So I know I still have another multi-chapter fic in progress, but I was really inspired to start writing this when I had to read Fences by August Wilson for English class. This story is mainly inspired by Gabriel though, so John is sort of based off of him.
Also, this is totally dedicated to my awesome friend Sam! :D *mysterious whisper* Because of reasons..
Disclaimer: I don't own Homestuck or the characters!
"John."
You turn around, jumping at the sound of your name.
"Yes?" you ask.
"As an archangel, you are very powerful. You are also coming to the age of which you will be a guardian angel to someone on Earth."
You nod. This is true. You are almost sixteen, at which age you will be sent to Earth, able to take on the form of a human, if you so choose. On your birthday, you will be assigned a human to watch over. You've been very excited about it, observing many people, any of whom you may guard. Of course, you don't get to choose, but you humor yourself with the idea anyways.
"I have been observing a young male, one that is about your age. He is having a rough time in his life, and it is he whom I would like you to guard," your supervisor tells you.
Curious, you ask, "What's his name?"
Your supervisor smiles sadly.
"David Strider."
Your name is Dave Strider. You are currently sitting in your room, trying to relax as you listen to some music that you had mixed earlier. It can be hard for you to relax since you are often stressed about a lot of things, such as school and your Bro. Music is your release.
You are lying down on your bed, headphones clamped over your ears, drowning out any outside noise. Your eyes are closed, so you don't notice it when your Bro walks in. He takes advantage of this and is on you in an instant. You don't think he means to hit you as hard as he does, but you fail to defend. It's a training routine, you know.
His knuckles meet your nose, which snaps, causing blood to pour out onto your face.
"Shit," you mutter, your eyes flying open. You get an adrenaline rush, which allows you to shove your Bro off of you and grab your sword. If he wants a strife, he'll get a fucking strife.
It turns out he didn't want a strife at all. He just wanted to let you know that dinner was ready. Whatever.
You make your way downstairs after stuffing your nose with toilet paper, almost tripping over a smuppet on your way down. Lucky for you, you're a Strider, so you easily avoid the smuppet.
Once you're finished with dinner, (pizza of course) you retreat back to your room. Inside, you are stressing about having to go to school tomorrow. Your grades aren't good, and conferences are closing in. You know you'll have to bring your grades up before Bro finds out, else you'll have your ass chopped off, blended, and smuppetized, handed back to you on a silver platter.
But that's not the only reason you are stressed. There are a few kids at school that have been giving you a hard time lately, and sure, you can easily kick thier asses, but you really don't want your Bro knowing you're having fights at school, too. It would make you look like a sissy, not being able to handle your problems on your own, rationally, like a man. You were sixteen, man enough to behave like a man. And God only knew you needed to make your brother proud.
You glance at your clock. It's after midnight, you hadn't realized how late it was. You get up and flick your light off, flopping down on your stomach on your bed to sleep. You needed all the energy you could get for school in the morning.
You wake up to your alarm clock screaming in your ear, and lots of puppet rump in your face. You stumble to the bathroom, running your hand through your hair as you do so. You take a quick shower, fixing your hair in the mirror before leaving the bathroom and going back to your room to get dressed.
Once in your room, you slip on your black skinny jeans, having already put boxers on in the bathroom. You grab a red long sleeved shirt, with your signature scratched record symbol, and put it on. The long sleeves do well to hide your scars, old and new. Lastly, you slip your worn red Converse on, and make your way downstairs to the kitchen.
As you open the fridge, smuppets fly everywhere. You wonder how your Bro even fits those things in there. Tiredly, you reach for the apple juice and pour yourself a glass. You down it in one gulp, and too soon you're slinging your backpack over one shoulder and heading out to the bus.
As you board the bus, you know it's going to be a bad day, People are already giving you dirty looks and sticking their feet out in an attempt to trip you. If an outsider looked at you, you would look like the cool kid. The others would be out of place trying to trip you. You wish there were more outsiders.
You endure the constant insults you receive withe ease, but when they started to touch you, you begin to snap.
"Stop it," you saw, swatting their hands away from you. This only attracted more attention to you.
"What, does poor David want his mommy?" They taunted you. You grind your teeth together. They knew damn well you didn't have a mother, and that you hated being called David. A hand reached for your shades, and you barely pulled out of reach in time.
"What do you wear those shades for anyways?" a taunting voice asked. You didn't answer. All hell would break loose if they found out the real reason why.
"You think you're so cool, faggot?" another voice came. Someone shoved you. You continued to take the abuse.
"You aren't even denying it. You are a little fag."
Your eyes were definitely not watering behind your shades. Nope.
The bus pulled up to the school. You got off, practically running to your first hour, and the safety of the teacher.
You didn't pay much attention to the lesson, because the spit balls to the back of your head and nasty notes were constant. You bit your lip raw and held back your anger.
"Why won't they just let up?" you asked yourself. Because maybe you did like boys? But you liked girls too. Because you were insecure about your abnormal eyes, and hair that could barely pass as blonde? Because you didn't have parents? Didn't have a good life at home? Didn't feel loved, didn't feel like you mattered? Was it because you wanted nothing more than to die, but to off yourself was weak? Or maybe you were just too weak to get the job done...