In the Closet (boy x boy)

11. Five Days in Hell

Monday, March 13th

Neons buzz overhead. Distantly, music filters out of the concierge's old radio. A ghost of last friday's chatter strays in the corridors. People rarely willingly come to school an hour early on a morose Monday morning. My backbag hangs heavy on my shoulders. My newly bought encyclopedia has been tempting me the whole morning. I don't run into anyone and it's bliss. I feel great as if nothing could ruin my morning. But then Tavish McCloud, as usual, feels the need to distinguish himself and prove me wrong. The chemical smell of fresh spray paint prickles my nose. My locker is stained with white paint. The lettering is untidy. It dribbles onto the lower locker but the words are lisible still.

"Ugly Ant-Boy," I read aloud. The taunt isn't signed yet I just know. I know it's Tavish's doing. What I don't know is what he has against me, what he wants from me.

I lower my eyes to my shoes. My eyes burn. It's not the nickname nor the prod that stings the most. It's that, despite it all, he still belittles me. He wanted me and I wanted him. I came to terms with such a fact. Even a week later, he can't seem to do so. If I hadn't left my phone, if I wasn't such an easy victim, would my locker still be a flawless red? And he noticed my insecurity. He read through me. Instead of simply sorting the knowledge away as I did when I saw him with that boy, he's using it. What for, I wouldn't know. If it's to intimate me, it's useless. I never had a loose mouth to start with and I told him so. There's also the disregard for everything I've tried to be for the past years—quiet, unnoticed, easy to ignore—that only provides me with yet another reason to sleeplessly scowl at my ceiling at night. I don't want this kind life to return. I don't want to have to cower away from everything. Not again.

I breathe to ground myself. Look back at my locker. I scoff at the words. They petulantly exist in return, ever so mocking in their messy whiteness contrasting with red paint on metal. I skid a careful finger over it. It doesn't smear. It's dry, freshly dry yet still undeniably dry. I unlock the padlock and wham the door open. The noise resonates across the lengthy corridor. The concierge, alerted, breaches into my sight with his infamous trolley. He watches me rummage through my locker in silence. His two-way radio blabbers on its own. He brings a couple fingers to twist a button and quiet it. I frown at him. He doesn't budge and I give up on ever comprehending the man. Some people are simply odd and it's alright.

I fetch a tissue from the bottom of my bag, under textbooks and dictionaries and an encyclopedia and a pencil case. Then, I close the door again and start wiping. Hard enough to almost immediately reduce the tissue to shreds. More and more upset, I rub at the words. I try to erase the Ugly first, than move on to the Ant-Boy as it were any less useless.

"Come on," I groan, encouraging the paint to fade. My head spins at the rancid smell.

"Young man," the concierge calls at me. I ignore him, upsetting myself.

"Try this." He puts a hand on my shoulder and hands me a cloth damp with a pungent liquid.

I manage to scrub the words off. The bell rings and I can't spare the time to read my encyclopedia in the library. I barely sleep at night.

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Tuesday, March 14th

In the morning, when I arrive at my locker, it bears a new stain and I don't have it in me to fight it off. Perv, I pretend I can't see it. I grab my encyclopedia and head straight to the library. My mind thunders, damned by a gray storm of dismay. I don't want to play this game, I decide as I push through the doors. I settle in my usual spot, well concealed. The first page of acknowledgments and thanks is gorged with the names of grand scientists and that of their beloved peers. I enjoy skimming through the messages. It's sweet. A sudden loud bantering stemming from the seating area startles me. I didn't even hear anyone come in. I, despite myself, listen in.