T's Hopeline | ✓

9. Kiss Under the Stairs

I'm going to dedicate chapters to my lovely followers, especially those who have supported me, not just in my writing but in everything. If you want me to dedicate just ask, you must be active and polite on this book, though.

This chapter is for pudim_flan, one of my biggest readers who never hesitates when it comes to voting, commenting and let me know that she really likes my writing and supports me no matter what. #portuguesepride

9.. Kiss Under the Stairs

The term faggot (or fag) is used with a negative intent and is perceived as highly insulting. However, it is sometimes used within the gay community as a positive term of self-reference or as an insult when others use it to describe a guy man.

James's POV

I woke up sweaty, startled and hyperventilating. I quickly sit up, hiding my head between my legs and covering its back with both my hands. I just had yet another dream, more like a nightmare, another one about losing her. I violently pull the covers off of my legs and head towards the hallway toilet. I swing its door open and stand in front of the sink, opening up the tap. I wash my face, time after time, desperately trying to shake these memories and thoughts off of me. Sadly nothing really worked. Ever. Or at all...
After closing the toilet's door, I strip and put my dirty boxers and sweaty T-shirt in the laundry basket so my mum doesn't complain about me being untidy... I hope in the shower and turn the water on, not even caring if it's freezing cold.

I only turn it off after hearing a knock on the door, which I assume are from my mum since there was no "hurry the hell up" following it. I rub my face, with my hands, with what else could I do it with, my feet?!? This thought makes me whisper "I'm such a dumbass..." to myself and I end up getting out of the tub (it is a combo, shower + tub) and quickly reach for a clean towel. I wrap it around my waist tightly without even drying my hair with it, not even a little.

I stand in front of the vanity and try to clean my foggy mirror with my bare hand which wasn't too effective but it allowed me to see my own reflection.
Standing in front of me was a 17 year old teen, who looked and felt like a hot mess. His eyes were bloodshot red from the lack of sleep and occasional crying and his dirty-blonde hair looked rather brown due to its wet state. He had grown a short beard and his bright blue eyes with bits of grey and green were no longer bright or shining, they had lost their shine, their life...

"You ugly faggot..." I tell myself while establishing eye contact with my own reflection, "I hope you die, I pray to God that you do. You don't deserve the life you have, you're just so ugly, hopeless and such a freaking twig... Well, I hope you slit your throat, starve yourself, play out on the road on a dark and foggy day or that you drown yourself. Hell, why don't you just try drugs and overdose on them...? I hope you know that you weren't good enough for her and that her life was and will always be more precious than yours. If you had just gotten your ass out of bed and drove her there she would still be alive!"

When I look back down my hands have curled into fists and I feel like something has clicked a little as if I had a rope around my neck that was stopping me from saying everything that little voice in my head wouldn't shut up about...

As I fight the urge to let this anger get the best of me and smash the mirror with my fist I turn my anger into sadness and my vision starts getting blurry. I take a step back and sit on the cold and tiled floor with my back pressed against the equally cold wall so I can feel hot and salty tears run down my face better. I lift my legs up so I can set my elbows against my knees to use my hands as a support and keep my head in place, hidden away from everything and everyone.