Where Am I? (boyxboy)

Prologue

There's nothing wrong with being popular. Really, there's not, just besides the fact that you turn into a lying, manipulating, backstabbing, bitch. I should know. I used to be one of them. I had the friends, the girlfriend, the good life. I hated it. My parents didn't know how much of a dick I was, and I liked to keep it that way. They always wanted me to be myself. Now I never will be. They're gone, there's nothing me, or anyone else can do about it.

It took it's toll on the whole family, but a child at the age of fifteen should never have to outlive their parents, so I died. I tried to, at least. It started with the transformation. There's nothing I wanted to do more than forget. I threw out my fake made up life I had made at school. I died my brown hair black, started wearing that stuff that goes around your eyes. I wore chains and all black. I had moved away by now to live with my uncle. 

My Uncle Samuel, wasn't always a bad guy, but once his sister, my mother, died he started drinking. So, of course, blame me. I am the easy target. Wills were a funny thing like that. The people left suffering were the ones who had to deal with the deference of a piece of paper telling them what to do. My parents death had changed me. I could silence people with only a look and I spoke only when provoked. When I did speak, my words were harsh, or taunting. There was nothing to anchor myself to. I was afloat amid a torrent sea. In a way, I was already dead. Nothing I said or did mattered. The hate for myself grew, when I was lucid enough to understand I was hurting others, and soon I did believe that my parent's death was my fault. It was my fault in a way, not that I'd ever tell anyone that. I can't even say it aloud. 

When I first took a blade to my skin, it hurt like nothing else, but after a few quick slices, it gives you a rush like nothing else. Deeper and deeper more blood pooled out. This went on for years. Until I just couldn't handle it anymore. Turning into a gothic emo had dropped me to the bottom of the high school food chain, so bullying was a given. My mind was exhausted from the threats, the torment and blame. There was just no winning. So I did what I did best, sliced open my wrist and waited.

At first I just reveled in the hot sticky river of red that slid down my skin, dripping on to the floor, then my head started to feel fuzzy, and soon my vision blurred as dizziness took over. It took a lot longer than you would expect. The sides of my vision darkened, slow enough for me to look down and see the red pools of blood on the wood beneath me. Then I passed out. I had tried many times before, but my body had stubbornly tried to stay alive. I had always woken up the next morning in despondent disbelief.

The next thing I remember is waking up strapped down to a hospital bed. Not the best way to figure out you're still alive. My heart had simultaneously quickened and sunk. The doctors had stitched me up, after my uncle found me in my room. I was alive, but I didn't feel like I could live, per say. I was transferred to a inpatient unit, and stayed for three weeks, when the usual stay was one. I guess you could say they kept me in for "bad behavior." Yeah, punching holes in walls and throwing chairs at staff is a quick and easy way to get restrained and knocked out. 

I desperately wanted to die. Did I? I tried twice more in the hospital, ripping out my stitches and swallowing gallons of water in the shower. I was caught every time. Eventually I calmed down, too broken to fight anymore. Was I? They transferred me to a residential program. A step down from the hospital. Less locks. Less closed doors. I bided my time. I stayed there for three months. Waiting, just waiting to see what would happen next. 

My uncle refused to take me back, saying he couldn't handle me any longer. So when it was finally time for me to go "home" I was met with an unfamiliar woman. Apparently, once upon a time, she was my mother's best friend, but they lost touch. Somewhere in my parents will, she was the back up, back up plan, concerning who would take care of me if the worst was to happen. The worst happened. My parents were dead. And it was because of me. I went home with her, and was surprised when she told me she lived in the town my parents and I had lived in until they died. 

I was going home.

Her name was Raven.

My Aunt Raven is nice, odd sometimes, but still nice. I barely talk to her, but I can see the care in her eyes. That scares me. I don't want to get close to someone, I can't, I'll lose them again. I won't be able to stand it. So I treat her coldly. But I changed. I quickly decided, even if I did sport the black straight hair and eyeliner, I would never make her worry. She took me in. I was disgusting. A waste of space. She would never have to suffer through the darkness that I harbored inside myself. I would keep the last loyal friend of my mother's safe. That was what I was supposed to do as a son. So over the next couple of months I molded myself into a person I thought she couldn't discard. I did all the chores. Kept my space clean. I made my presence as minimal as possible. She'll keep me. I swore.

Then school started.

My name is Dawson Trick. This is where my story begins.