“Enough talking. Both of you sit, be quiet, and do your work.”
I threw myself into my seat with my tough guy mask and attitude in place. I learned quickly in junior high that the key to my survival would be to develop the kind of image where kids wouldn’t mess with me. At least, for the most part. Good kids didn’t want anything to do with me. The teachers didn’t want to bother with me because they thought I was a lost cause. Just a throwaway taking up space in their classroom for the semester.
I knew I was hated. I’d known that since before Mom left. She hated me so much that she’d left me with Dad when she fully knew what he was like.
I was bullied and harassed all the time at home, every damn day. It wears on you. There were days that I stared at the large kitchen knives on the counter, thinking how easy it would be to end all the pain. Or hanging myself in the closet. Though, to do either of these, it would hurt a lot, and that was what kept me from doing it. I didn’t want to hurt any more than I already did, even if it was a route to being pain free and away from all this shit.
To prevent getting bullied and picked on at school, I had to act like a prick. I’d never gotten into a fight at school because I knew that would lead to a parent conference and suspension. And being home any more than I had to be wasn’t good.
Thoughts of the mother I barely knew stormed into my mind. I blamed her for all of this, or most of it. If she hadn’t left me, things would be different. I would be one of the good kids. I’d be a kid the teachers tried to help along because they’d see I was trying, and they’d want me to do well. I’d be a kid who could have friends and go swimming at their house and not have to worry about anyone seeing bruises.
I stared at the glittered poster beside the door reminding students to reserve their copy of the yearbook today.Yeah, fucking right.Fuck, just to have a friend would be nice. Something to give me a reason to get a yearbook. How pathetic would it be to get a yearbook and then have no one sign it?Maybe Derek would sign it for me, or the dean, or the teachers who were stuck monitoring the detention room.
I was too pissed off to concentrate on much of anything. I put the English paper away and pulled out my composition book I’d had since elementary school. I had a binder clip that kept all of the pages together that I’d written on and quickly opened it up to a blank page.
Would anyone care if I never showed up anymore?
Would anyone even notice?
What would they say?
If I were a good kid, I was sure the teachers would notice.
I’d have friends who would notice.
Some might even be disappointed not to see me.
They’d say, “Darn, I was looking forward to telling him something.”
Or, “Shoot, I wanted to ask him if he knew the math answer.”
But no.
There had never been any of that, and there never would be.
Instead, the teachers would congregate in their breakroom when they heard the news about how the troublemaker that lacked motivation took his own life.
They’d say, “So sad for his family,” or “Not surprised; he was troubled.”
The students wouldn’t notice. Just another face in the crowd out of their way.
I’m nothing.
No one says anything to me.
I’m so lonely that I ache.
Then I don’t know if what I’m feeling is pain from Dad or Sebastian or sadness.
Being nothing hurts all of the time.
I’m tired of hurting.
“Patrick.”
I looked up when I heard the teacher say my name. The heavy door to the classroom clicked shut, leaving me alone in the class. Brief panic set in as I looked at the clock. It was four thirty, and I’d fallen asleep at the desk.
“Time to go for the day,” he said as he put his book in his messenger bag.
