This is a story filled with talks of self harm and gay romance. If either of those things offends you, makes you uncomfortable, or disgusts you please feel free to
not read. I haven't written anything on this site in quite a few years and will happily hear constructive criticism. If you'd like to comment on any previous stories
of mine feel free to, but be advised I know the vast majority of them are rubbish. Moving along.

I clearly don't own The Children of the Red King books. They belong to Jenny Nimmo. If I did I'd probably have killed Olivia off and Gabriel would probably be gay.
I don't own any of the other books mentioned in this chapter as well but you should definitely go give them a read. Nonetheless I hope you enjoy.

Part one - First Steps

Writing prompt one - Describe yourself using one word. Why are you here?

Faggot. Why wouldn't I use that word to describe me? It's the word that's shouted at me in the halls at school, whispered among the other boys when I'm in
the locker room, sneered behind my back as I walk out of the bathroom. Private education might look great on a college application but damn, (can I used the
word damn?) damn are those prestigious institutes the worst place to go if you're different. You'd think Bloor's Academy, that's the school I go to, you think
they'd be different, more accepting if you would of odd children. I mean we do have students who move things with their minds, who control the weather and
shift shape. I guess other kids don't pick on the Endowed because they're cool. I mean a guy who can summon his ancestors or a girl who can cast illusions are
the closest anyone is going to get to becoming a super hero. God forbid you're gay though.

What's wrong with being gay? So I like the idea of another guy holding me at night, being on top of me in the early morning hours and caressing my hand in his
as we're grocery shopping. I'm not hurting anyone. People say being homosexual means I won't get into heaven but if we're looking at outdated beliefs like that
then my ability to read people's clothes surely mean I'm either a demon or practicing dark magic so I'm already shunned from eternal paradise.

As for why I'm here, well my parents thought it was for the best. I'm sorry is that not a good enough answer for this prompt? Fine. My parents, despite us not
having the money for it, think I'm going to kill myself so the checked me into Second Chances "a safe haven for troubled youth." As if it's sterile white walls,
plush carpeting and "hip" (the word used in the pamphlet) way of reaching out to kids makes me feel safe. Nine days in the place for treatment of depression is
costing my parents $6990.00. That's enough to make anyone depressed. Plus it's giving my sisters something else to hate me for. "Gabriel with his oddity
always gets better clothes, why does he get to go to a fancy school?" If Bloors didn't give scholarships for gifted kids I wouldn't be there either but I digress,
we're getting off topic. My parents found out about my cutting addiction so here we are.

What people don't understand about self harm is that it's not always done by the suicidal. It actually takes a lot to kill yourself that way. It's not like the movies
where you just drag your knife across your wrist and you bleed out. You have to cut the right way. You have to go deep. If you don't nick an artery or vein your
blood will clot up and you won't bleed out. But cutting to me is a way of control. You take all the emotional pain, the mental anguish you feel and you put it into
the blade of the knife, the blood pools out washing the pain away. Endorphines, your body's natural feel good drug, flow and for those few minutes everything is
ok. You're happy and blissed out and you can handle your life again.

I don't mean to sound like I'm praising cutting or "romanticizing" it because it's not. There's something beautiful about those few seconds when the blood runs
across your skin but then out of no where the guilt and despair set in. You rush to the bathroom and pour hydrogen peroxide over the wound. You bandage it
up so your clothes don't get stained and think about how disappointed your parents would be if they saw. How angry your friends would be because you didn't
first talk to them about your problems. You feel ashamed because how are you going to explain the white scars crisscrossing your upper thighs to your future
lover? You feel guilty and disgusted with yourself because you traded years of not having to answer awkward questions in the changing room at school, when
you're relaxing on the beach in swim trunks, or every time you sleep with someone new for a few short minutes of bliss.

Gabriel stops writing, flexes his aching wrist, and looks to the door. He can hear voices out in the hall. He glances around his assigned room. Two twin sized
beds, two desks, a small window with bars on the outside and shatter resistant glass on the inside. A rug the color of moss adds a little color to the otherwise
drab room. Both beds have white comforters with green stripes and matching pillow cases. Gabriel's side of the room is bare except a few pencils on the deskand
his assigned health journal. His clothes are hung in the closet and look particularly shabby next to his roommate's Abercrombie and Fitch wardrobe. His
roommate, a boy by the name of Noah according to the dry erase board outside their door, has accessorized his side of the room with a light blue cd player, a
picture of a beautiful boy with an arm slung around a gorgeous brunette girl sits on his desk next to pencil cup holder that is filled to capacity with writing
utensils. Gabriel takes a second to study the boy in the picture who he assumes is his roommate. Wavy brown hair, light brown eyes, and perfect even white
teeth show from the boy's slightly naughty looking smile. Gabriel can definitely appreciate how good looking the other guy is and wonders if this will make
sharing a room with him harder or easier. A violin rests against the desk on a stand and the bed is littered with a books as if he couldn't decide what to read.
Gabriel wanders over and looks at the titles. "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" has a bookmark sticking out of it. "Dualed" by Elsi Chapman has a few dog
eared pages and "Chasing Brooklyn" by Lisa Schroeder is lying on the pillow, left open to page 266. Gabriel bends closer to read

"When he tells me how strong I am, something flares up inside of me. It makes me want to be strong even if I don't feel that way most of the time. I feel a
shift, a shift in my heart. I don't know exactly what it is or what it means but I definitely feel it. There's something about Nico that makes me want to be a
better person. And so I tell myself, I will be."

The sound of a door opening, his door opening, breaks him from his trance and he turns to face his roommate.

"I stopped. She was bleeding after all. Perfect lines crossed her wrists, not near any crucial veins, but enough to leave wet red tracks across her skin. She hadn't
hit her veins when she did this; Death hadn't been her goal" Vampire Academy Richelle Mead

First chapter down. Let me know how you like it. Second one should be written soon depending on how work is. Promise there will be less writing prompts
and more Gabriel in future chapters but I would like to do some writing prompts here and there. I feel it's an easy way to fill in the back story without boring
you guys with a bunch of unimportant details. Any who. Hope you enjoyed.