No one really got you.
Of course, they didn't ever really know what you were saying. Not many people speak sign language. And with your lack of voice, people didn't even bother to listen to you.
Bro used to.
Bro used to always be around to talk to. He never treated you any different, and he always talked in sign language to make you feel less weird.
But Bro couldn't do that forever. Right before he stopped talking to you, you discovered the internet. Of course, there were other things you could do - draw and music.
But suddenly it wasn't just Bro talking to you. Once you got pesterchum, other people did too.
You didn't feel as lonely as you used to.
You grew more detached from Bro, and he from you. On the web you had a voice - a voice that rang loud and clear. You got a blog and when Bro got you a tablet, posted all your shitty ironic comics. People followed you. People /liked/ you.
You weren't so alone.
But then school got worse. You weren't simply ignored when you started high school. That you could deal with.
You were bullied.
It wasn't physical either. That you could have dealt with, too. Bro had taught you plenty.
No. It was the words.
People would whisper behind your back. You never thought being trans or mute was a big deal before - sure, being mute was a pain, but you'd get by; and you knew you'd get a male body eventually.
Nobody else got it, and those who did didn't want to be associated with "that kid".
The words got to you. You stopped drawing your ironic cartoons; stopped putting out your ill beats. Instead you made serious artwork filled with blacks and reds and blues, and wrote slam poetry. You could never truly say them, but you mouthed them and signed them.
People started asking you questions, as a joke, a dare, a laugh.
Are you a dyke?
What's with the shades?
You believe in hell? (Cause that's where you're going.)
It always got a rise out of the others. One day, you were trying to ask a girl to work with you - her assigned partner - and she said, "Sorry, I'm not a lesbian."
You were so sick and tired of being treated like shit.
You punched her in the face. You would have done more if you weren't immediately kicked out of class.
You were suspended for a week.
When Bro picked you up, you expected a strife. You got a fist pump and your choice of dinner for the night.
It only got worse.
It got too much worse.
For the first time in your life, at fifteen years old, you put a lighter to your skin and it felt good.
You started out small. A burn here, a burn there, places people wouldn't see - you weren't that stupid.
You wrote and wrote and drew and drew. You spent most of your time online, talking to your friends - especially John and Karkat.
You turned sixteen in December. In April your self harm had reached it's peak. You were ready for suicide - but every time you tried, Karkat talked you out of it.
A student exposé came out, and you signed yourself up instead.
You wrote a new piece. You sent it to Karkat, and told him not to read it - not till the night.
When the night came, and it was your turn to take the stage, people rolled their eyes. But you set up your cables and tables and computer and screens. Karkat popped up on the big screen.
You started playing your hands over your tables, playing your music, and he started to speak.
The combination of his raspy voice, calm and steady, reading your words, and your haunting, lilting music was incredible. The words told your story, with Karkat holding back his angry commentary, emotion glaringly obvious in his voice. His sadness at your misfortune, his rage at those who had hurt you. He choked a little when you talked about him - the sweet nothings you wrote down, laying down how you felt for him without saying a word.
It went just as you planned it to. He finished speaking right before you finished playing. There was a beat of silence.
One by one, people clapped.
The girl you had punched was the first one. She stood up and put her hands together slowly, looking upset. Her friends joined her, and soon the entire auditorium was clapping for you. Karkat cut out. You stood there in shock before gaining the sense to gather your things up.
You got first prize, a plaque, and the first hug from Bro you'd had in years.
You also gained +1 angry boyfriend.
You didn't get better immediately, but you found it a lot easier to cope. Bro started paying attention to you again. You didn't get bullied as much at school. Dating Karkat helped too - his reassurances that he liked you, that if he didn't want to be with you he would have left already. You got to stay with him in Arizona for a month, and found that he was deaf. You conversed in sign language a lot.
Things weren't perfect. You weren't all better.
But they were beautiful times.