It Started With A Wrong Number ✯

1. Wrong Number

What a Wonderful World - Louis Armstrong ^

"Faggot!"

"Cock-sucker!"

"Who would want you?!"

"Kill yourself!"

Maybe I will.

Tears fall down my face as they hit me. Who's they, you might ask. Aaron Mitchell, and his three friends, Jaxon, Nicholai and Damon.

I let out a yelp when Aaron punches my stomach, right where Mom stabbed me with that broken bottle of hers last night.

"Look at him, the little fag is so pathetic," Aaron says, a malicious grin on his face.

I know. Why can't I be stronger? Why can't I just run away from all of this?

An image of me running down a long country road appears in my mind. If I was stronger, braver, I could do it. Run away from here to somewhere else, another town, and start a new life. I'd probably have to live on the streets, but to me, that's better than non-stop abuse.

I bet the me I wish I could be is strong enough to run. If I could be the person I wish I was, I'd be brave enough to talk back to Aaron, and my mom. I wouldn't let anyone hurt me again.

"What are you smiling at, faggot?" Nicholai growls, his eyes glaring daggers at me.

"Probably daydreaming about being fucked," Aaron says.

"Like that'll ever happen," Jaxon sneers. "No one would ever want something as worthless and ugly as him."

The bell rings, signalling the end of lunch break.

"Come on, we have to get our stuff," Damon mutters.

Aaron gives me one last punch to my stomach and then walks out of the bathroom with his friends.

Slowly, I stand, wincing in pain. I look in the mirror, and pull my shirt up to see all the bruises. My torso and sides are covered in the purple and yellow spots. I sigh, and pull my shirt back down, looking at my red, teary, but otherwise empty, eyes in the mirror.

No one ever holds back on me. Everyone who ever talks to me now only sees me as a punching bag. Punching bags don't have feelings. They don't feel pain like I do.

Sometimes I wish I had CIPA. Then I wouldn't feel the pain they cause.

I wish I could live in one of my daydreams. They're so much better. I want to learn magic at Hogwarts, or fly on dragons with Hiccup. I wish I could drive around the US in an Impala and hunt supernatural beings with the Winchesters, or even participate in the Hunger Games.

Any life has to be better than the one I'm stuck in.

If only I could be the person I wish I was. I call him Vengeance. He's strong, not afraid on confrontation. Vengeance is everything I'm not.

I blink, snapping back to reality. Why am I such a daydreamer...

Because the dreams a better than facing reality.

Maladaptive daydreaming. That what I diagnosed myself with. A slight case of maladaptive daydreaming. I daydream a lot, about what ifs, and how things that happened to me would be if I could be Vengeance.

I sigh, and pick up my binder and pencil case off the floor where Aaron threw them earlier before walking out of the bathroom. My next class is English, then music. I like both. English isn't bad, and I've always had a way with words. Music, I love. Listening to music is what gets me through each day. Singing is a hobby of mine too, but one I can't do often. Mom hates when I make noise, and Aaron would just have more to make fun of me about if he heard that I sing.