I'm going to officially start writing seriously now. I should probably start with a little bit about me.
My name is Victor Meyer and I turned seventeen last month [13th August]. I don't have many things I like. No special hobbies I can boast about. I'm not really an interesting person. The one who has galaxies inside his head is Clement. He can keep scribbling to his hearts content while I have to actually think before writing. For Clement it's like an unstoppable waterfall gushing down a cliff. I wish I had words like his to describe what is inside me.
Anyway today Clement went back home after his two day sleepover. Dad is still not back. I'm scared he won't come back this time but at the same time I feel relieved. Mom looks happier but I can almost feel the discomfort oozing out of her skin. All this is making me want to smoke. Clement and I promised each other that we'd stop because we're far too young to corrupt our lungs. We've been clean for a week and now it's really bringing me down.
Tomorrow is a Monday but I really don't give a fùck about school. Clement won't have it though I know. He says it's "absolutely essential" to go to school. I don't know where he got that notion from. School just sucks the life out of you. More than learning new things I only learn more of hate and isolation. I fùcking hate it. Clement doesn't know of all the hate that claws out of his own peers. He's oblivious. It's a good thing I think.
The day people found out I was giving head to Oscar Ramirez, they were out to get blood. I'll never forget the way they tormented me. I was just fifteen and when an older and popular senior asks you for head - you give it. It's not my fault I was forced to do stuff like that. But to hell with them. I'll never do what I don't want to now. I'm stronger now.
I won't forget that satisfying crunch of bones under my knuckles. They pretty much stopped after I ruined a senior's face for calling me a fag. I got suspended for a week and a bruising from my father but it was worth it. The hell with them.
I'm going for a smoke. I hope Clement can forgive me.
• Vic out •
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Translucère
Contotranclucère [ latin ] | trans-lu-cre | » to shine through » // translucent // not completely clear or transparent but clear enough for light to pass through *happens when incandescent badboy meets hapless poet* poetry/not poetry which has turned in...
