Splintery rays of light filter through the gaps between your deep red curtains and the windowsill, probing you awake mere minutes before your alarm is scheduled to go off. You roll over, disentangling your limbs from the comforter as you reach to turn the alarm off before it can bitch at you now that you're already up. You groggily unplug your phone from the iHome on your bedstand, flicking your thumb across the screen and inputting your code. 1-2-0-3, the birthdate you share with your older brother. In 208 days you'll be seventeen. It's exactly 6:48 AM, though you had already known that as you not only swipe across the screen for wakeup but also disable the alarm itself so that it won't go off later.
You set it aside, ignoring the six or seven texts you accumulated overnight while you throw off the covers and stumble from your bed. Solely in your red and black boxer briefs you push the bedroom door open with your shoulder, quietly heading downstairs to the one bathroom in this crappy apartment. Your brother isn't and will not be up until this afternoon at least, having returned home only hours ago himself. He works nights at Beforus, a club on the other side of town.
Grabbing a red towel you slip into the shower, not bothering to wait for it to get warmer. You smear toothpaste across the bristles of your toothbrush and shine those pearly whites, while the water heats up soothingly against your back. It makes you relax and you start shifting through your mental wardrobe, wondering what to wear today. Late September, starting to get chilly but you don't need a heavy jacket just yet. You wash your hair, the scent of apples and cinnamon flooding the small space along with your quiet humming of Panic! at the Disco.
The moment ten minutes have passed you shut the water off, drying your pale skin with the towel before wrapping it around your waist and grabbing a comb. You use the hand towel to wipe condensation from the glass, deep crimson eyes staring back at you. Running the comb through your hair momentarily you grab your hairdryer, flicking it on and feeling the hot air rush across the side of your head. The stringy, damp yellow locks slowly become golden blond waves, silky to the touch as you comb them. You smile slightly to yourself, you've always loved your hair.
Unplugging the hairdryer you head upstairs, your perfect sense of time keeping you informed on when you have to leave for school. You pick out a pair of black flare jeans, red belt, white tee shirt and red windbreaker along with the bright red scarf you were gifted last birthday. You top it off with red converse and a pair of aviators, clipping your wallet to your belt and slipping your phone into your pocket. Sending quick messages of 'cool talk to you later' or 'omw to school' to your friends. Sliding your black beats around your neck as you walk downstairs and quietly close and lock the door behind you before turning on your music. Video Games by T¥P comes on first and you smile to yourself, humming along with it as you walk.
It's only a few blocks to school, and your long legs allow you to span that in a matter of minutes. You get through 40 Years of Gaming by Dan Bull and Hot Mess by Cobra Starship before you arrive, just getting to the drop of Flesh by Simon Curtis when you step into the school. You expertly weave through the filling hallways to your locker, number 778. 23-09-17 to open it, tossing in your lunchbox and backpack. You slip your headphones down to your neck, just barely getting warning of approaching footsteps before the door is slammed into your head, forcing it against the corner of the locker next to yours.
The illusion shatters as you flinch, yelping in pain. Your assailant trips you, laughing derisively as you hit the floor with a thump. You scrabble to get up but he lands a swift kick to your stomach. You're winded, everything is blurry and the only word echoing in your ears is 'faggot'.
Your chest heaves and your stomach aches. He's caught you off guard, granted it was a Monday but you mentally curse yourself for not being prepared. There's nothing you can really do anyways, he's much bigger and stronger than you are. You instinctively cover your head with your hands as he steps on your neck, the sharp cracking sound of your expensive headphones shattering making you wince. Then his foot shoves the sharp splinters of plastic into your flesh like a brick, some of them making it past the collar of your jacket and drawing blood. You cough and flail, trying to shove him away but he simply grabs you by your golden locks and pulls hard, making you whimper at the pain and then suddenly the two of you are face-to-face. He's laughing.
"Faggot. Fuckin' freak faggot, too."
Your eyes. You know he's talking about them. When you were younger, maybe in kindergarten, you remember the other boys and girls fawning over your eyes as if they were cool. Many have complimented you on them in your lifetime but ten times as many have called you freak, or demon, or monster. You've learned to live with them, but it's an extra little bite to his detriment.
You know you'll get a much worse beating for it but it helps you keep composure when you bite back.
"Nice use of alliteration, Lucas. It's a wonder you failed English."
He scowls, using his grip on your hair to smash your face into the door of the locker next to yours. You contemplate just how lucky you are that you hit the flat part, in the interim before he brings his knee sharply up between your legs and your world is splintered into pain. You collapse into a ball on the cold floor, howling your complaint as he laughs and walks away, leaving you with your hands protecting what has suddenly become much more important than your head.
Minutes pass before the bell rings, and you're going to be late once again. A groan rumbles from your throat as you stand slowly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and flinging your locker shut. Your shades are cracked and on the floor but you slip them on anyways, sniffing and wiping blood from your nose as you walk through the emptying halls to your first class.

So... That's chapter one of B3 for you. I've been trying out a new method, putting you, the reader, into the mind and body of one Dave Strider. Did it work? Did you feel connected with him? Did it break your heart to see how his world shattered like that?
Love you guys, AR.
(P.S., bonus points to anyone who gives me suggestions directly based on or related to Spectrum!)
(P.P.S. That's not as long as I had expected, only two pages in word... pretty short... I'll try harder, I promise!)