wore a smile on their faces, their glimmering eyes betraying the innocence captured within. But there was no way that he could be one of those people, the blissfully happy, either unaware of the pain in their lives, or able to rationalize it as the will of God.
When his ostracision had first begun, he had begged God to help him. He had spent hours every night praying for an end to the ceaseless torment, but whether his pleas had fallen on deaf ears or the maker had chosen not to respond was unimportant. It was the fact that things only got worse. After months of crying out for help and receiving none, he had been forced to seek another option.
At first, it had been little more than mere curiosity. He drew pictures of a horned monstrosity on his papers during class, and that alone had a small, yet noticeable effect. The weaker of his tormentors, those who hadn’t really yet committed to making it their life’s work to abuse him, backed off nicely, almost fearing him a little. It was such a positive start that rather than hiding out behind the school during lunch time, he had begun going to the library, beginning to read up on the occult. It was only a matter of days before he worked through the small handful of politically correct books at the school, and had to start going to the public library whenever he got a chance.
The thought of hell no longer scared him. The way he saw it, nothing could possibly be worse than the life he currently led. He learned to hate, learned the power of the darkness, solely out of spite. It was all that he had. The thought that in some way—whether it be today or years down the road—he was going to make each and every one of those sons of bitches who made his life intolerable pay, was the only thing that kept him going. Were it not for his highly developed sense of revenge, he would have committed suicide long ago. It certainly would have saved him a lot of grief.
But for the same reason that he couldn’t blindly buy into the existence of a God, he hadn’t been able to swallow the Christian concept of a devil either. There was no denying the existence of evil; that was evidenced in everyday life. Nor was there denying the presence of good, as it seemed to surround everyone he knew in some form or fashion… everyone except him. It wasn’t until he had come across this particular book that things had started to make some semblance of sense.
Within the heavy, yellowing pages of the tome was what he considered to be the recipe for his own salvation. He had given up on trying to fit in with his classmates again, as over the last year it had become apparent that there was nothing he could do to accomplish that. Nothing he could think of had worked. Every guy seemed to want to pound him mercilessly to show their manhood and superiority in front of their buddies, and every girl shied away from him as though he were some sort of leper.
He clung tightly to the idea of at least assimilating himself back into everyday life, and while being blocked at every juncture, he had figured that at least he had one friend: Scott. Surely that would be enough to get him through the last year of his high school tenure. At least he had thought that until last week.
For some reason that he couldn’t seem to grasp, Scott had been forgiven his part in the whole shower story. He had been hounded, just like Matt for a couple of months, but it had just seemed to stop for him one day, as if everyone else at school had gotten together and decided that he was off the hook. Though they had been best friends most of their lives, they had different identities at school. Matt was shuffled from one class to the next with the exact same thirty people. As part of the “talented and gifted” program, he was segregated from the rest of the student body. He was already cordoned off with the other freaks and brainiacs, making it increasingly easy to loathe him from the start. The main problem was that he had never really fit in there either. While he sat in the back of the class daydreaming about getting laid, the rest of his classmates competed to see who could memorize pi to the furthest decimal. They battled for scholarships on a daily basis, dueling with their perfect grade point averages, daring one another to mess up. It was an early encapsulation of corporate executive life, day in and day out, yet even they had to jump on the bandwagon, whispering “faggot” under their breaths, as none of them had the physical prowess to support their accusations.
Scott, on the other hand, had classes with nearly every other kid in the school. He took grade appropriate classes and regular electives. Granted, Scott was more of an outgoing, get along type guy, but there was no reason for them to have let him off the hook, and singled Matt out. It had been a lot easier when it had been the two of them banished together.
It was easy for Matt to understand how Scott really didn’t fight to come to his rescue, to change what all of the others thought of him. Knowing what it was like in his everyday life, if he found a way out of this tormented existence, he wouldn’t risk going back either. And he had been fine with the arrangement that they had; Scott just kind of ignored him in the presence of his other friends, Matt’s former friends, but would still hang out with him outside of school. At least until today.
Instead of going to Calculus second period, Matt had decided to slip out the side door and just sit there beneath the overhang watching the snowflakes accumulating on the rooftops across the street. The parking lot monitors never turned him in, as they figured if the attendance office wasn’t smart enough to catch him, then he deserved to get away with it. He had just lit his cigarette when he heard someone press the handle of the door. Scrambling to his feet, he ducked around the corner, leaning against the small column of gray bricks that separated the recessed entryway from the long, ground level windows of the library.
Taking one last quick drag off of his cigarette, he dropped it into the snow, holding the smoke in his chest until it grew stale. He could hear their voices distinctly, recognizing each one of them as though it were his own. There was the snapping and clicking of lighters as all three of them lit up at once, obviously having the same idea.
“So what’s up with you talking to fagboy?” Jeremy asked, his lips pressed tightly around the filter of the smoke. The large, fluffy flakes were skewered atop his spiked brown hair. He always wore a black leather jacket and faded Levi’s; black converse “Chuck’s” duct-taped together, his shoes of choice.
“Whatever, dude,” Scott said, exhaling loudly. “I’ve known him since I was seven years old. What does it matter to you if I say ‘hey’ to him?”
“Nothing… if you want to be a freaking queer like that little worm,” Shane popped off, laughing so hard his smoke poured through his nostrils. He was the party guy, the one who kept the beer bong in his car. His eyes were always bloodshot, and he had a permanent little grin, the corners of his lips turned upwards, regardless of the situation. The grease monkey of the crew, he always wore a red, oil-spotted STP hat turned backwards and a flannel shirt, rolled at the cuffs.
“Why don’t you guys give him a break?” Scott said, shaking his head.
“Don’t tell me he’s turned you to the dark side,” Jeremy said, finishing with his Darth Vader breathing impression.
“Whatever, man. You know as well as I do that he’s not gay. He’s just got more than his share of problems right now.”
“Like being a queer,” Shane said, laughing.
“I think it’s about time you just gave it a rest.”
“Or maybe you’re just turning into one of them like him.”
“Maybe we should just kick your ass right here and now,” Jeremy said, stepping up and blowing smoke right into Scott’s face.
“So the dude’s gay,” Scott said, backing down. “So what?”
Matt’s teeth began to grind, tearing at the soft tissue on the inside of his cheeks. His fists clenched at his sides and he wanted nothing more than to whirl around the corner and start swinging.
“No, he’s a fucking faggot and I want to hear you say it,” Jeremy said.
“What’s that going to accomplish? You got a thing for semantics?”
“Only faggots use words like semantics. Say it or I’ll figure you’re queer too.”
“Okay fine,” Scott said, dropping his smoke to the concrete and stamping it beneath his black high tops. “He’s a fucking faggot.”
“There,” Shane said, throwing his arm over Scott’s shoulder. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
Scott just shook his head and shrugged. He opened the door and went back into the building on his way to class.
“I think the time has come to settle this thing once and for all,” Shane said.
“I think you’re right.”
“Perhaps an encounter is warranted.”
“Scott will never agree to it.”
“If we set it up as some sort of reconciliation party, I’m sure he’ll go along with it.”
