𝔍𝔞𝔯𝔞'𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔤𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨

#7

No need to imagine
'Cause I know it's true
They say all good boys go to Heaven
But bad boys bring Heaven to you

Julia Michaels, "Heaven" 🎵

*

"We meet again, faggot."

What's riveting about the whole thing is how utterly thirsty he looks to bulldoze my poor, black face with his ironclad fist. I mean, he already considers me a wimp. How can someone be so dedicated to tormenting someone who wasn't even as strong as his reflection? Why'd it have to be me, really?

I don't have the luxury of time or personal space to continue my musings as Lake Tiller suddenly rams his body straight into mine, my back so cruelly slamming against the lockers that I hope to Jesus Himself I don't fracture anything significant. He shackles my wrist in his jammed fist, his eyes now glinting with crude malice. "I'm so going to love every bit of this."

I gulp frightfully, my body jittering in expectant horror. "Wh—What d-d-ddd-do y-you want with m-me?" I don't think I'm making concrete sense, am I?

He relaxes a bit and I begin to conceive the thought that our conversation might actually be a civil one—and by "civil", I meant only passionate enough not to escalate into a full-fledged punching session where I'd unfortunately be the bag. I realise I'm only being unreasonably optimistic: his fist, fully tightened, lodges itself into my stomach; the impact of which causes me to screech. "Let's see," he begins. "That's right, I hate fags." Another punch lands on my stomach; this one is followed by a violent kick to my shin, causing me to topple and crash onto the floor like the bloody twin towers.

I wheeze hoarsely. "I haven't even done anything with any guy here! If this is about Ash, then you should know he's got a girlfriend now." I try to defend myself further, but he kicks again, hitting my knee. Thank God I'm in trousers, else my pain would've been unending. He poises his foot for another kick and I freakishly wiggle away.

"So you've still got a fight left in you, huh?" He yanks me by my collar and I'm either that lightweight or this guy is outrightly Hercules straight out of the pages of Roman mythology. When he pins me to the wall, I see his face inching towards mine, his hands still clasping my wrists. It's precisely at that instant that I feel his hot breaths against my face and his thighs pressing against mine. He's heaving; and with every motion, his chest rubs against mine. I'm flustered when I feel my shaft thickening in the insides of my trousers.

"This isn't about Ash, it's about Trey." He talks. "The guy's been distracted all week long, so I took the liberty to find out why." I feel another murderous punch and I scream an octave higher than usual. Why can't anyone hear me?

Lake clicks his tongue, his face holding a ridiculing smirk. "Soundproofing really did a number on this place."

Oh, that's why. Well then. Good Jesus, I'm coming home any moment now. I hope You don't make me do time in Purgatory.

He backs away briefly, his hand reaching into his pockets and pulling out Trey's phone. Seeing it, I'm suddenly smitten with discovery. "I asked Trey if he's got some drab who's been boning the senses out of him, but he swore he had none. So I simply borrowed his phone and look what I found!" His facial features wear an affected surprise as an exaggerated gasp escapes his lips. His fingers grip my neck and he slugs my head against a locker. "He's been texting you multiple times a day. "

"How's that even my fault?" My voice is guttural as I cough the words.

"You're taking advantage of our star player, that's how!" He slaps me, his gnarls like some feral animal in heat.

"That doesn't even make any sen—"

I'm immediately tossed to the floor like some chemistry textbook on the last day of school. "You are going to quit it with the texting or..." His foot is directly placed atop my crotch. At that point, I realise I'm in more trouble than my sixteen year-old body, currently on a domestically imposed fast, can stand before advancing to something that would require a medic. "... I'll make sure this never gets hard again."

My face is thoroughly reddened, both with pain and embarrassment. He noticed my hard-on? Yay for me! Now he'll go around spreading the good news of my unplanned erectione with the rest of the football team. Freaking hell, he'd do it with the rest of the school!

"Please let me go. Please." My gaze is imploring. All he does is withdraw his leg, almost dangerously close to squashing my family jewels, and randomly kicks my enfeebled body. I'm in the most irregular kind of pain: I'm being attacked in all directions and pain blasts me sporadically. Alright, this is it. He might just cripple me here and now.

I can't seem to understand why, but I have the most impulsive urge to call on my patron. I know, I'm a cheesy, hyper-sentimental Catholic boy who invokes Saints. Ugh. I don't expect him to somehow appear like the bloody wizard of Oz, but I know he'll bring me help one way or another. And so, with every shred of faith, I shut my eyes.

"Saint John, please help me." My plea is muffled by pain.

I don't think I've remained pressed down for up to ten minutes when my eyes catch a partly open locker, from which dangles the faint outline of what is likely a hockey stick. On sighting it, I feel a distinct spurt of strength. I wriggle forward, my hand grappling the thing like my life depended on it—which it probably did. I wrench myself up and I hear Lake guffaw all over the place.

"Aww, Cinderella wants to hit me?" He jokes. But before he utters more trash, I shakily approach him. Gripping the end tightly and thinking of Saint John, I fling my arm, my eyes shut.

I hear hardwood crash against bones. When I open my eyes, Lake is on the floor, yelling out pained obscenities. I don't stop; I continue to thwack him, the image of Dad whipping me displaying in my mind. I bash him until I suddenly feel whatever had overwhelmed me release me. At that time, I notice that Lake Tiller is unconscious.

I'm steeped in panic, my already bruised face dripping with cold sweats. I unstrap the keys from his waist and, my hands trembling feverishly, I open the door and bolt out. I don't get very far; my pain restricts me from moving any further. I see a guy ravenously kissing a girl and pulling her into the room I just left.

I blend in with the crowd, spotting Reese and returning to her. But just as I'm about to voice something out, I hear an ear-splitting shriek.

"Lake Tiller is bleeding."

†

Alright everyone, that's it! Do you guys still think Jara's weak?

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