---Patrick---

Drums. Voices. Bass. Guitar.

"I want to be the minority
I don't need your authority
Down with the moral majority
Cause I want to be the minority,"

His voice echoes through my head as I rush down the halls, not running, but I'm sure as hell not strolling. Each step feels so long like I can never walk or even run fast enough from my problems, from the heavy weight that always rests on my shoulders. Anxiety, doubt, depression, guilt, fear. I take a sharp left and find myself in the bathroom. Perfect.

As soon as I'm through the door, I pull off my fedora and continue my fast pace into a stall without a moment of hesitation. My trembling fingers shut the door, making sure it's locked and nobody can find me. Nobody could laugh at me for this... I know they would. I know they would just giggle away at my pathetic attempt to lose weight like I ever could lose weight. It's useless. There's no way I could. It's stupid but no matter what, I can't stop myself from trying. I lean over the toilet and before I can have second thoughts, I shove two fingers into my mouth and down my throat as far as they'll go. I'm surprised by my own determination but let it pass quickly as my stomach clenches and everything I ate the day before is forced out my mouth. Near nothing.

"Unsung, against the mold,
Without a doubt,
Singled out,
The only way I know,"

I flush my vomit down the toilet, shivering and wiping my stinging eyes of tears with my arms crossed and my knees weak. I stand for a moment, my back against the stall wall as I try to calm down and regain some strength. My mind is foggy, but it's slowly clearing up. My heart is pounding, but it's gradually slowing down. My knees are still weak, and my hands are clutching the toilet paper roll for something to hold on to, but I'm beginning to strengthen again, one step at a time. It happens every time, I lose my courage when I need it to most. The courage to get through the day without one trip to the bathroom, but I always seem to back down

I take a few deep breaths, feeling my lungs inflate and deflate inside my chest as I try to get rid of my anxiety even though it near never works. My anxiety is always there. Always. It's like a shadow, it always follows me around even if I don't want it to. I hate my shadows, I have a few of them, always pulling at the back of my mind and forcing me to relive what I don't want to relive, laughing as my eyes open wide in fear and I cry myself to sleep at the thought of what they bring me. They're less like shadows, though, and more like demons. I guess I have a lot of demons, then...

I let my hands finally release the toilet paper roll, still shaky but not as bad as they were when I first let everything come up. I don't open the stall door quite yet, though. Instead, I glance at my clothed arms. I don't know why I always do this to myself... I guess it's just a reminder. A constant reminder that my life won't get any better, that no matter how hard I try, my life will always be this hell that I'll never be able to escape because I keep reliving the same traumatizing moment over and over and over. And sometimes I just need a reminder because my mind gets carried away with unrealistic fantasies of being happy...

I clasp the edge of one of my sleeves softly, slowly pulling up the light gray clothing of my jacket and I can't help but feel a little sick as I look across all the scars. The most recent ones are deeper than my past ones, but some of the ones from a few years ago nearly sent me to the hospital.

The bullying is over for the most part. At school at least.

My mind brushes over that thought for only a split second before I move away from it and tug down my sleeves, trying to push that as far out of my mind as I can because I can't think about that now. I open the stall door and make my way to the faucet, washing my hands.

Disgusting. Pathetic. They're all right, you know. The bullies. You're weak. You're fat.

I rinse my face off.

I need to get a hold of myself. It'll be okay.

Stupid pig. You know it's not okay. You're not okay. Don't lie to yourself.

And just like a snap of my fingers, it all comes crashing down on me again, and I freeze up.

The biggest problem is that I have no friends, nobody to talk to, not a single person, and that's all my fault. I'm trying to escape that feeling, but it keeps coming back. I'm lonely. I feel so alone, but I'm too scared to talk to anyone about it. I'm scared I'll fumble over my words, and I'll only make myself seem more like an idiot. My anxiety has gotten so bad that I can barely even talk to one person without breaking down. I think it's because I'm scared I'll get bullied again like before. Last year.

Those words they said hurt like hell.

"Stepped out of line
Like a sheep runs from the herd
Marching out of time
To my own beat now,"

It's my fault that I'm fat, too. If I hadn't gone to stress eating, then I wouldn't have all this excess weight, and I wouldn't feel like this. I would be normal but no, of course not. I just had to fuck that up. If I'd only found cutting and music before that, I wouldn't be so overweight and greedy. And somehow, even though I have everything that I could ever want, I'm still depressed like I'm such a stuck up douche that pretends I never get what I want. I live in America for crying out loud. We take up a third of the world's resources.

"The only way I know
One light, one mind
Flashing in the dark
Blinded by the silence of a thousand broken hearts,"

It's all my fault that I'm always anxious. It's my fault that I'm always jittery, that I'm always scared to talk to people. It's my fault that The Incident happened. It's all my fault. If only I could go back in time and change one thing. One little thing at all... If only I'd tried harder... If only I'd actually tried. I might have been able to...

"'For crying out loud,' She screamed unto me
A free for all
Fuck 'Em all
'You're on your own side'"

The bell rings loud and long, taking me from the nightmare of my thoughts. Fourth period, I have to go. I force myself to release a breath I didn't realize I was holding, most of my anxiety leaving me with the carbon but it always comes back somehow. It doesn't matter how hard I try. It's like my shadow. It doesn't go away.

I look up from the counter, blinking as I look at my reflection. Fat, disgusting, lazy, ugly, greedy. I pull away, I can't see myself. I'm so ugly and fat and damaged. I might as well just kill myself. I want to, why don't I just do it?

Agreed.

My fingers feel soft through my hair as I finally turn from the mirror to leave the bathroom and walk out the door, down the hall, towards the art room. Leaving my anxiety behind as I go. Or... trying to... My feet carry me mindlessly because they know the way and I try my best to just hide from everyone that passes by me. My hands in my pockets, and my head down as I pass through the crowd of people.

Even though anxiety may be my shadow, I'll always be everyone else's shadow. Just the thing that everyone forgets about, dark, negative. Something nobody cares about, they're too busy with important things to care about me. I don't need to be cared for, I can take care of my own damn self... like they take care of themselves.

I don't bother stopping by my locker. I don't need anything for art. Just me, broken and useless like I always am.

I could come up with a thousand other words that could describe you besides broken and useless. Come on.

I keep my head down as I walk through the door of the art room. It's wide open, and the teacher is the only one in the room, sitting at his desk with a pile of papers and his name on a small piece of plastic in front of him: Benedict Cumberbatch. This is usually how it is, me being the first one in because everyone else wants to stay out in the halls with their friends until the bell rings.

Anyways, Mr. Cumberbatch is a relaxed teacher. He lets us do whatever we really want to during class, really, as long as we're still drawing. He's in a long-sleeved black button-up shirt today with thin, vertical dark gray stripes sewn evenly through the fabric. A long black overcoat drapes off of the back of his chair and a scarf lies atop of the coat. And on the man's legs are loose denim jeans, shadowing a pair of dark black shoes.

His dark brown hair is unkempt, some stray curly hairs stick out from the rest. Some people once said it looks like a bird's nest, but I think it looks nice above his narrow face and his blue eyes. They're focused on the computer in front of him, but as soon as I step into the class, he turns them up and gives me a smile that makes them crinkle at the edges. Like he really does care about me, and that makes me happy.

He's probably my favorite teacher. He's always kind of relaxed and not tense about anything. I strive to be like him. I strive to never be anxious, to not worry about anything, to not worry about life, to forget about The Incident and my mind.

I wish I could just... be okay. I wish I could heal and forget about The Incident.

I can't, though. I already know that. I lost hope ages ago. I'm going to be broken forever. How could I heal from something like this? It's hopeless. I'm hopeless. Hopelessly hopeful but nobody else even cares that I crumble to broken shards every day. I break, and I shatter, and it takes all night to build myself up again, but I don't even get relief at night. I'm constantly under pressure. Always.

Only three more hours. I should probably make the most of it while I can.

I nod to him, because I don't want to talk right now, before taking a seat at my assigned table where I'll soon sit beside a couple other guys. Two of my ex-friends...

Almost as if they're cued in, Ryan and Brendon walk through the door laughing about something I can't hear. They're happy. They're so happy... it hurts... They come to the table, taking a seat at a couple of metal chairs across me as they chatter between each other like birds. I keep my hands in my pockets, my head down to look straight at my lap because I, unfortunately, don't deserve the luxury of their friendship anymore. I refused it. I still refuse it. I can do just fine by myself. It's not like they'd want to hang out with someone as unpopular as me anymore.

In truth, they're both fairly popular at our school. I know Brendon's parents are really wealthy, and I used to be able to get a little of money off him if I needed. Meanwhile, his "friend" Ryan is popular because they hang out all the time. There are rumors that they're dating and gay. I don't have a say on it, though. I don't have a say on a lot of things. Who would want the loser's opinion?

As I think about it, though, I've never been in love with anyone. I don't understand what it feels like. Unless you count the family love, but that's family love. It's an entirely different concept, and it's not like there's much of that, anyway.

No, I don't understand what it's like to love someone else. I've loved one person, but I'd barely call it love, just a bad relationship. I don't know what it would be like to have a soulmate. I don't know what it's like to have someone's lips on mine, skin against skin with their hands exploring me.

You wish.

Nobody would be interested in me, though. My body is a mess. I'm fat. My arms are littered with scars and bruises. I can barely stomach anything I eat. Nobody would be interested in a guy who wears a fedora and Green Day merchandise. I'm an ugly disaster, and everybody knows it.

Mentally, I'm worse. So much worse. I have anxiety, and I'm always scared that I'll embarrass myself. I'm scared people will judge me. There are times when I can't find a point in living, and if someone handed me a gun, I'd pull the trigger on my temple the first chance I get just to leave this living hell and let my blood splatter the wall, dripping red and dark against the white. It's true that I'm ugly. It's true that I'm fat. It's true that I'm unlovable. The few people I love, don't love me back. And because of that, I deserve death. I deserve a long and painful death, worse than a bullet to a head. I deserve the longest, most painful death.

Life.

In the end, I'm unpopular, and I'm a mess of fat, scars, and anxiety and whatever else I have to give. I sigh, pulling out my headphones which have begun playing "Holiday," and gently set my phone in my pocket before looking up to Mr. Cumberbatch. He's at the front of the class with a clipboard and sheet of paper. I must have missed the bell. It's the last day of the first week of school, and normally, teachers would still have to call out names for attendance. But not this one.

Mr. Cumberbatch has an incredible memory. On the first day of school, he asked for everyone's names and that was it. He memorized all of our names by the second day of school and he still remembers them all. He's just checking the names off now, and he doesn't even have to look up.

"Alright, everyone. You all have a new classmate today." He says to us, then nods toward the door.

My gaze goes straight there in surprise with my eyebrows raised. It's exceedingly rare to have a new student, especially in high school. That apparently isn't what happened to the boy in the doorway since... well, since he's a new student.

As soon as I lay my eyes on him, they widen and I swallow nervously. My palms go sweaty and my breathing is hitched at the sight.

He's beautiful.