Kiss Slowly, Speak Quickly
Gerard's POV
'нανє уσυ єνєя тσυ¢нє∂ α ѕυи-кιѕѕє∂ нσяιzσи
σи α ωαям ѕυммєя ∂αу
ωнєи тнє ωσяℓ∂ ѕтσρρє∂ мσνιиg
αи∂ уσυя нєαят ѕтσρρє∂ вєαтιиg'
I got about that far into my latest work before the paper was torn from under my pen. I sighed and kept my eyes on the desk, sitting up a little straighter.
"At it again, huh, Gerard? Let's see what the freak drew this time," I heard one male voice laugh.
"It's not a drawing," I muttered. I heard him flip the page over.
"So it's a poem?" he snickered.
"A song," I said softly, gripping my pen in my hand until my knuckles turned white as I put my thumb on the end closest to me. The laughter was riotous and it had to be five or six guys around me. All of them were at least twice my size. The laughter only grew louder as the ring-leader read the stanza. I bit my lip and took a small breath. It was getting harder to breathe with everyone pressing so closely. "Can I have it back now?" I asked quietly.
The laughter stopped. "This is so gay," someone said suddenly. The laughter continued. Appreciating the applause and howls of approval, the same voice continued, "I mean seriously. What kind of a girl are you?" I snatched the paper back and quickly placed it in my folder where they couldn't see it. The laughter stopped again, and the ring-leader stepped forward.
"Getting a little too close to agression. Take a step back before there's trouble," he said as menacingly as he could. I smirked a little and stood, picking my backpack up and slinging it over my shoulder. He stepped in my way before I could walk off. "We're not done here," he growled.
"I'm just trying to go home," I said without looking up. Apparently, this was the wrong response because he shoved me back to my desk. My bag slid off my shoulder, and I remember being sure that my hip would bruise. I was too skinny for it not to.
I blacked out and started swinging, but a 96 pound, 15-year-old boy can't match up to the defensive line of the football team. When I got my vision back, there was someone else's blood on my hands and I couldn't find my pen. My shirt was soaked and a little darker than it's original black. I groaned and curled in on myself to try and alleviate some of the pain. I looked around and started crying when I saw my papers--my drawings, my writings, my schoolwork--torn to shreds and scattered around the room.
The bell rang and the class rose to leave. Everyone of them. 52 feet passed me. That's 26 students. 52 feet and 52 eyes. The only thing they did was laugh. 26 biting, harsh, careless snickers. I saw the teacher's shoes. She walked to me then passed me with nothing but a quiet sigh. I groaned again and stayed still.
σи α ωαям ѕυммєя ∂αу
ωнєи тнє ωσяℓ∂ ѕтσρρє∂ мσνιиg
αи∂ уσυя нєαят ѕтσρρє∂ вєαтιиg'
I got about that far into my latest work before the paper was torn from under my pen. I sighed and kept my eyes on the desk, sitting up a little straighter.
"At it again, huh, Gerard? Let's see what the freak drew this time," I heard one male voice laugh.
"It's not a drawing," I muttered. I heard him flip the page over.
"So it's a poem?" he snickered.
"A song," I said softly, gripping my pen in my hand until my knuckles turned white as I put my thumb on the end closest to me. The laughter was riotous and it had to be five or six guys around me. All of them were at least twice my size. The laughter only grew louder as the ring-leader read the stanza. I bit my lip and took a small breath. It was getting harder to breathe with everyone pressing so closely. "Can I have it back now?" I asked quietly.
The laughter stopped. "This is so gay," someone said suddenly. The laughter continued. Appreciating the applause and howls of approval, the same voice continued, "I mean seriously. What kind of a girl are you?" I snatched the paper back and quickly placed it in my folder where they couldn't see it. The laughter stopped again, and the ring-leader stepped forward.
"Getting a little too close to agression. Take a step back before there's trouble," he said as menacingly as he could. I smirked a little and stood, picking my backpack up and slinging it over my shoulder. He stepped in my way before I could walk off. "We're not done here," he growled.
"I'm just trying to go home," I said without looking up. Apparently, this was the wrong response because he shoved me back to my desk. My bag slid off my shoulder, and I remember being sure that my hip would bruise. I was too skinny for it not to.
I blacked out and started swinging, but a 96 pound, 15-year-old boy can't match up to the defensive line of the football team. When I got my vision back, there was someone else's blood on my hands and I couldn't find my pen. My shirt was soaked and a little darker than it's original black. I groaned and curled in on myself to try and alleviate some of the pain. I looked around and started crying when I saw my papers--my drawings, my writings, my schoolwork--torn to shreds and scattered around the room.
The bell rang and the class rose to leave. Everyone of them. 52 feet passed me. That's 26 students. 52 feet and 52 eyes. The only thing they did was laugh. 26 biting, harsh, careless snickers. I saw the teacher's shoes. She walked to me then passed me with nothing but a quiet sigh. I groaned again and stayed still.
Thank you to the person who wanted to keep reading
9/29/15