TOO GOOD ; Phan

e i g h t

TW (near the end)

A while ago, I loved art. My parents bought me art supplies, and I used them all of the time. Unfortunately, my life started crumbling apart around a year back. My parents fought all of the time and took their anger out on me. They were abusive, and I can assure you, they did not buy me art supplies then. The only chance I get now is in school because I don't have the money to spare to buy anything.

Phil straight up insulted people who actually enjoy art, so that's another reason on my non-existent list of reasons why I dislike him. That list could never actually exist, as there's not enough paper in the world for me to write it down.

Nothing else out-of-the-ordinary happened after art, it was all just the same as any other day in my life. People mocked me and called me names as I sat alone, trying to seem invisible, but it doesn't work. Some people may think I'm asking to be insulted because of what I wear, but girls can wear this kind of stuff without receiving crap from others; so why can't I?

Phil doesn't seem quite as scary as he did before I'd ever spoken to him, but that doesn't mean I like him. He's not scary like Kyle, Patrick, Anthony, and other jocks who beat the crap out of me, but instead, he's more of a 'never leaves his house because he's an antisocial punk who probably has connections with drug dealers' kind of scary. I don't know anything that we have in common either. He's punk, I'm pastel. He hates art, I love it. He's straight, or at least I think, and I'm gay. At least he's not a homophobe.

I take off my hoodie and t-shirt, revealing my bloody and bruised body. It's usually bloody anyway, but that's from stuff I've inflicted upon myself. I stare at my body in the mirror, and I hate it. I hate that my stomach sticks out, I hate my chubby cheeks and weird dimples. I hate my arms and legs, especially my thick thighs. I hate myself, which means that now I have nobody left that I love.

I strip off the rest of my clothes and climb into the shower, letting cold water painfully rain down onto battered skin. The water at the bottom of the shower is a pink-red colour, pigmented with my very own blood. I lean my head against the tiled wall of the bathroom while the water still pours down, and I cry. I allow my tears to mix with the water already there on my face. 

Before too much time has passed, and my fingers are begging to go wrinkly from the moisture, I stumble out of the shower, covering up my body with just a baggy t-shirt coming down my thighs, those stupid thighs, and a pair of plain black boxers. 

My face is tear-stained, thighs now seeping with blood after not being able to resist the razor blade on the side of the sink, so I cover myself with my duvet, trying to forget about my pain, but it's still there, and it will still haunt me in my dreams.