• **Caution to the faint in stomach and heart.**




    You hate it. You don’t find it fair. You can’t go home for fear of the fist; you can’t go to school for fear of the words. Your throat hurts from screaming at daddy every night to stop. You heart throbs from being stabbed everyday by peers. So why do you keep going? Why do you get on that bus headed for hell twice a day? Why are you getting off it now?

    You walk slowly up to the school building—trying desperately to be invisible. You can already hear the laughing behind your back and you self consciously tug at your shirt fearing the gauze place on last night isn’t showing.

    “Freak” a boy whispers in your ear as he runs past you. You keep a straight face and keep walking. Today’s going to be different you decide. You’re going to try and smile. You get to first period and sit down at the back row desk. You’re the only person the teacher doesn’t look in the eye when they take role. You don’t understand why, you’ve been a good girl, never tardy, never absent, never loud. They probably have heard the rumors about you.

    You watch silently as a note is passed desk to desk, being unnoticed by the teacher, and eventually ends up on your desk. You stare at the words that everyone’s etched over in their own shade of ink as it glares right back at you.

    FEAR THE QUEER!

    You fight back tears. You hate those untrue words almost as much as you hate your dad. You ignore the snickers, the notes, and the untrue gossip as best as possible.

    You soon find yourself on the bus again, destined for a more fiery hell. Luckily, the house is silent, and you know dad is getting wasted, preparing for tonight.

    You trot up the stairs to the bathroom and stare at the dark circles under your eyes and slowly brush through your hair. You whisper to yourself, praying to a God you don’t believe is there, to help you make it through another painful night.

    Thirteen.

    You realize tonight will be number thirteen. You shudder at the thought of your dad coming home. You lift your shirt and pull the strip of gauze off your pelvis slowly and carefully. You wince at the slice from daddy’s fingernails as it cracks and starts to bleed again.

    You hear a door slam downstairs and freeze. You hear him clatter and clang his way up the stairs. He skips all the stuff he usually screams at you about your mother dying and your brother leaving and how it’s all your fault. He cuts straight to the point and collides his fist with your jaw. You scream out as you collapse to the ground in shambles and he kicks your side. He grabs a hand full of your hair and drags you across the carpet out in the hallway, leaving rug burn on your arms, and to the closet. He throws you into it amongst the coats and shoes.

    “Take off those damn pants!” he demands.



    You sit at school the next day, calm as a flower, the assembly going on around you. Everyone is rallied up for the basketball season and is jumping up and down screaming. Everyone but you. You smile sadistically and stand slowly. You can’t hear anything as you pull the semi-automatic handgun from your jacket and c**k it once. No one notices you. No one ever does. You take careless aim at the person jumping up and down with her girlfriends in front of you.

    Bam.

    One down. Twelve to go.

    Everyone screams as the girl falls lifeless to the floor, blood everywhere. They all scramble around, like bees in a hive.

    Bam.

    Bam.

    Two. Eleven.

    Three. Ten.

    You don’t hear anything any more as you shoot five more times.

    Four. Nine.

    Five. Eight.

    Six. Seven.

    Seven. Six.

    Eight. Five.

    You hear a voice in your head. A much missed voice. That of your mothers, calling out to you softly. “I’m coming mommy. I’m coming.” You whisper back.

    Nine. Four.

    Ten. Three.

    Thirteen times. Thirteen times your dad beat you. Raped you. Left you half dead in the closet, the kitchen, the bathroom, the garage. Thirteen times he stole a bit of your life.

    Eleven. Two.

    Twelve. One.

    Hardly anyone but the twelve dead students and yourself are left in the gym. You can hear police officers trying to get past the mob of kids trying to get out.

    One.

    You turn the gun to your temple and suck in your last final breath before your finger squeezes the trigger and you hear your mothers long lost voice clearly for the first time in thirteen months.