Opposites

What would the world be like if Gay was right, and straight was wrong? This story follows the lives of a group of friends.

Just as a heads up, I am writing this on a google.docs with my best friend, Emily M. (last name hidden for safety) and you can find her on Tumblr at @artzypaw. We are writing this story together.

Please leave suggestions and POSITIVE reviews.

Love you!

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13. Nicole

When I wake up, Paul is gone, probably out drinking. Lionel is throwing up, and Linda is comforting him. She made burnt toast for breakfast. Today is friday, and I look in the mirror to get dressed and brush my hair. I brush out my thick, blonde hair. I notice the bags under my eyes. They aren't super bad, but they are more predominant.

I didn’t sleep last night. The red mark on my face is still there, but it’s fading. I gingerly touch the lines across my cheek and I flinch to the sting.

“Nicole , get in here now.” My Aunt screams from across the apartment. I place everything I had out into my bag and run to the room where Lionel is arched over a bucket.

“Go to school early. Lionel is staying home, he’s really sick. Ditch seminar and come straight home, got it?” I nod. “I have to go meet my husband at his ‘office’ later today and I need someone to watch my son, got it?” She asks again and I nod, again.

“I’ll see you later.” I wave and sprint out, freeing myself from that hell-bound home. Please, be at school Fae…

 

 

 

 

The school was empty, dead silent and it was only thirty minutes until teachers started to walk in. Heading toward my locker I saw Fae, surprisingly. I ran to her, leaving my bags behind and engulfed her in a hug.

“I’m sorry!” I pressed my face into her shoulder, squeezing her frame while my body trembles. “I d-didn’t know how you’d react! I thought you already k-knew!” I felt my face heat up and my eyes grow blurry with a warm liquid. Fae rests her chin on me and strokes my hair.

“You don’t have to apologize, Nickel. I’m never going to leave you.” Lifting my head up, I face her beautiful auburn eyes. They quickly turn into a frown.

“Your face…” She puts her hand on my cheek and I wince, still sensitive. “Who hit you?!”

“No one…” I lie.

“Oh really? Then why is there a hand imprinted in your cheek?! Was it your Uncle? He’s mean and all, but that’s pushing it!” Fae grew defencive and started to inspect the rest of my body, patting and pulling my clothes while at it.

“I was trying to feed Lionel and he saw my sandwich.” I whisper, my throat clogged from my puffy eyes.

“That a-”

“It’s okay! It won’t happen again!” I shriek as Fae takes a deep breath.

“I don’t believe you, or your uncle, but I’ll be patient. If he hurts you again, I’m calling the Police.” I nod.

“Thank you.” I press a kiss onto her head softly and return to my bags, shoving most of them into my locker.

She lightly touches the mark and utters under her breath “I’ll kill that bastard if he touches her again.”

I get my stuff and head to art.

 

 

 

 

    Art with Mr. Castellaneta is never boring. He makes everything we do seem so important. ‘Someday, one of you will be the next Da Vinci,’ and ‘You can’t mix the paint, it ruins the integrity of the painting!’  

He helps me realise that I am a great artist. “Nicole , you can paint sorrow onto the faces of children like you’ve grown up around it!” He applauds me. He has no clue about Paul and my aunt. Or even poor Lionel. Another word, “Nicole , you are one of my favorite artists in this class! You seem to put so much emotion into your work, how do you do it?” I’d never know what to say for those kinds of questions. Would I spill out my guts, confront my Uncle in front of the whole class? Would I just tell them about how I’m screwed up, but look perfectly fine compared to my girlfriend Fae with her black clothes and eyeliner?

He asks again, “Oh my dear Nicole , the heart of this class, how are you so dark in your masterpieces but look so bright and beautiful.” My stomach squeezes and I feel lightheaded. Looking around me, I see everyone in a blur or as two. What feels like spinning, I look back to my art teacher who gives me a concerned look.

“Are you alright?” He asks, taking hold of my arms and digging his fingers into my skin for support.

“N-Nurse…” And I feel my body regurgitate the little food I had for dinner last night, spilling it all over the floor and on my teacher’s new vans.

 
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