"Stupid fag!" A tall, blonde-haired man snickered, earning the chuckles of his peers. He harshly stepped his foot onto the chest of the blonde laying on the floor, and a choked sob could be heard. The pursuer just laughed even harder, stoping down to knock the breath out of the smaller below him.
"P-please.. stop.." The scrawnier man begged in a strangled voice, straining to hold back his tears. He couldn't let the others see him cry, he had to keep it together. He'd only get beat up more, harder. They wanted to see him cry, they wanted to see him break. But he could stand, he could live this out, right?
No. No questions. It didn't matter if he couldn't. He had to. It didn't matter… His resolve couldn't break. Or else he'd never survive.
"Stop? That vhat you vant?" The taller jeered. His ice blue eyes bore into the bluish-green of the one's below him for a moment, and the foot was removed. "Come on. He's not vorth it…" Him and his gang of oppressors made their way down the empty hall, leaving the distressed and bruised European to lay on the floor.
Even now, with no one around, he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't let his resolve break.
He stood, shaking slightly from the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Limping lightly, he carefully made his way to the bathroom, not caring if anyone was in there.
In all honesty, Feliks was gay. But he thought that college students wouldn't have the mindless hatred of middle schoolers. How horribly wrong he was.
He tugged at his collar, feeling like his air was restricted. He felt as though he was being suffocated, felt as though the very oxygen he needed was against him here. Everywhere.
His white button up shirt was ruined, stained with the mud of the other's combat boots and a bit of blood. He looked back into the mirror and realized that a trickle of blood drip from the corner of his mouth. He wiped at it with the back of his sleeve. It wasn't as if the shirt could be used after this, anyways.
He wore what was considered neutral clothing these days, not wanting anything to give the bullies any more to work with. If he were to wear skinny jeans, or any jeans in general, he'd be called a fag.
If he were to wear any shirt with short sleeves, they'd see the scars. If he were to wear any shirt with a design, a logo, anything, he'd be shoved against the wall and laughed at.
He even made sure his shoes and underclothes were 'normal'. 'Straight'. No sense in taking any chances.
So he stuck to white button ups and black slacks, like he was dressing for a chorus concert. (But it wasn't if he could even join that class, though he did love to sing.)
Feliks was utterly alone in his suffering, too. No one cared that he was abused. No one else had nearly as bad a beating as he usually did. Some people were beat up, yes, but only on occasion. For him, it was every day. Every day he had to deal with Ludwig, or Gilbert sometimes. Though the albino was easier to avoid.
He slumped against the sink and let his head fall, staring intently at the rusty silver drain until his urge to cry was gone. He couldn't! He couldn't give them the satisfaction that they broke him, that they truly did hurt him. He'd NEVER give them that!
He had given them everything else, but he'd never give them that satisfaction.
He straightened up and looked his reflection in the mirror, studying his own eyes for fear. No fear. If he wanted to leave, that is. He could always stay here until the others left.
And give them THAT satisfaction?
Never.
He was an adult, for God's sake! He was 21, old enough to buy and drink alcohol, (Which, when he was especially distressed, he would drink down an entire bottle of expensive vodka a that he couldn't afford) old enough to smoke, old enough to drive. He had his own job, his own apartment. Why should he be treated like a bad child here at his college? It wasn't even fathomable that these other ADULTS couldn't see that. Oh, but it was, too.
He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the mirror. His warmth breath fogged and blurred his image. Movement from a stall behind him snapped him out of the moment.
A fairly tall and lanky student stepped out, obviously nervous. He was shaking slightly. Feliks remembered the blood on his shirt, the mud. He was probably frightened.
"Are you all right?" The other asked carefully, stepping foreword with worrying in his emerald green eyes.
"Why should you care?" Feliks bit out quietly, running his fingers though his hair out of agitation. Good God, even to someone he didn't know he was harsh.
"Why shouldn't I?" He looked over his shoulder as the brunette stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm, and the Polish man flinched.
He could have said anything. He could have said that he was wrongfully picked on and hated by everyone. He could have said that he was bad. But he said something stupid. "I'm the fag.
Author's Note:
Hello! New story... This one will be a little slower than my others...
NOT crossdressing Feliks? Weird, right?
Also... It will get happier! And this is just the prologue!