He had run into one of the bullies- the ones that went out of their way to hurt him, physically and mentally.
Will's hand tightened in a fist, and he kept it so tight, his knuckles had started turning a shade of white. He felt a twinge in his knuckles. Will looked up to see eyes, ugly eyes staring right at his, they were pits of deep hate.
The corners of Will's mouth turned downwards. "What do you want, Don?" He questioned. Don replied, "Oh, nothing. Just your life-oh wait, you don't have one!" With that, Will was punched right in the nose. He hastily touched his nose and felt liquid.
Blood.
He stumbled, then tried to look up only to receive a punch to the stomach. He doubled over, Don laughing. "That'll teach you to be normal, gay." Will got a kick, and Don strolled off.
Will turned and slammed his fist onto the sidewalk.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
This always happened. Always. A hot tear strolled down Will's face. Just one. But one can quickly turn to 10. And 10 to hundreds.
He scrambled up and put his back against the gate, the metal pressing into his skin. "Why? Why does this always, always... happen?" Will said to himself. He ripped the end of his t-shirt and wiped his nose with it, the fabric soaking up most of the blood.
He got up, and he clutched the gate so hard, his knuckles turned white, his head throbbing. He walked home, clenching his teeth all the way. He stepped on his porch, and swung open the door. When he got home, he saw his mom cutting some carrots, humming to herself.
That is, until she saw Will. But no, it wasn't the regular Will that laughed when she told a joke, who smiled at strangers, and Will knew.
He knew he probably looked like trash. Because he was. He hated himself, everyone.
Everyone except his mom.
Will and Naomi locked eyes, and they stayed like that for few seconds until Naomi's knife clattered to the cutting board. She ran up to her baby boy and dropped to her knees in front of him, then took both of his fragile, soft hands in her rough, but caring ones. She looked at him, evaluating how much he had been injured.
He had a cut creeping down his lip, the bottom of his nose crusted from dried out blood, the end of his shirt ripped. He was still shaking, and had a cut down his shirt, from all she could tell.
Will still had his sweatshirt on, so it covered the cuts he had inflicted on himself. You monster why did you do that you horrible, horrible person.
Will twitched.
"What happened, Will?" She asked, her voices hushed and in a whisper, as if they were being watched.
"What?" She said a little louder.
"It-it's ok, mom. I just got into a little fight. I'm fine. Don't worry about me." He gave her a little smile. "I'll go clean up."
She hates you everyone does why wouldn't they? You little piece of trash.
He climbed up the stairs, his legs shaking wildly by the time he got into his room. He yanked down the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He traced over the letters, muttering to himself. "G... a... y..?" Just a label.
Everything was a label. Will hated labels. He didn't like them. At all. He peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He scrubbed away at the blood, cleaning it with soap. He cried, aware that he was doing so. He hated it. So much, knowing he was weak, not strong at all. It affected him.
You could swallow the last pill.
Tear.
You could tighten the rope.
Tear.
You could cut the last cut.
You could take the last breath.
End it all.