Chapter Text
Nockfell is a shitty place. The summers are too hot, and the winters are too cold. Instead of fluffy snow, there is dirty discolored slush that gets caught in moving car's tires. 9 months out of the year, the branches of all of the trees are barren of their leaves. The wind sucks the moisture out of all life. Adding to the shittiness of it all, my father doesn't care if I'm dead or alive. Did I mention he's a cult leader? Crazy shit, I know. I found out that he fed my mom to the cult on my 14th birthday when I went snooping in the Phelps Ministry Church. My father made sure I knew about the cult since I was little, disguising it as a "Religious Organization" for my young ears. There are probably more things I am oblivious to, regarding my father and the fucked up things about this Minnesota town. Probably the shittiest thing of all though, is me. I'm a terrible person. I have no friends. Well, besides Phillip. But he's a real pain in the ass. I'm a real dick to everybody. There's this boy, his name is Sally Face. If you aren't a dick like I am, his legal name is Sal Fisher. I've shown that boy and his faggoty group of flamers hell all throughout High School. I can't help it. He riles me up. I think about that blue haired boy every day. Thinking about what's under that mask, thinking about what he's doing. It sounds real homosexual. And you're right, it is. That's why I hate him so much.
He's been trying to talk to me recently, that Sally Face kid. He started after I had my little homo breakdown in the bathroom, which he watched. That day haunts me. I don't go out of my way to terrorize him anymore. I suspect I've lost my scare factor on him after our little incident. He asks me how my day is going and he compliments my outfits. That sort of shit. I can't say I like it, but Lord does it get my mind racing, my heart thumping. I usually don't answer him, or shoot him a dirty glance. His eyes narrow at me in response, and I hate to say that it almost offends me. I shouldn't care what that freak thinks of me, but I'm still the way I've been since I was born; real fucking sensitive. I've learned that being a sensitive little bitch and being raised in an abusive household don't mix well. Sally Face asked me what my star sign was in the hallway before my trigonometry class. I told him to fuck off, but I asked Phillip what that meant on my way to school the next day. I have since learned that they correspond to the day that you're born. I am born February 10th. That makes me an Aquarius, says Phillip. It's not real heterosexual of me to go out of my way to ask about some stupid fake bullshit, but I take it as a learning experience to save myself some grace.
It was a cold ass Spring day in Nockfell. I was awoken by the sound of my father's gravely, bellowing voice, my least favorite alarm. I swore he tried to make it deeper on purpose. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the cold tile stinging my feet. I had examined the bruises that littered the right side of my head, peppering little touches to the purple-yellow epidermis. As I gelled my brassy ass blonde hair and brushed it back, I noticed my roots were disgustingly grown out. I honestly didn't care until my father said anything about it. I slipped on jean shorts and a white button up, hanging my mother's golden cross around my neck. I make sure to tuck it into my shirt until I leave, so Mr. Phelps doesn't notice. I hide the necklace in my bag on my way back home. The only two choices of shoe I have are black-polished dress shoes or green sneakers. As much as I despise the latter option, I do have to wear them, because my dress shoes are strictly for church. My stomach pangs in hunger this morning. I was denied dinner last night, and my father is against breakfast, since we do not eat it as a family. I tell my father goodbye, sling my backpack on my fucked up shoulder and get on my bike. My seven year old bike. My weak, lanky legs could hardly pedal myself forward on this seven year old bike, but if I was late I would face my father's wrath. Fear can be very motivating.
I shiver as I chain my bike up to the school's communal bike rack and make my merry way into Nockfell High; the worst rated school in the state. It really is such a hellhole. I grab my Mathematics binder from my tiny locker and head to room 104, the fiery pits of Mrs. Packerton's classroom. I am currently failing math. It just doesn't engage me like literature classes do. Mrs. Packerton suggests to me that Sal Fisher would be an excellent tutor. Maybe that wouldn't be so terrible, but I know that I wouldn't be able to hide my bitchiness. He frustrates me beyond belief. He makes me feel a certain way that I have never felt before. I can't identify the feeling. I think that's why he makes me so angry. It makes me angry that he is able to be so free; makes friends with whoever, dresses however, says whatever, laughs openly. He does not know true agony, I think to myself. He does not know the struggle of life. It will hit him one day, and then he'll know why I'm such a dickmouth. My eyes are all over him today, trailing from his eyes, to his hair, hearing his breathing against the plastic prosthetic. He huffs and puffs really badly. I watch the way his stubby hands grip his pencil, and dip low and high with the shape of his letters. I've never seen someone write in the way he does, but Lord was it aesthetically pleasing.
"Mr. Phelps, eyes on your own paper." Mrs. Packerton screetched out at me.
I wasn't even looking at his paper. It made me so enraged that she referred to me as if I were my father. I want to be so much better than him, but I know, with the way my life is going, it won't turn out that way. Everybody thinks I have the hots for Sal fucking Fisher now. Damn you Mrs. Packerton. I hate that hag of a woman. Larry stared me down with fire in his ugly, droopy ass eyes. He looks like he hasn't showered since he was 10. Smells like it too. That dude is so protective over that short fag. When I thought about how much I hated that fact, it made me wonder why I didn't like that two friends cared about each other. Was it because I was sour about my lack of friends, or was it that I'm just as gay as Sal is?
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Freshman and Sophmore year of High School have passed me by, all with the constant war of reminders that the feelings I have for Sally face aren't normal. I knew I wasn't normal, I knew the feelings I had weren't the feelings a boy should have. I pushed it to the back of my brain every time it recirculated in my head, not giving it any thought nor consideration. I feared that I would come to the horrible realization that I am exactly the type of person I have despised and shamed my whole life. In two years time span, I have grown to hate everything about myself. I don't really talk anymore, and the scars that are both self-inflicted and the ones that are not have only grown. I find solace in beating the absolute shit out of myself, because I think that if I do, Father would be proud of me for disciplining myself in some fucked up sort of way. He isn't. The reason he hits me is not for discipline, it is to take out his own troubles. He does not care if I am healthy or I have food in my stomach, he only cares if I embarrass him.
It is my first day of Junior Year. My Father is gone on a "religious studies trip" with the Ministry leaders, and I have been home by myself for about a week. I wake up late, because my father isn't here to scream at me. Both a blessing and a curse. I wear my favorite purple sweater for good luck and whatever pants I find in my dresser; brown slacks. I slip on my shoes with haste and get pedaling to school so I don't miss first period, taking note that I don't have to hide my cross this August morning. Only god knows that I hope a car runs me over so I don't have to go. When I get to school I see Sal walking into school, hair down, graphic tee and ripped blue jeans. His hair is so nice and long, I haven't ever noticed that. I mentally scold myself for thinking like that and get a move on to my religious studies class. The particular kids in this class are such a fucking cliche. I am the only person of color in the entire room, which isn't something I ever take notice of. All girls with stringy hair and blue eyeshadow with a tall, lean boy wrapped around their finger. All ironed clothes, and jewelry of all types with crosses embellished in the metal. I recognize 3/4 of these kids from my Father's church, all of which hate me and my father desperately wants me to befriend. I can't help but take attention to the fact that Phillip isn't here, which raised my suspicion. I only know him from the church. I don't ask him why.
Lunch rolls around after 5th period, Phillip throws me an apple that he doesn't eat, so that's what I have. Kenneth likes the particular rule, "Eat what you are given." I sit by my lonesome fucking chowing away at this soft, browning apple. A vibrant blue catches my eye in my peripheral vision, and I almost run away. Sal slaps a sweaty hand on my shoulder, and I yelp from the pain.
"Fuck, ow! The fuck do you want flamer?" I spit at him.
"Oh sorry, Trav! What happened? Does that hurt?" He responded.
Did he just call me "Trav"? I thought to myself. Was I hearing this right, or was that apple poisoned?
"Of course it fucking hurts, I wouldn't say 'Ow' if it didn't. It's none of your fucking business what happened. What do you want from me? I'm trying not to get into trouble with your fucking boyfriend over there." I rambled. Fuck. Why do I do that? Keep it cool Travis.
"My boyfriend? You mean Larry? He's my brother now..." Sal laughed.
"Oh great. Incest is bad you know? What do you want from me? I wont ask you again." I bit back.
"I was just wondering if you would come and sit next to me at lunch today. I haven't seen your face in awhile, and just wanted to see if your done being a prick." He told me, voice playful and loud.
"Don't you guys want me dead? Your incestuous boyfriend sure does." I stopped making eye contact with the boy.
"I couldn't give a shit what Larry wants, it's not his cafeteria. He's not even here today." Sal informed me.
"Who the fuck skips school on the first day of school?"
"Larry. Travis, are you going to come sit with me or not?" Sal asked, annoyed.
"No way in hell." I laughed. I can't have people thinking I'm with that group. If my dad found out I talked to any of those kids, he might crack open my skull.
"Great! I'll just sit right here next to you then." Sal smiled.
"Why do you want to talk to me so bad, do you have a fucking crush on me or something? Don't sit too close to me. I might catch your gayness." I'm really on a roll today.
"I don't yet. Sooo how's life, how's everything?" Sal joked.
"What the fuck?- Life is shitty. It's real shitty. Leave me alone Fisher I'm sick of talking to you." I barked back at him.
"Let me know if you need someone to talk to." He told me, before he got up and went to go talk to Ashley.
Like I'd ever talk to him about my problems. Who the fuck does he think he's talking to? Does he think I've turned soft over a summer? I hate to see that I don't scare him at all anymore. I rubbed my shoulder in pain, noticing that Sal reopened the wound that spread from my shoulder to my back. The crimson red staining my favorite sweater, the purple and red complimenting each other. Great, now I'll remember this day every time I wear this. I run to the bathroom, planning to blot the open skin with toilet paper, so that the blood doesn't trail down my back. God fucking damnit Sal Fisher. You got me fucked up.