Drowning (Frerard)

2.00 (special chap.)

Thanks to SR-PictureShow for this.

I stepped out of the bathroom a couple minutes after Frank. The warning bell had already rung, and so had the final bell, but I didn't care much. I never paid attention in class anyway, so it didn't really matter whether I was there or not.

My schedule was crumpled in my pocket, and as I reached for it, every bruise on my arm decided to make its presence known. It hurt like a motherfucker. I did my best not to grunt in pain, because the hallways had become dead silent, and if I did so much as drop a pin, everyone inside their classes would hear me.

First period- English, my schedule read. Room 409.

That wouldn't be very threatening, if every other English teacher I'd ever had wasn't a fucking bitch. Once, in my freshman year, my English teacher grilled me in front of the entire class for not knowing what Harry Potter was. Like, she was genuinely angry. If this year's was a bitch, too, then bingo! Four years in a row.

I trudged upstairs and counted the room numbers until I reached my English class. It was the same classroom I'd had sophomore year, and I shuddered as I recalled my memories in it. It was where my English teacher grilled me for not knowing what To Kill a Mockingbird was. Every year, I had a different English teacher, and if this year was any different, I was pretty sure I'd kill myself.

Like, seriously. Like, grandma, I'm coming with you!

After a very long moment of hesitation, I pushed the door open. It creaked. Loudly. Every head jolted in my direction. Great.

I stood awkwardly in the doorway until the woman writing on the whiteboard noticed I was there. She closed the dry-erase marker in her hand and smiled. Every head at every desk still stared at me.

As she was walking toward me, I knew she couldn't be the English teacher. She was much too pretty, and much too youthful-looking. Had the school's negative energy really not sucked her soul out yet?

"Hello!" She exclaimed. Her tone was, for lack of a better word, dreamy. Or maybe dreamy was the perfect word to describe it. Perhaps I was just pathetic, but her voice alone made me feel safe and welcome. Or maybe it was her pearly white smile.

"Hi," I mumbled. I hated to mumble, especially in the presence of someone I respected, but it was a hard habit to break. Suddenly, I couldn't feel how hot it was, despite how many layers of clothes I was wearing.

"You must be Gerard," she said in a sing-songy voice. "Welcome. I'm Miss Ballato. Let me show you to your seat."

As I followed her to a desk in the back of the classroom, I realized I must have a crush on her. My heart soared whenever she looked at me, with her warm smile and bright red lipstick, and I'd only known her for less than two minutes.

I'd had crushes before, and oddly, none of them had ever felt like this. Maybe it was because I'd never had a crush on a teacher before.

When she returned to her spot in front of the room, I continued to stare at her. Usually, I spent periods like these doodling in my sketchbook, but Miss Ballato's aura was much too captivating to look away, even for a second.

The end of class came in a snap, and for the first time in four years, I wasn't ready to leave my English class. I tried to pack up my things as slowly as I could, but that task is somewhat difficult when you only have a single spiral notebook and literally nothing else.

A second after I stepped out of the classroom, I didn't feel warm and safe anymore. Maybe Mrs. Ballato was a witch.

I glanced at my schedule. Gym. The school only had one gym, because our school was one of the poorest in New Jersey. That wasn't saying much, though, because even the richest school in our state probably couldn't even afford lunch for every student.

Gym was a shared period. Freshman, sophomores, juniors, and seniors all had it together. It was a nightmare. I literally had nightmares from the class my first year of high school. When you're a freshman, the class is bad enough, but when you're a freshman that looks like me, suicide is often a better option.

I walked into the locker room, trying my best to avert my eyes from anyone else. If your eyes wandered, everyone automatically deemed you as gay, and you were whipped with towels. How I know this: experience.

With changing in the locker room, I had a system. Now, "system" makes it sound complicated, but it really wasn't. I'd wait for everyone to leave, then I'd change into my clothes. No one would see my bruises.

Since my gym clothes consisted of long pants and a long shirt, my gym grade was always knocked down a couple letters. Not that I cared. It beat being sent away to a mental asylum, like Mikey was.

On my way to hide out, though, I spotted a familiar face. Of course Frank would be in my class. A shame, honestly, because he'd realize what a total loser I was compared to everyone else.

I didn't want him to notice me, but he must've felt me looking at him, because he looked up and our eyes met. It would've been a nice moment, if he wasn't in his underwear.

"Hey!" Frank said, coming up to me. Nobody seemed to be ridiculing him for being "gay" for talking to me in his underwear. Maybe the rule only applied to me, and people like me.

"Hi," I mumbled. God damn me and mumbling habit. He must've hardly heard me, too. Our locker room gave "loud" a new definition.

"There's a locker open next to me, I think you should take it," Frank said with a grin. I didn't really see a way out of this one, so I followed him to his gym locker and shoved my gym bag into the empty one next to his.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said. I prayed he didn't know the truth, that there was no bathroom in the locker room, so I could wait for everyone to leave and then change in peace.

He didn't seem to know. "Oh, okay," he said, and flashed one of his famous smiles. "I'll see you out there."

I left that row of lockers, and walked in a random direction until I reached an abandoned row, all the way in the back of the room.

I wanted to hit myself when I realized I could've brought my clothes back with me.

Five minutes came and went, and the once deafening locker room had turned silent. I took this as my cue to return to my locker and change.

I got back, took out my clothes, and removed my shirt first. The top half of me was the absolute worst when it came to injuries. Nearly every inch of my back and arms were black and blue, but some parts were especially black and blue. Those were the places my dad loved to hit the most.

I pulled the long-sleeved plain black shirt I'd chosen for gym over my head. Then I removed my black cargo pants, prepared to exchange them for black sweatpants. I wore a lot of black.

My legs were pretty bad, too, though dad rarely hit me there. One might think that punching a person's legs would be pretty difficult, and one would be right, because my dad didn't use his fists there. He used his favorite wooden baseball bat.

The moment I removed my pants, I heard footsteps, and it was much too late to do anything about my legs, because without a second's notice, Frank rounded the corner.

"Hey! I was looking for you. I just couldn't find the bathr-"

He stopped. I pushed a lock of my jet black hair behind my ear, and dared to look at him. His eyes were on my legs.

Thanks again partypoisonous !!!Maybe I'll recruit ya again soon lol