Fifth Period Massacre

You're so empty inside.

"Fuck you," Frank spat at his attacker, his words lathered with nothing but venom. He struggled against the older boy's grip on him as he was held up against the set of lockers in the school corridor, his feet barely touching the ground beneath him. "You mother fucker!"

"What are you gonna do about it?" Jenkins laughed as Frank struggled, his words harsh and loathing as he pushed Frank's head backwards, his skull painfully colliding with the metal behind him. Frank winced, a string of cuss words echoing throughout the empty corridor. "I said: what the fuck are you gonna do about it?" Jenkins growled.

"Fuck, go away! Leave me alone, you jerk!" Frank all but begged, yelling as his legs swung under himself.

"I'm not going away that easily," Jenkins smirked, his fist balling behind his head. Before he could swing, footsteps sounded from around the corner. Both Frank and Jenkins' heads snapped towards the source of the noise, watching as Mrs. Clare appeared. Jenkins hastily released his grip on Frank's shirt, allowing Frank to finally catch his breath and slide down to the floor, his legs pulled up to his chest as he spluttered.

Jenkins held his breath as Mrs. Clare approached them, her arms folded firmly across her chest. "Care to explain what I just interrupted?" She questioned, raising her far-too-perfect-to-not-be-tattooed-on eyebrows.

Jenkins struggled to come up with a good enough excuse, and after a few seconds of silence, he finally managed to get out the words, "we were just having some fun, Mrs. Clare."

The teacher took a few seconds to glare at Jenkins as he looked down towards his scuffed shoes, waiting for a better excuse. "Is that right, Frances?" She turned to face Frank, hoping to get a better explanation from the smaller boy.

Frank rolled his eyes, his patience running out. He didn't understand why the staff at that school always seemed to turn a blind eye on things like this. And why they felt the need to call him 'Frances'. He'd once even been addressed as 'Franklin.'

"My name is Frank," is all he said, annoyance clear in his voice. "Honestly, do you really think that what you saw was fun for me?" He stood then, brushing his hands over his shirt to attempt to get rid of the creases.

Without a second look, Frank started to walk away. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he knew one thing; he sure as hell wasn't staying in that Hell any longer. As he headed out of the school doors and towards the gate, he could hear his name being called by Mrs. Clare, who had got the principle to assist her.

Frank managed to walk about a block when he realized how much shit he was going to be in for that. "Fuck," he groaned. "Yeah, like she would have listened to me anyway."

Frank began to feel a familiar ball of anger building up and knotting itself in his stomach. He ran a hand through his hair roughly. "Nobody fucking listens." Picking up pebbles and throwing them, he was talking to nobody in particular. "Fuck you all," he muttered, dropping the stones in his hands and kicking a lamppost. He let out a deep breath before picking up the pace and heading towards the place he could barely call home.

"I'm back!" Frank yelled as he closed the front door of his house. Not bothering to wait for a reply, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. The first thing he did was sit down at his coffee-stained desk cluttered with cigarette butts and ashes, and pull out an old sketchbook from his drawers. After a few minutes of searching for a working pen, Frank began to write.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was writing, but he knew that it helped to clear his head without having to take it out on himself or anyone else. He was already so fucked up. The last time he had resorted to self-mutilation, his mother had seen the aftermath and threatened to send him to therapy. No way in Hell was Frank going to risk going there.