What If Being Gay, Wasn't Such a Bad Thing?

What If Being Transgender, Wasn't Such a Bad Thing?

I look at myself in my full length mirror, in the corner of my room. My long hair drapes over my striped grey jacket. I wish I could get it cut. Mom wouldn't let me though, she would say it looks too boyish.
But what if that's what I want.
What if I want to be a boy?
That would be the best thing ever.

I hurry up, grab my bag that's leaning against the mirror, and walk out of my room.
The hallway is barren like always. Ever since dad died, mom just doesn't get out of bed until one. I don't even know if she's awake, she just might be staring off into space, wondering why it had to be this way.
Sigh.
I jog down the stairs, and exit the door, to go to wretched school.
My beanie, protecting the back of my head from the cold nearly falls off from the wind. I just whip it off and stuff it in my pocket.
Five blocks in this weather can hurt somebody. I see children in the windows of their houses, pointing and laughing at me. They're not laughing because I'm walking with hardly not enough layers, but because I simply look different to them.
I wear baggy jeans.
Dull colored clothing.
My bangs sweep across my forehead.

I look like an emo- stereotypical seventeen year old boy.
But instead I'm an emo- stereotypical seventeen year old girl.
Who wants to be an emo- stereotypical seventeen year old boy.

I turn right on sixth street, dreading what I know what's coming.
I pull on my hood, and quickly shuffle past the group of troublesome teenagers, who seem to be drinking from a brown paper bag.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?...Freak." One of them says, while they all walk up slowly to me, fists clenched.
"I'm just trying to get to school guys. Please. Leave me alone. Not today."
I'm practically begging, while being backed up into a brick wall. That's when one of the four guys, swings up his muscular arm towards my face.
I fly to the ground, and reach for the bruise that I know is on my cheek. Before I could even lift my hand, I feel a sharp stab at my stomach. And another. And another. And another.
You could count the bruises that have been left on me, in the past two months.
Dad would always drive me to school, because we couldn't afford another car. And I couldn't take the bus because I'm just not good when I'm around other people. I hyperventilate and start to panic. The doctor says I have anxiety, Dad said I just love living so much that I breathed more than everyone else.
But in reality, I don't wanna breathe more than everyone else.
I don't wanna breathe at all.

A coppery, taste starts to form in my mouth. I cough some more and I can't open my eyes to see it, because the pain hurts so much, but I know it's blood.
The kicking stops, and I lay there, on the cold grounded cement, against a brick wall.
I hear footsteps start pounding away from me, simultaneously I hear cop sirens.
I open my eyes for a brief moment to let the cops know I'm not dead, but I might as well be. They look at me with hope, something that I don't have.
I close my eyes again because keeping them open is too tiring.
"We're gonna find who did this, okay kid?"
One of them say to me as I'm being lifted onto a gurney.
I cough up some more blood as I'm being rushed into the back of a big white truck.
I close my eyes and pray to die.
Right here, on this gurney, right now.

Unfortunately, He didn't hear me, and decided to not answer. I'm still breathing. I feel like shit though, and it's not okay.
I'm put in this room, with a lot of people in white coats.

The last time I was in a hospital, was when dad was hurt. Four hours later he died in his sleep.

Four hours later, I'm still here. Still living, still breathing. Still not wanting to live, still not wanting to breathe. I feel better. The copper taste is still there, though not as prominent as before.
They told me to rest and so I did. Although I think they gave me something to make me fall asleep quicker but I don't mind, I needed a good nap. My bag is on the chair next to me. Containing all of my depression poems and anxiety stories. I want to write, but I can't move my hands or my arms. I'm too weak.