Straight in a Crooked World (Teen Fiction/Dystopian)

Chapter 2

***Jason

 The emotion, horror, etched on Ashlia’s face became obvious as it permanently burned itself into my mind. I attempt to stand up on the blood splattered floor, but my shaking legs give out on me. “Come on Jason, we’ll worry about the pain when we get home,” I cheer myself on. Pulling against the little handles on the lockers, as if I were rock climbing, I manage to get back to my feet.

Through a long process of falling and getting up, much like a child learning to walk, I finally make it to the bathroom. Holding myself up against the wall, I pull against the door, reviving the agonizing ache in my shoulder. My foot holds the door open, and I manage to wiggle my skinny frame through. My weak legs finally give in and I collapse, face first into a paper towel full of sticky who knows what.

My arms crack and grind as I pull myself up against the porcelain white sink. I do not want to look at myself in the mirror. I do not want to see the damage Nick and his goons have done to my face. As if I don't hate myself, my face, enough Nick causes me more worry. “Nick can do whatever he wants to you Jason,” the voices taunt. “You are worthless. There is no need for you in this world. Everybody, including Ashlia, would be better-off without you.”

 I lean over the bathroom sink and splash my face with water, hoping to stop the devil voices in my head. I rub furiously, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulder and the constant stinging of open cuts and bruises. The perfect clear water of Solae instantly turns a light tint of red from my blood, slowly escaping into the new, spotless pipes. Holding myself up against the sink, I brace myself for the damage. My hair, which I keep saying I will cut, extends over my eyes in straight strands. I find myself having to pull it out of my face just so I can see myself in the mirror. With a deep breath, I look up at the shiny glass. The mirror could crack at the sight of my face

 Both my eyes are swollen and dark bruises have already begun to form around them. The large gash by my temple has started to bleed again, dripping into my ear. My nose is crooked, pushed too far to the right. With a deep breath in, I firmly grab my nose between my thumb and index finger. With a scream of pure agony I push it to the left. Surprisingly, I manage to stay on my feet.

Nick is always trying to find some way to hurt me, emotionally mostly, but never had it been physical until now. I cannot believe we used to be best friends. He had been my only friend. Ever since first grade, Nick and I were inseparable. We spent every minute we could together. We rode our bikes down the street, swam in his pool, slept over at each other’s houses. I used to think of Nick’s fathers as mine too. However, the summer before freshmen year Nick went to live with his uncle. When he came back, everything about him had changed. His long, shaggy, dark brown hair, much like mine, was now cut short and spiked in the front. His weak arms were now built with muscle. Three months of summer can definitely change someone. Before, he was all about video games and cartoons; we would spend hours playing on my game consul. Now, he is all about football and, according to rumors, fantastic sex. Puberty did him well I suppose.

The first day of ninth grade he was talking to all his newly recruited friends. I thought nothing of it and went up to him and said, “Hey how was your uncle’s?” He contemplated rather he should reply or not, looking back and forth between his new friends and I. Finally he said “Fuck off nerd.” At that moment, I knew I no longer had a best friend, my only friend. He became one of them, the generic Solae population and I became their source of entertainment. The only thing I got in return is the privilege of being a nobody. I do not understand how someone you thought you knew so well can change so much in a few months. I despise him, not only for the humiliation he has put me through, but also for the three years I have spent friendless since.

 I drag my aching bruised shell out of the bathroom. Though it is a strain with every step, I regain motion in my legs. In moments, I reach the blue door with “Nurse” spelled in bright white letters. My bruised hand hesitates over the silver handle. Through the clear window I can see the nurse, a large boned African – American man. His short, curly black hair is speckled with gray spots. His dark brown eyes seem welcoming, but so do Nick’s. Dropping my hand, I limp past the front office, out the entrance doors, and across the parking lot. It is no surprise to me that no adult came to my aide, rumors spread quickly in this town and nobody wants to get entangled in heterosexual matters.