Luke's POV
I rolled down the sleeves of my black sweatshirt, lifting up the hood of it over my head as well. I sighed at my appearance in the mirror, totally disgusted by it.
I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and pulled on my book bag. I walked down the stairs that led to my kitchen, which meant running into my mum. Great.
She gave me a smile at my presence, though her smile dropped at my choice of clothing. She hated it when I wore dark clothes, which was 100% of the time.
"Good morning, Luke," she greeted me, kissing me on the cheek.
I nodded at her in acknowledgement, making her frown. I hated when I ignored her, but I just don't feel like talking today.
She sighed. "Luke, I wish you didn't wear winter clothes all the time. It's nearly summer! You're a handsome boy, I don't know why you're so insecure."
I grunted in response, not in the mood for a lecture. I love my mum, I really do. But she could get on my nerves sometimes. At some points, she completely understands. But at other points, she doesn't.
"Okay, okay," she says. "You can wear what makes you comfortable, honey. I love you."
I gave her a small peck on the cheek, wanting her to take that as a gesture that I love her back.
She handed me a brown bag. "Here's your lunch. I hope you have a great day at school!"
I faked a smile and walked out the door, into the slightly warm Australian air. My fake smile faded as I neared school; also known as hell.
I don't get bullied, I'm actually quite feared. Everyone visions me as a mysterious boy from all the black clothes I wear, so they automatically assume I'm going to punch them in the face if I get near them.
I don't talk to anybody. I hate them all, knowing at least half of them spread horrid rumors about me at some point. I don't care; if I know it's not true, then I'm fine. They could all they want, if their life is happier when they make shit up, let them happy.
My depression is more of a personal thing, but I don't like to brag about it. No one knows about depression except depressed people. Thus, going to therapy is pointless. But if it helps you, keep doing it.
As I walked down the hallway, students moved out of my way to let me past. I rolled my eyes; they acted as though I owned a weapon.
I grabbed my books from my locker before heading off to first period. Going to school is also pointless; I'm in year 12 (A/N: idk how Australian school systems go by so I'm guessing year 12 is senior year ok bye) and I already know I'm going to graduate. I practically had straight A's since I could be enrolled in school. They should let me graduate early so I could get out of this hellhole.
The only reason I try hard in school is because I want my future to be better. I wanna get grades so I could go to a university, and then get a good job so I could get good money to support my mum and I more instead of me just relying on her.
Then maybe in my mid-twenties I'll move out and get my own place, so I could finally be alone. That's all I ever want - to be alone. But the thing is, you're never alone.
Because you're thoughts are always with you.
When I entered my first class, which was Maths, I sat all the way in the back, my usual spot. I was the only one in the class, except for my teacher Mr. Morgan, who sighed when he noticed me.
"Mr. Hemmings, how are you?" he asked, smiling.
He's my favorite teacher. He's the only teacher who doesn't give me shit for not talking to the other kids, and he's not afraid of me. He actually favors me since I'm the only one who behaves in the class - basically the only one who doesn't want to work in McDonald's when I'm forty.
