Whore.

Chapter 3: Scotch

"Have you been drinking?" He was genuinely concerned. Maybe the smell of scotch gave it away.

"Yeah, what's it to you?"
"You're still not of age, you know."
"Shut up." My head was pounding now. I had not eaten since yesterday morning at the cafe, and now I was running on empty. I suddenly felt the urge to vomit again and I retched, but nothing came out. Swash sat beside me.

"Here" He handed me the glass of water. I drank it. It was sweet. Sprite. I gulped it down and felt a little better as the ache in my stomach was gone. I relaxed my head on the couch as my eyes started to close. Swash held my hand. He was warm. I felt cold and shuddered a bit, before I pulled my hand away. He looked me in the eyes.

"I did you wrong, I admit it. But I was young and stupid, and too self-absorbed to care what my actions did to other people. I'm really sorry for the things I did to you, Michael."
"Why didn't you say all this four years ago, when we met on the street?"
"I didn't know how to apologize. And I was still pretty much the same jerk. I was out of high school for barely a year. I didn't even know what was happening to you. If I'd known, maybe..."
"-Maybe you'd have been guilt-tripped enough to just do the right thing?"

Swash grew silent. I stared at him intently. Six years. We were in the same high school six years ago. He was a senior and I was a sophomore. I was a little young, I know. Fourteen as a sophomore was rare, but I was smart and I pulled the grades. I was also sexually confused at the time. Swash was in my brother's class, so we had talked a few times. My brother was seventeen, and essentially a genius sportsman. I rarely thought about him these days. It was too painful.

"So...what happened? To you, I mean?"
"Like you don't know already."
"I don't. I only heard during graduation but nobody said much. So I want to know." He had settled in the couch and was looking intently at me. I guess I could talk for a while, if talking helped me remain conscious. I really didn't want to sleep here, comfy as it was, but I was also too tired to move. I took a deep breath and began my story.

Swash was changing in the locker room as I looked at him. He was handsome, and the high school definition of hot. And he was always surrounded by cheerleaders, also making him the epitome of high school clichés. Rippling muscles, a natural tan and auburn brown hair, with moss-green deep-set eyes and a light beard. He had a good amount of body hair too, being a year older than most of his classmates. The 14-year-old sexually-confused me just ogled on, dreamily. We had gym class, and it was one of those rare instances where schedules collided. I was staring at Swash's crotch as he wore his shirt, until his loud voice jerked me out of my ogle-fest.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" he sounded angry. I went red with embarrassment. He took powerful strides over to me and slammed the locker beside my head, releasing a high-pitched yelp. I looked into his angry eyes, more scared than I had been my entire life. He grabbed my hair in a fist, making me cry out in pain.

"You're a little faggot aren't you?" He bellowed as he dragged me along, pulling me towards others who were beginning to stare. He threw me in front of the crowd that had gathered. I landed on my outstretched hand and was sure I heard something crack before I winced in pain. The boys gathered around me started asking questions silently.

"This little fag was checking me out!"
"No, I wasn't!"
"I SAW YOU!" I was too scared to argue. I started to whimper. A hand grabbed me from behind and spun me around. It was Rodney Stiles, my personal bully, whose main beef with me was that I was three years younger than him in the same class. My intelligence annoyed him for some reason. He slapped me hard across the face, glad to have an excuse to hit me.

"You a li'l faggot ain't ya?' He punched me in the abdomen and I fell over, vomiting. It hurt so badly, I couldn't see. Some other people joined in hitting me. I rolled over in pain and looked up to see Swash towering over me menacingly. A slight smile formed as he watched me get trashed for being gay. Then he walked away and left me at their mercies.

"What's going on here?!" The gym teacher bellowed. I was left alone. Nobody owned up to anything and I ended up in the infirmary. My parents were called. I couldn't tell them what had happened. I didn't know how they'll take it. They pestered me for hours and eventually gave up. My brother visited me that night in my room. He had heard from the other boys and said that I was just confused, that the phase would pass. I wanted to believe him, but I felt somehow that it was hopeless. I had never felt anything for a girl in my life. I had tried to sleep through the pain.

By the next day, everyone had heard. I was the victim of snide remarks, shoving and abuse. Some girls looked at me with pity, others with disgust. Every guy looked at me with disgust. At the end of that day, I couldn't take it anymore. So I ran away from the town. I was away for over three days, sleeping in odd spots and using whatever money I had with me to get food. I was lost and confused, going nowhere in particular. Then I saw myself on the news as I walked past a TV shop. My parents were crying to the reporter. I felt tightness in my chest; they didn't deserve to suffer for my mistakes. But I wasn't sure I could go back. I eventually decided to, hoping to convince my parents that I wanted to move to a new school. Then I went home. And...

I choked as I stared at Swash with tear-filled eyes. He looked guilty and averted his gaze. I didn't want to continue. He made me relive the entire experience, and I didn't want to go back there. Some things were supposed to be forgotten. I turned over in the couch and stared at the three paintings of the lines. They coursed in wavy paths, continuing to change colour as they continued through all three canvasses. That's how life should be. Move out of one phase and change yourself. Keep changing, keep moving. Don't stop and be the same colour. I sniffed as I wiped my eyes. I was a different painting. I didn't need the stains of the old one.

"So what happened?"

I looked back at him. His eyes were solemn and sad. Well, they better be, I wasn't telling a fucking comedy here. I took a deep breath and continued.

When I got home, the police were in front of my house. An officer saw me return and made some radio transmissions to signal my arrival. An ambulance squad came over and some paramedics checked me out. Other than the stink from not showering for three days, I was fine. And feeling stupid. Getting away had not accomplished anything. When they were done, I wanted to go back into the house but they stopped me, claiming I had to write a statement or something. I didn't understand. I wasn't kidnapped or robbed, just a runaway. I wrote the statement but they still stopped me from going into the house. Then a woman came to me. She said she was from social services. I didn't understand anymore. I felt my worst fears were becoming reality: My parents have abandoned me after hearing I was gay. They want nothing more to do with me, and so insisted that I should never be brought back to the house even after I was found. The woman from social services is here to take me into foster care. How could they just leave me like that? Weren't they going to be prosecuted or something? I was terrified. All I knew was my home in this town and now that was also going to be taken from me. I had no remaining friends, no family and no life. I slumped to the ground and cried, demanding to see my mother, to apologize. I would be straight. I'll be straight for everyone. I didn't care anymore; I just couldn't stand to lose them too. They consoled me.

And they told me my parents and brother had died.

They died while searching for me.