((This chapter and the next may get a little heavy. See the tags. That's your warning. There's blood. Also this is shit. The whole thing. This chapter included.
Sorry this took so long. Things have been... exhausting ...and I haven't had the patience for writing lately.))
Several weeks passed, and within those weeks, Travis did everything in his power to actively avoid all of humanity.
He would see Sal and his weirdo friends at their table in the cafeteria. He would watch them interact happily, and then gloomily look away. He'd see them in the halls, and he would stay sullenly ignorant as he kept to himself. The teachers would call upon him during class, but he would shrug his shoulders and rest his head on the desk. Eventually, everyone gave up on trying to interact. They didn't notice the frequent trips to the bathroom he would take, nor did they care.
Except one person, who was silently waiting in the shadows, observing from afar.
~
In the far corner of the boys' bathroom, there was a stall with a history. No one dared to enter that stall. It was always peppered with odd stains and woeful writings on the wall. Anyone who happened to enter that stall felt a sinister cold chill wash over them, and the black ink on the white wall induced an indescribable, heavy feeling. Everyone knew such a depressing compacted environment was best left alone.
It was the perfect place for Travis Phelps to sit by himself, adding his own stains to the floor and holding back tears until his head ached.
A large gash ran vertically up his left arm. Blood dripped lazily into his lap. Accompanied by this wound were many smaller cuts, some fresher than others. In his right hand was a shard of glass, bluntened through the regular use.
Travis didn't cry because it hurt. The only reason he felt the prickle behind his eyes was that he knew it was a pathetic attempt. He knew it wouldn't kill him. Pathetic.
Why bother?
He'd rather cease to exist.
Someone entered the bathroom. This was no surprise. He held his breath, just like every other time, but his head hurt. He was choking, trying his hardest not to cry.
The footsteps seemed to go nowhere. Whoever it was had just walked into the bathroom and slumped down against a wall. Perhaps they needed to get away from people for the moment. Maybe they were hiding. Whatever they were doing, the longer they stayed, the harder it was to stay quiet and unnoticed.
Travis looked down at his lap, and the blood that stained it. His vision blurred. He moved his arm slightly, and the pain finally stabbed him. He drew in a sharp gasp, then dropped his blade, clasping his hand over his mouth.
YOU ARE READING
blue hair and bruises.
أدب الهواةHe's the typical, cliche 16-year-old highschool bully, venting his insecurity on others to make himself feel tough. His latest victim is the strange new kid, and he thought this would be an easy target. But how do you bully someone who would rather...
