The Same, But Different (Phan) DISCONTINUED

Macabre Jackson Pollock

Hahahaha.

I'm laughing because I said I'd upload more and I haven't!!! I should take up the profession of a comedian!!!!

But, in all seriousness, I'm thinking of making an upload schedule- a few of you guys have been requesting that I update more, so I shall strive to do so (real talk, though, when you guys ask that I update, it means you like the story and that means an awful lot to me- so thank you! ♡).

Also, this isn't too long as it's the middle of the night >//< I feel that this is the highest quality chapter I've written for this story.

Warning- homophobic slurs. Also minor minor minor violence (like, it's brief).
•••

Phil had had such a lovely weekend. Such a nice, relaxing, enjoyable, peaceful, beautiful weekend.

But that nice, relaxing, enjoyable, peaceful, beautiful weekend was shattered like glass by the shrill screeching of the school bell. The relaxation and peace was annihilated by the rowdy teenagers and the skittish, ant-like students that crowded the school halls, making Phil feel all too much like a sardine in a far-too-small tin.

He, too, made his way to class; to English to be precise. He'd love English if it weren't for the insufferable assholes that occupied the back row of the classroom. The assholes that seemed to be part-time students and full-time pros at making Phil's life a living hell ever since his outing.

Phil sat himself at his desk on the second-to-back row (of course, he was situated in front of his bullies. Of course! Why, with his luck it's a miracle he isn't learning buddies with Darren or his tarty girlfriend Maisie). He sighed quietly and rubbed his eyes, staring at the board and copying things down mechanically.

He tried to ignore the sniggers.

He tried to ignore the kicks to his chair and the taunts and the peltings of paper and the nasty notes passed to him. But he took a look at his hands and found them to be shaking. Shaking; quivering like the last leaf clinging onto a tree in a near-winter breeze.

Swallowing, he stuck his hand up. The teacher, a balding Caucasian man in his forties, paused and looked to Phil.

"Yes?" He inquired.

"Uhm," Phil began, finding his voice clogging in his throat. He coughed once, quietly. More snickers sounded from behind him. "May I go to the toilet, sir?"

The teacher shot Phil a mildly questioning glance but nodded nonetheless, motioning to the classroom door and starting to talk again.

Phil couldn't scramble out of his seat quick enough- he practically threw himself out of the room. He hastily made his way to the toilets. He walked to the sink, fighting for breath against a tight chest, and stared into the mirror.

"C-Calm yourself, Phil. Th-they're nothing. They d-don't matter." He began to mutter to himself, squeezing shut his eyes.

After about five minutes of haggard breaths, he was able to breathe and not shake and the pain in his chest had nearly dissapeared. He was washing his hands when the bathroom door flew open.

"Dearest Phillip!" A gruff voice sang out, "How pleasant to see you!"

Phil turned and gulped.

Darren.

"You know, I'm feeling a little bored. How about you, faggot?" Darren spat, eyeing a cowering Phil as if he were a piece of dog poo.

Phil knew what was coming.

But he still couldn't help but be shocked and winded by the fist that made contact with his stomach and the kick that made his ribs feel as if they were broken for sure. By the time he was lying on the bathroom floor and Darren was panting from the excursion of what was essentially a one person boxing match, Phil felt as if he were being flayed alive.

"Filthy gay." Darren hissed, sounding no different than a highly disgusted snake. He sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving Phil covered in rapidly growing blue and purple bruises that made him look like a macabre Jackson Pollock painting.

Phil ached. He ached so much.