This story contains rape, suicidal thoughts, bullying, and drug abuse.
This story is initially very Sadstuck.
This story did not have a beta.
This story will have multiple chapters.
This story happens to be my first PB&J fic, and I'm sorry that it had to be like this.
This story can also be found on AO3.

Wake up, bathe, dress, get your shit together, then drag your sorry butt to work. Deal with moody patrons, restock the stacks, and avoid knocking over any book piles. Lock up, dinner alone, then home to watch reruns of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Cry like a baby when the house is revealed, then crawl into bed and hope tomorrow brings something different.

It never does.

This has been your routine since you moved into your apartment six months ago. You're used to living on your own now. At first, you were scared and excited, but now you're just scared and bored.

You're on your way to the diner you eat dinner in every night. You call it your favorite, but it's only really because they have a long counter that runs along the walls that you can put your chair under and eat on.

And maybe because their chicken nuggets taste like Jesus' nipples.

You snort a little at that simile. Your waiter looks at you like you might be choking. You smile at him and he walks away.

You hate faking smiles.

You think your last genuine smile was the day you thought you died.

You were bullied relentlessly in high school. You were mostly just teased, but a few boys would go out of their way to bother you.

You think it all started because of the secret your ex-best friend blabbed to her boyfriend, who had always hated you. He told his best friend, who read it on the school announcements over the intercom, which made 1,600 students instantly aware of your sexual preference.

Some of them didn't care. Some thought it was funny.

Some hated you. Some hunted you down in the hallway just to whisper in your ear that you were going to Hell. Some stared openly at you, teeth bared in an inhuman snarl. Some knocked your books out of your hands and called you awful names.

Nobody would help you pick them up.

But this one boy seemed to really hate you. And to be honest, you think you hated him back.

He would slap you, or grab your pencil off of your desk and snap it in half. Sometimes, if he saw you outside, he would throw rocks at your head.

He mostly just liked to push you. Shove you around in the hallway. "Accidentally" push your lunch into the trash can. Slam your head down into the water fountain (which sometimes made the water run red and taste like copper).

One day, you just got sick of it. He pushed you. You crashed into a wall and your head collided with the unforgiving brick of your school building.

You rallied your courage and smiled to yourself. Today, you'd finally get him back for all the shit he put you through. Today, you'd show him how it felt to kiss the concrete. Today, you would have justice.

You charged.

You pushed him back. He was stronger than you. He grabbed your arm and slammed you back into the wall. He spun you around and kicked your legs out from underneath you. You sprawled forward. Hurt, bloody, and scared, you tried to crawl away.

And then, the bus came.

You look down at your lap, at your stupid, flimsy legs. Broken, useless, just like the rest of you.

You are paralyzed, and have not tried to stand up for yourself since then.

It's been three years.

Your sigh is laced with self-loathing and you scarf down the rest of your nuggets. You leave the cash on the table ($4.13; you know without looking at the bill), and wheel your way out the door.

You're a block from your apartment when your chair jolts to a stop. You look up at the man who's gripping the handles.

"Hey, cripple. How much money you got on you?"

This is not the first time you have been mugged. You know by now it is better to just hand over your cash than attempt to run away. You glance at the scar on your forearm from the time one man said you were "taking too long," and stabbed you. The three dollars in your pocket are not worth another ten stitches.

"Um," you stutter, God damn your stupid speech impediment, "I only have, maybe, a few dollars left."

"Enough to buy a bus ticket? I gotta get a ride somewhere."

You stop to consider this. "No, I, uh, don't really think so."

The mugger hums thoughtfully. "Well, I guess I'll just have to ride you."

Your chair is turned forcefully and the man begins wheeling you into an alley.

Ice runs through your veins. This is new. This has never happened before. You try to reach for the brake on your chair, but still when you feel cold steel on your throat.

"What do you think you're doing? You gotta pay me somehow, cripple."

Your chair is stopped again and you are unceremoniously dumped forward onto the ground. Your face slides on the gravel and the sharp sting of rocks on your skin brings tears to your eyes. You are pushed down flat (eerily similar to the position you were in when the bus hit you. Funny, how life keeps fucking you over, literally and figuratively), then something hard like concrete is placed under your hips. You cry out. You hope someone hears you.

Your legs, your fucking useless legs, are lifted slightly and spread apart. You are divested of your favorite cargo shorts and your boxers are yanked down around your knees.

You can feel the concrete block stabbing into your thighs and stomach. You feel a cold breeze against your exposed skin and shiver. You feel a colder, rough hand grab your hips and pull your legs open. You feel hot breath on your back as he laughs and grips your thighs hard enough to bruise. You feel the impact of wet spit hit you and the blunt head of an unwelcome bit of anatomy shove past the protective ring of muscles and you scream. You feel him push in deeper, using the blood you didn't know was flowing from you as lubricant, as his dick rips through the skin in places you yourself had never explored.

You wish you could stop feeling.

The tears are rushing down your cheeks and you scream and yell and wait for someone to come and save you.

Why is nobody coming to save you?

You feel him push in a few more times, until he suddenly pulls out.

He walks around to stand in front of you, and, looking you straight in the eyes, jerks himself off furiously.

He comes on your face.

He laughs.

He zips up his ratty jeans and leaves.

All you can do is cry.

The way you are laying makes it virtually impossible to reach your shorts and pull them back on. The road here is at somewhat of an incline, so your chair has rolled away to rest at the mouth of the alleyway. Your skin is numb and your back hurts worse than anything ever has before.

Worse than the bus.

You cry and cry and try to scream for help but your throat is just as raw as the rest of you and you can't even move enough to pull yourself into the fetal position.

Nobody will find you here.

Then again, nobody will be looking for you.

You let out another helpless wail and wish for the man to come back and kill you.

You wish you had something you could use to do it yourself.

You feel the breeze kick up and the wet spots on your skin chill you to the bone.

And then, mercifully, blackness.