You Make The Scars Pretty And The Freckles Beautiful [Editing]

Chapter 1

(Heads up! Jace uses a mixture of British and American slang, but he uses British spellings for words such as 'colour'. I AM NOT PROFICIENT WITH BRITISH SPELLINGS. If I make a mistake or there's something you notice, tell me. I'll greatly appreciate it! Thanks, and on with the story.)

(Jace p.o.v.)

Plip. Th-thmp.

Plip. Th-thmp.

Plip. Th-thmp.

My tears were falling to the beating of my heart.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Th-thmp. Th-thmp. Th-thmp.

They were in unison. Hiding in the tiny bathroom stall, I huddled my legs closer as my tears fell freely.

The boy's bathrooms at my school were notoriously bad, like fucking awful. The whole place felt damp and nasty, and it just had terrible, and I mean terrible, odour lingering throughout the room. The floors were always wet and and grossly sticky... I swear, the only time the janitor had cleaned that place was when the damn school was built.

I should've been on my way home by now, but here I was, after school, cowering in the boy's bathroom. I was waiting until everyone cleared out of the building, so that maybe I had a chance of not getting hurt-

Shit. Footsteps.

They were just outside the restroom, and I could hear voices to go with it... voices that made me want to run. They were laughing and talking amongst one another. I was praying that they'd go away... but I heard the creaky wooden door squeal open and knew I was screwed.

Trying to keep my breathing steady, I waited in silence for what I knew would come next, begging God for them to let me off easy today.

Apparently when an atheist prays, the gods don't give a shit.

I was uneasy now. The group had quieted down to silence and it definitely wasn't normal. Then footsteps neared the door of my stall. None of the stalls had locks (I know, this school is utter rubbish) so there was nothing protecting me. The footsteps stopped right at the door, and I saw a pair of black and white Converse that I knew all too well...

They were normally the ones inflicting all the pain on my already broken body. I was tense, waiting for what I knew would come. It had been a minute already that I had been waiting... it was the most awful minute of my life.

Just when I was losing all hope, the stall door was nearly wrenched off its hinges as it was ripped open.

There, standing before me, was the person who I swore hated me the most: Sam. My blood ran cold at the sight of his frigid glare. A cruel smirk played across his lips.

"Well, well... what do we have here? A little faggot trying to hide from us?" His voice was a smug purr, and my eyes widened in fear. I shivered and tried unsuccessfully to make myself smaller as his group laughed.

The group was made up of seven guys, all my age. They were the ones that the school deemed "popular," hence the overwhelming support that people gave them whether the people agreed with it or not. I couldn't remember the names of three of them, but there was Jason Flores, a boy with dark brown skin and hair that was almost black; Henry Donovan, who was pale, freckly, and had red, curly hair plus a permanent smirk on his face; Shane De Luca, who was a fearsome, wiry guy with olive-tinted skin and inky black hair; and then there was him: Sam.

Samuel Larson was... hot, to say the least. Honey-blond hair, emerald eyes, and warm bronze skin. His hair hung about an inch and half above his shoulders, and it covered one of his eyes. Hell, I've even heard people compare him to the Greek god Apollo.