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Class was going by at a snail’s pace, and Virgil could not hold it any longer. They were at least finally able to do their work for the rest of the period, so he didn’t need to raise his hand to get Mr. Thomas’ attention.
Instead, he simply slipped out of his chair, taking care not to bump into the other tables between him and the teacher’s desk, bending down on overly-gangly legs to ask as quietly as he could in the low-volume of the classroom.
“Sir, can I have the hallpass for the bathroom?” He asked, fidgeting with the well-worn edges of his sweater so he wouldn’t pick at his fingers.
“Hmm?” Mr. Thomas looked up from his computer, likely grading the newest quiz they had just completed. He smiled gently at the teenager before nodding. “Oh, sure. Just don’t take too long. The bell’s gunna ring in ten minutes.”
He reached over his desk for the hallpass, a plastic baby with a fake cob of corn for a body with the words “PASS” in all caps across its face, and handed it over to Virgil, who took it and walked as fast as he could out of the classroom.
He had to get out of there. He had to get to the bathroom as soon as physically possible. He was going to lose it if he didn’t get there fast enough.
The boys’ bathroom was halfway down the hall, and he practically sprinted down the empty corridor to reach it, holding the pass by one of its legs.
Luckily the bathroom was empty. Of course it would be, with ten minutes to the bell, most teachers would stop the majority of the slackers from leaving by now, so he would have the whole bathroom to himself.
He hurried to a stall and twisted the lock before he sat on the seat, breathing a little too fast if anyone else could hear it. Pulling his sweater sleeves up his arms, he took a moment to look down at what he had been working on.
Thin, clean, numerous, raised lines lined down the inner part of his arm, counting the days he needed to remind himself he was real. To remind himself that he could physically hurt. To numb the emotional, stupid hurt that refused to leave him alone like his own personal hellish bully that was with him from the very moment he woke up to the very moment he would drop off to sleep.
No one knew about the cuts. Not his parents - as if they would care, they were at each others’ throats every night about some bill or affair or unfinished chore that they hardly even remembered Virgil existed at all - not his teachers, not even his boyfriend.
The thought of Patton made him wince, and he pulled out the exacto-knife he had nicked from the school’s garage earlier in the day. He hated how guilty he felt when thoughts of Patton rose to the surface. The other boy was too good for him, the sun reincarnated practically. Virgil could never understand how he had been picked, out of everyone in their grade - hell, in the entire school - much less the fact that Patton had been the one to shyly ask him out to the movies as their first date.
The sting of the first cut brought him out of his self-loathing, reminding him of how nice it was to numb the emotions. Emotions were bullshit. The bite and sting of the blade slicing through flesh was real. Tangible. The blood was real. It had to be real.
Virgil hissed out a breath, putting the blade on top of the toilet paper holder before he grasped his wounded arm, squeezing it as hard as he could. It wasn’t very hard, but that’s what he got for being born.
You really shouldn’t think like that. A thought that sounded eerily like Patton breezed through the front of his mind, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself. The thought floated through, still sounding like Patton, and the tears fell as Virgil let out a choked, repressed sob. He knew it wasn’t smart to keep cutting. He knew how dangerous it was. But it was the only thing he could do.
Virgil stayed on the toilet for several minutes before he finally calmed down enough to think clearly again. He grabbed the end of the toilet paper and pulled enough to wrap around his arm until blood wouldn’t seep through. He tied it carefully, ensuring it wouldn’t slip until he got home to bandage properly, and then he was ready for the world again.
He slipped the sweater sleeves back down over his arms until they reached the palms of his hands, and he pocketed the exacto-knife deep in his hoodie. Then, he washed his hands at the sink, and returned to class, as if nothing had happened.
Just in time for the bell.