Wie Stocke reiBt er

(Like sticks, he snapped)

Wiping the cheese from my face and the feathers from my hair, I can stand it no longer.

Do...do they SEE? Their own eyes, unglassed and without contacts and without blindness, watch and flicker at me, like malicious fireflies in the dark world of a cynic! Do they honestly just sit back, comfortably nestled in their chairs, and watch a tortured soul whipped again and again? Do they watch my pain, innocent and unscathed as vanilla cupcakes? Do they? Oh, God, I beg you to answer my inquiry! Do they really?

They, with their crooked, scheming smiles...they make me want to vomit and write my heartache on the walls of our very own high school! The foul stench of gastric juices would fill the air, and I would grin as they cough and hack their ways into their classes, and as the janitors try to scrape the dried puke from the walls! Ha! They'd scurry their way about the halls like terrified mice and begin to flounder like a gutted fish! They, those uncaring little pricks, would see what they've pushed me to. Those bitches. Those fucks.

Even before I'd even met Terri, they always would shove me into a deserted locker, slam my face into my lunch, take my books, rip my homework, spread rumors...Most of all though...they beat me. Beat and beat and beat...Steady, predictable, expected...Like a person's hearbeat. A kick, a punch, a push, a slap...As long as I was put into their hands as a trembling rodent, they were absolutely jolly. They would laugh as I wept on the sidewalk or ran off to treat my bruises. These pretty bruises became a reoccurrence for me. I became callous to the pain they put me through, and I would sometimes even draw my arms in art class...They were always an awfully deep shade of purple. A deep, manipulating, demented, reminicing shade of purple, that reminded me of my sessions with them.

Those sessions, when they beat me...

I did what any logical person could do about it. Its not like I sat there and took the beatings. I tried to pin them down with Radditch. There was no evidence that it was most definitely them, and my case went cold for so long. I would always try to bring it up to Radditch, but the man just did not want to admit that there was so much violence and hatred going on in Degrassi. It was sick. He seemed like a sadist, allowing and possibly even enjoying seeing me come back to him time after time with my purple limbs flailing in my pleading. It was disguesting to see him just lean in his leather chair and nod. All he did was nod, he never ever jumped from his seat and demanded that action be taken from higher powers. I was always the victim with these people. Always the victim, the one on the collared end of the leash instead of the handle.

Transferring to another school would have been useless and cowardly. That would only be letting them win. I could never live with myself while knowing that their smug, smirking mouths are chattering away about how Little Ricky was too afraid to come back to school, how Little Ricky was too much of a girl and a sissy to come and take his "punishment" like a man...Talking and laughing about how Ricky was terrified out of his pants of merely coming to school. I would have heard, even from the distance of another city, the faint, low giggle of how Ricky was so nasty and icky and horrible. Becoming a recluse would've done the same thing. From the safety in my room, the same snivelling, hypocritical gossip would have reached my ears, and I still would get my scheduled beatings...With becoming a recluse or transferring, my ears would ring with cruel words and my bruises would never have a chance to heal.

I then thought of maybe another outlet for my anger and anguish. I remembered that this one girl in my class, Ellie Nash, used to slice her arms up with a razor because she's depressed. I remember seeing her cuts one time...I think she's trying to stop by using a rubber band. Ha. As if that'll work...But the notion of cutting myself once did occurr to me. It seemed like a good idea for a moment, and I tried it to see if it would work. I cut myself along the arm, horizontal on my bicep. For a second, it felt good. As blood seeped over the cut, I sighed in relief and felt the pain of my soul pulsate into a raisin. My cut was instead the focus of pain...It took pain away from my mind. It was definitely refreshing to feel actual blood on my skin rather than ruptured vessels underneath. But with just one cut, I began to hate what I'd done. It took a while to heal, and while it did, it burned. I just wanted the initial pain of it, the newness of it, not the itching reminder of what I'd done. I decided not to cut.

I once thought of fighting back the next time they tried to beat me, to act like a loony around my classmates. I thought about taking on the role that they had so hideously bestowed upon me...The nutcase, the psycho, the crazy violent guy...I thought about being the guy who would burst out and hit random people. But like the transferrence...that would only be letting them win. Moreover, it would earn me more beatings, and earn them more things to talk about! It would be an even worse conviction than I have right now! What a waste that would be...And cruel as well.

I can no longer even think about what I can do about this. Everybody is against me, even the girl who I thought loved me...Emma. That bitch. That fucking whore. How could she deceive me like that and lead me down such a road? I swear to God I'll get my revenge on her...I'll get my revenge on all of them...Someday...someday soon...

I think I want to die right now.

But if I go down, they're going down with me.

Heheh...

Fuckers.

"Why cry when angels deserve to die?" Chop Suey by System of a Down

Author's Notes: First Person. Rick. Title meansStay tuned for more.