A Change of Heart {h.s.}

1

Harry

I think right now would be a perfect time to die.

Actually, scratch that. This view sucks.

As I sit on the end of bleachers inside the Regional High School gymnasium, watching a bunch of shirtless dudes chase an orange ball back and forth along the glossy, wooden floor, dying seems to be the only thing I can think about. This isn't exactly something new. I think about it all the time, actually.

How I want it to happen.

Where I want it to happen.

Seeing Aaron Samson's ugly fucking face smiling down at my dead body, then my ghost following him home and haunting him for all of eternity.

Some people would probably call it morbid, and I'm not disagreeing with them, but as far as lives go, I was given a pretty shitty hand.

I try to think of happier things sometimes, like being able to actually be one of those shirtless dudes on the basketball court, winning the game with a sick three-pointer and being carried around on everyone's shoulders while girls take their shirts off and throw themselves on top of me. But those thoughts are unrealistic, and the longer I'm present in this world, the angrier those happy thoughts make me.

Tommy Johnston, also known as the school's second biggest douche bag behind Aaron, absolutely sucks at basketball. Like, he should be banned from picking up anything orange and spherical for the rest of his life. And as he tries to show off for a couple of chicks about ten rows in front of me, my accusations are proven correct because he misses the net by a fucking mile and the ball ends up about five feet to my left.

Two of the girls turn around to look at me, one with annoyance and the other with a look that says 'who the hell is that guy?'. They expect me to get the ball, and if I were a nice guy I probably would.

But that's a lie.

I couldn't even if I wanted to.

"Yo, douchebag," Aaron Samson calls from the center of the gym. "You gonna get that?"

I think for a moment about standing up and marching down the bleachers so I can punch that son of a bitch in the teeth. His bro's would try to pull me off of him, punching me in the gut and in the back of the head while I attack Aaron like a tiger who's been backed into a corner. When it's all over, his face is disheveled and some girls rush over to him to care for his wounds while other girls walk over to me, now suddenly attracted by my bad-boy persona, and give me their numbers.

But again, unrealistic.

Instead of saying anything, I slouch against the wall next to me and pull out my phone, letting my somewhat-long hair fall in front of my eyes while listening the girls huff in front of me, disgusted with my actions.

How dare I.

Douchebag Tommy ends up climbing bleachers and I peak out through an open section of my hair to look at him while he huffs and puffs with the ball against his hip. I shake my hair out of my line of vision so I can see him fully, trying not to laugh at the stupid look on his face.

"Can I help you?" I ask with my eyebrows raised, watching him watch me. I can tell he's pissed, but if anything, I did this guy a favor. Maybe a little humility will teach this guy not to try and impress girls with a sport that he absolutely sucks at.

"Why do you have to be such a freak?" He asks, like I have a say in the matter. Like I can just change everything about myself and go join the popular assholes and live a life of luxury.