What comes next?

Just for being different, people can mock you and laugh. Just for finding a creative way to express yourself, they can snigger and smirk. Singing, drawing or playing an instrument. People can pick on you for the things that you love and the things that make you feel whole. This is a story of bullying.

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1. Just another day in hell

Walking down the corridors, eyes stare, piercing into my very skull. Manipulating my brain, they twist and pull at my thoughts, contorting them until I believe I am nothing more than what they make me. With my bag hunched across my shoulder, the weight of a thousand books pressing on my back are not the only thing that brings me down. I look up just to be met with more sneering faces, pointing and laughing at me. My clothes. My face. My hair. My body. Everything seems to be wrong with me. Whenever I spend months trying to break and re-master myself, they always pinpoint my troubles and bring them to the surface, making me look even more pathetic. I pull my long, black fridge over my bright green eyes and proceed down the whirling vortex of hell. Fists, kicks, spitting and scratching. I see a leg stab out in front of me and before I have the chance to react, I am sent flying. I land on the floor in a depressed heap of decomposition. It seems like hours before the books and papers I was carrying shamefully meet with me. Even my own creations want to escape me; I am nothing. The world around me erupts as I snap out of my faze. A blur of laughter mixed with a few pitiful faces fill the school, the sounds bouncing off the walls only to be reflected back into my ears, ringing and ringing. Their words of abuse fill my ears and their words, like lyrics down on a paper, are etched into my mind. I sit for minutes, host to their mind torture and repetitive harsh tones of laughter before a blonde, slim girl walks up to me and kneels softly by the ground beside me. 

Obviously oblivious to my work and papers around me, she crouches on my bag and books as she looks down to my arms, tightly folded on my chest. With her cold and heartless hands, she tears apart my hands to retrieve the one book most precious to me. The one book that I made sure I didn't let fall to the ground. My one sense of pride and release. As her fingers grab around the book, I find my arms trying to hit her, punch her, scratch her. Anything I can to keep my thoughts, my expressions and last of all, my last scraps of dignity. Predicatively, two over-powered jocks grab me by the black collar of my t-shirt while a third grabs me by my blue tie, pinning me up to the harsh, freezing metal of the locker. One punches me hard in the stomach, taking the air and right of speech out of my mouth. I look up, my eyes stained red with tears of pain as I spit a glob of bright blood on to the chewing gun-stained carpets. Of course, this causes just another reaction of cheers and smiles of dagger teeth from the humor possessed spectators. My whole bodies turns numb as I feel the book slowly slipping from my black-polished fingernails. Another unexpected punch to my face causes my body to jutter to the left as the jock lifts me from the ground so my legs are dangling, leaving me coughing up my lungs and clawing at his arms for air. The blond smirks and sees her moment, scuttling over like a hungry animal to my blood stained book, lying below my frantically kicking feet.

  

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