Killing for Visibility

Sharpies

POV: Vic

Not only was it a Monday the twenty-eighth day of October, the day of the dreaded fourth hour Physics test, and the day I chose Frosted Flakes over Lucky Charms for breakfast, it was the day I stood in front of Kellin Quinn's locker with a Sharpie in my hand. They surrounded me like a pack of hungry wolves, relying on me, the Alpha male, to make the kill. It was the attention that always got to me, the constant hum of encouragement that sent my heart racing. They patted my back and set the eerie mood with chuckles and snickers.

Before I tell you the upcoming events, I mist enlighten you that we are not a bad group of teenagers. The term "bully" was not the right word to define each and every one of us. We were good kids. Honor Roll students, Mama's boys, the pride and joys of our fathers, intelligent, well-behaved Juniors at Clairemont Highschool. There was just one thing: We absolutely despised Kellin fucking Quinn.

Everyone hated him. Sadly.

There was just something about the kid that made every student here dislike his very existence.

Maybe it was the way he walked through the hallways: head down, shoulders slumped, eyes casted down; or the way he sat in class: head down, shoulders slumped, eyes casted down; or maybe the way he ate his food at an empty table near the trashcans: head down, shoulders slumped, eyes cas-

Well, you get the idea.

He was sulking 24/7. He practically brought an ominous, depressing rain cloud with him which hovered over his head darkly all the time.

Given the fact that he came out to the whole entire student body that he was gay Freshman year, (which he decided to do by posting a risky, blunt statement on Facebook), gave us a little reasoning for the shoving and name-calling. Yet I actually hated that excuse. I am definitely not a homophobic. I loved the gays, the lesbians, the pansexuals, the transgenders. Name a sexual orientation and I'll accept it. Let's just say that peer pressure was not something that I could easily handle.

But seriously, Kellin literally posted, "I'm gay."

That simple, curt sentence sent a flood of hate comments and common gay jokes onto his profile page. He deleted his account since then.

I never participated in that frenzy of loathing. Personally, I felt bad for scrawny, little Kellin Quinn. He only wanted to step out of that chaste closet of his; however, his fellow students had to crush his pride with the ruthful hate and discrimination they call entertainment and comedy. Really, it was just plain mean, but we all like to look past that.

So, willingly, regretfully, and spuriously, I opened the Sharpie by yanking off the cap with a quick pop. I bit down on my bottom lip as I scrawled a big, fat letter smack down in the middle of Kellin's red locker. F. "Hurry up, Vic," one of my friends giggled. "Bell's gunna ring soon." A. My arm rested against the metal as unexplainable guilt and uncomfortable heat coursed through me. I felt sweaty and trapped. This was not what I had planned to do this morning when I rolled out of bed. G. "Add a little smiley face under it," someone suggested, causing a new fit of guffaws and cackling to begin. And I did. A little, goofy grin with disheveled dots for eyes. I closed the Sharpie with a click, shoved the marker into my back pocket, and beckoned my group to quickly follow me down the hallway, unseen and unexpected.

Now, I did not expect Kellin to react the way he did. I pictured him staring at the word for a few seconds, sulking and pouting like usual. I didn't realize a simple slab of graffiti would effect him so strongly.

After second block ended and the shrill school bell signaled the beginning of lunch, everyone gathered around his locker, like the rumor of the anonymous, offensive lingo being written in black marker spread like wildfire between the five minutes when I wrote it and when the bell rang. They all snickered and pointed, either laughing loudly or hiding their winning grins behind textbooks and binders which were pressed tightly to their chests. I felt like an absolute poser standing in the midst of the belittling crowd. I know that I was the prick who wrote this, however, I was also the sensitive asshole who felt horribly guilty. I wanted to run up to the locker and scratch it all out with scribbles of madness from the Sharpie, or go back in time and rethink my misleading decision. But that was, of fucking course, impossible. I never meant to hurt Kellin, my friends just wanted a good laugh, so I gave it to them; how sick and conceited that actually sounds.