cell. Bad boys are obviously the tough people in the prison that always get in fights.

And then there's me.

Cam Casey.

Fifteen year-old social reject. The one that always gets beat up by the higher-ups. I have my sympathizers, yes, but I don't have any real friends.

Does that bother me? Nah, not really. At least, not at first.

Most of the time people will ignore me. So I have a pretty quiet existence. Which isn't all too bad.

However, it was on this day, that I realized something that pretty much changed my entire life.

It was fourth period, I think. Honors language arts with Mrs. Pepper, my favorite teacher. I was silently working on my short story for the school-wide contest, when something hit me in the back.

Confused, I looked up and around the room. As someone who always sits in the back, it's kind of strange when something hits you from that direction. I mean, there's no one back there. Where on earth did it come from?

Sighing and pulling my hood over my head, I looked back down at my paper, trying to concentrate on my writing again, when another piece of paper hit me in the back. This time, it was obvious who hit me. There was a chorus of giggles coming from my left, where these two cheerleaders that annoy the ever-loving heck out of me always sat.

Anyone in their right mind would get really really angry, right?

Welp, I'm not in my right mind. Nor am I just anyone. I'm the kid that lets other people pick on him. Fantastic, I know.

More giggling, and then silence. That, my friends, is when you know something bad is going to happen. So naturally, I looked up to see what was going on.

Bad idea on my part.

Just then, another piece of paper hit me in the face. But this time, it was filled with jelly. Which, to be honest, I didn't really understand. Who keeps jelly in their backpack?

But besides that, it went everywhere. And to make things worse, I made this ridiculously girlish scream and jumped out of my seat when it happened.

The entire class ended up bursting out in hysterical laughter. Every single eye was on me. Every single person was laughing at me, even my sympathizers.

It was so humiliating.

"Class! Class quiet down!" Mrs. Pepper cried, standing up out of her seat and glaring down at us from where she was. But no one was listening. Frankly, I don't blame them. It was quite pathetic and very, very funny. To them at least. Not me.

"SHUT UP!" Mrs. Pepper finally shouted, her face red with frustration.

Every person in the room fell silent, and looked at her with shocked expressions on their faces. Except for me. Despite my situation, I managed a smile. Man, I have so much respect for that woman.

"Cam, are you alright?" she asked calmly, looking back at me with a concerned expression on her face.

I shrugged, sighing. "A little sticky, but otherwise I'm alright."

"Why don't you go to the bathroom and clean yourself up, love?" Mrs. Pepper suggested, smiling.

Nodding, I grabbed my sweatshirt and backpack and ran out of the classroom. My smile was completely gone, and I had been hit hard with overwhelming embarrassment. The second I entered the bathroom, I broke down crying. Right there, in the middle of the floor. Sure people had bullied before, but not like this. Not in a silent classroom, in front of thirty or so kids, and my favorite teacher in the whole world. No, they'd taken it too far this time.

Grabbing the bottom of my now sticky and messy shirt, I tore it off and threw it across the floor before continuing to cry into my arms.

I think that was the point where I started to realize that no one cared about me. Well, except for Mrs. Pepper. She seemed to care a whole lot. But besides that, nope.

What about my parents, you say?

The reality is, there weren't much better either.

---

After I had cleaned myself up and replaced my t-shirt with the sweatshirt I brought to school, I pretty much hid in the back the rest of the day. Stayed in the bathrooms all during lunch. I even skipped sixth period, because I just couldn't handle it anymore.

So instead of staying at school, I decided to walk home early.

Just to forewarn you, the place where I live is a madhouse. My mom and dad have five kids, including me. A four month old baby girl, five year old twin boys, a ten year old girl, and then me. The oldest. And the one who gets forgotten the most.

It really wasn't a surprise when I stepped in the door, and no one even realized I was home.

"WALTER! WILLY! GET YOUR LITTLE BUTTS BACK IN HERE, OR SO HELP ME I WILL SPANK BOTH OF YOUR BOTTOMS!"

I sighed, tugging on the strings of my hoodie as I trudged towards the stairs, unseen amidst the chaos in my family's home. The twins, Walter and Willy, were both running rampant through the halls, drawing on walls with open markers while my mom chased them around, holding a dish towel. Wanting to escape the mayhem as fast as possible, I ran upstairs to my room, and there I remained for the rest of the day.

Throwing my backpack on the bed, I jumped into my really surprisingly comfortable computer chair, and made myself at home by wrapping myself in a blanket.

You see, there are several reasons I lock myself in my room the instant I get home. For one, I have absolutely zero desire to deal with my siblings' shenanigans after a long day of repeatedly exploding my brain, and getting picked on by other kids. Secondly, my mom is... for lack of a better term, a demented nut-case. The instant she sees me, it's always, "how was your day, honey????!!!" or, "what aren't you getting straight A pluses, darling???!!!!" or "why are you such a retard, Cam????!!!!" And to be honest, you get sick and tired of hearing it every day.

Third... well... it's my dad.

He's never home, but when he gets home, it's like a nightmare in here. Always criticizing me, and my life, and the fact that I can't get up and speak in front of people. Well, sorry dad! You have a failure son who has to deal with this stupid thing called social anxiety every day! Sorry I disappointed you! I'm sorry you didn't get a better eldest son that was popular and enjoyed sports and made the football team! I'm sorry!!

Ugh. I get so sick and tired of those two words. "I'm sorry." I must say them twenty million times a day.

Someone bumps into me in the hallway. "I'm sorry." I get a bad grade because I didn't understand anything, and needed help, but never got any. "I'm sorry." A kid beats me up after school and I come home with a black eye. "I'm sorry." I get freaking cancer, and I'm about to die, but the medical bill shoots up. "I'm sorry."

Sometimes, I just wanna stop. I want to stop saying sorry. But you wanna know what the beautiful thing about social anxiety is?

You can't stop. You can never stop. Ever.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my life is a living hell.