thirty days and counting

In all the honesty there is, he still doesn't quite understand himself. In all the honesty there is, he still doesn't quite understand the world either. It's like being a pawn on a chessboard; from the minute he was born, he'd been chosen to be a loser. He'd been chosen.

People give him crap about the way he looks, the way he speaks (if anything at all), how trouble seems to simply follow and swoop after him like a fleeting shadow. People give him shit about the way he was born and no shit about the way he fucking feels. Percy is just the weird mute kid who can't speak to save his own life.

Anorexic, they tease. Mute. Deaf. Ugly. Stupid. Bastard. You little bastard. Stupidstupidstupididiotidiotwhydon'tyougohometoyourlittle- He crouches down in the confines of the stall and covers his ears, as if he can block out the voices running through his head. There is a knock on the door, and someone calls out.

"Is someone in here?" He can't speak. He can't speak. Another knock. "Hello?" The bathroom knob jiggles, once, twice, and then it stops, the person on the other side giving up.

Giving up. The thought of giving up wraps around him in an oddly comforting manner. Will he give up? Will he be giving up in thirty days, or will he be fighting for the other side? Percy looks up at the white-tiled ceiling, putting the two thoughts next to each other, and he can't tell the difference between the two. Giving up his life. Fighting for death. The space in the stall is suddenly too small, the smell of piss too strong; panicking, he hits the grey walls until his fingers latch onto the lock. With shaky hands, he stumbles out of the tight space until he is lying on the cold ground, once again staring at the ceiling.

Ceilings hold no significance. Ceilings have no use except to hold back the rains and winds that fall upon the building. Is he a part of the building, holding up a structure? Or is he a part of ceiling, just barely holding back a storm?

Percy already knows the answer. He lies there on the tiled floor staring at a tiled ceiling, and wonders what it will feel like to end his own life. It is a moment of pure, astounding, heart-wrenching clarity when he sees that one of the ceiling tiles has a crack running through it.

When he walks out of the two-stalled, lockable bathroom, his face appears to be cool and collected, as if he is just another teen who needed to pee in the middle of studying for school in the library. No one casts him a second glance here in a library. There are only the whispers of turning pages and softly mumbled words that follow him. He likes it here. There is no one who will call him anorexic, or mute, or deaf, or any other fucking insult that he does not -will not- think about. There is no one here to follow him around and shove him, no one to tell him he can't, because in the quiet vicinity of books, he can.

The thought lifts him up for a millisecond. He will have to leave soon though, leave the quiet haven he calls home. Percy stares up at the rafters, where they have hung up glass birds that fly freely. One is green, a beautiful color, and sparkles as sunlight passes through it. Invisible. That joyful thought weighs him back down again.

The librarian at the front desk is a different person than the one he saw earlier when he walked in. He is old, worn from years of work and memories. The man watches him carefully, studying his posture, perhaps, before he turns back to a book. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. He'd heard before it was a good read, but he had never been interested. He likes the fantasy books, where he can lose himself in a world entirely different from his own.

The door swings shut behind him, and he walks home slowly, focusing on only his breaths that are coming in and out and the sound of his footsteps, thump, thump, against the concrete sidewalk. He doesn't want to go home. He wants to turn and run back to the library, breathlessly pushing his way in and breathing in the smell of old books. He wants to-

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. No. No more thinking about the library. If he does, he'll just end up running back, and Percy doesn't want that. The only reason he is still alive is because he's going to prove the world wrong. The end. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

His hands are shaking again, just like in the bathroom, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Then he's opening the door, stepping over the threshold, trying to make no noise and hoping his stepfather is still asleep or too drunk on Bud Light-

"Came hoome, didddd ya?" Okay. Not sleeping, not too drunk. Uh-oh. He keeps his gaze down, mouth shut, and hands in fists to hide his shaking. He will say nothing. He will not say a single word to the bastard that has made his life hell for years. The beer cans are all over the place, old socks hanging on the edges of chairs and clothes on the ground. A light bulb, shattered, is next to the wall. Thrown in a fight most likely. Cards, too, are in random places. Looks like Gabe has been having the time of his life.

Percy stalks to his room, ignoring the remarks that cut through the air, painful and sharp. He finds it hard to breathe, and something wet stings the corners of his eyes. Automatically, his hand reaches up to brush it away, his scarred, cut hand, and he can't take it anymore, he can't- His door slams loudly in the small shack that is his house. He hits his bed while crying silent tears, curling up over his pillow and making a mess.

Useless, the voices start again. Worthless, stupid, idiot. Worthless stupid idiot. Worthlessstupididiotworthle- He punches his pillow. Worthless. Punch. Stupid. Punch. Idiot. Punch. He has to get rid of the pain, has to get rid of the voices, the faces of sneering people who call him names and shove him, who take his stuff and hurt him, who beat him up and play with him like he's a toy, because he is and-

The alcohol goes down fast, burning like liquid fire. He takes another drink, then another, flopping on his back and staring at the rapidly shifting ceiling. It is changing colors, swirling around; he feels slow, sluggish. There is laughter, and he sees the people who bully him, sees them grow smaller than his thumb. He lifts his hand, though it suddenly feels heavy, and crushes them, laughing. He can't stop laughing.

Loser, they say, but he's laughing and won't stop. There's nausea, he's throwing up everywhere; he's okay, he's okay, and the liquid fire keeps burning inside of him. It flickers at his ribs and in his stomach, burns his throat, and he can see it, see the fire. And Percy screams, even though the fire surrounding him doesn't hurt, because he wants it to hurt.

He wants to fucking die already.

1276. Writing shorter chapters so I can drag it on. Um, this is for the word-count challenge, but as I started writing, it slowly just came out as a really huge topic; bullying and bullycide. I will be expanding more about my concerns in later chapters. If you are or know someone who is being bullied and won't talk, at least tell them to call 1-800-SUICIDE, a free hotline that is on 24/7. It's easier to talk to strangers because you don't know them. Just... think about it.

And I don't blame anyone for wanting to die. It's a sign of strength and not cowardice, really.

achieving elysium