At times, death is appealing. To just sink and be nothing anymore, and to lie and to sleep and just rest from everything. Death is certainly appealing, but at times, sometimes, most times, it seems like cowardice.

But they wouldn't understand.

No one would, especially not them. They who lecture, talk, gossip. They who will stare at him and pity him without any idea of what it is that makes him himself. Tell him that death is cowardice when they aren't the ones being pushed up against the wall, punched, humiliated and then punched again for the sake of it. They don't suffer for being themselves; he does. He does, for them.

I mean, if he wasn't alive, then who would be the punching bag? Someone else, obviously.

He'll be okay, they reason. We've not been that bad to him. It's not like he's suicidal or anything.

For once, they're right.

He's not suicidal. At least, not until he's proved everyone wrong. Not until he's proved his parents wrong. Not until he finds a way to return the shit he's been through in life.

And that will keep him standing. If not, then for a little longer.

…………………………………

They snigger, as he walks into the classroom.

Something is up.

…………………………………

He sits, sheltered, huddled at the back. The teacher looks at him, and tells him to tuck his shirt in and straighten his tie. Near the front, several students sit chatting on their mobile phones, shirts and ties untucked and crooked. She looks at them, and says nothing. He says nothing too.

The lesson starts. He doesn't listen.

A person appears late to class, and he doesn't look up.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Miss." A charming smile is flashed, and the boy's eyes flicker around the classroom. His eyes stop when they rest on the figure at the back.

"Just sit down, John."

John sits, and he slides into the empty space next to him.

"Sam, it is Sam right?"

Sam stares back, not knowing what to say. He knows John. John, the heartthrob of all girls, the bastard who had shoved him unceremoniously into the lockers in the first year. The handsome one with sable hair and damned glitter green eyes. Yeah, he knows John very well.

"Yeah."

"Lend me your answers? I've not done my homework." It's not a request. So Sam shoves his closed book towards him, and then lies on the table. He falls asleep.

So he doesn't see John stare at him. He doesn't feel John's hand on his thigh.

…………………………………

He wakes up to find paper balls being thrown at him, but he keeps his eyes closed, head still on his arms. He hears John hiss something, and they say,

"Why should he be allowed to sleep?"

Why should he indeed.

…………………………………

When everyone leaves the classroom, Sam finds himself cornered by Johns' friends. John isn't there, and Sam is surprised. He closes his eyes for the second time, and he feels a punch to the side of his head. It hurts. And then a kick, which renders his whole side numb. Sam has fought back before. Experience tells him that trying is often futile, and the situation is always made worse.

Telling someone does that too.

So he lays there, quiet, lips pressed shut with pain and defiance. He keeps still as they call him queer, and he realises that this is the reason for the sniggering earlier on. Ah, revelations.

Quickly, his lack of response angers them, but then they fall silent. And Sam realises that a sticky substance is trickling down his neck; he touches, and his hands fall away to be stained by red.

"Shit! What the fuck did you do that for?" One of them shouts.

"Wait, I've got it sorted." The other says. He pulls out a red drink from his bag, and he pours it over Sam. The juice trickles over his head, and it falls in droplets onto his white shirt; sticky, and a sorry attempt at diluting the blood on his head.

The door opens, and Sam is surprised that no one has heard yet.

"You fucking idiots!" Someone screams, voice cracking slightly. It's John.

Sam smiles slightly, tongue darting out to taste the moisture on his lips: a mixture of copper and summer fruits. John is shouting at his friends for Sam. He's angry. Very angry.

Sam doesn't believe it.

But when his friends leave, tails tucked firmly in between their legs, John takes Sam into his arms.

Sam starts to believe.

…………………………………

John always sits next to him, now.

Sam can always feel John's thigh next to his, squashed next to him under the small tables. He never moves away.

…………………………………

They are in the park, and it's night, and they're sat together on a bench.

John is close to Sam, and Sam doesn't know what to do. John is gripping Sams' hands tightly, and there is something dark about John's expression. Something eager, something that Sam isn't sure of.

"It's a nice night tonight." Sam mutters, looking up at the stars. He can hardly see them from the glare of the street lamps, but he scoots away from John's loose embrace. John's response is to shift closer, and he brings one hand to cup Sam's face.

He brings his face close to Sam, and he presses his lips to Sam. Sam has never felt this way before. And for a second, he lets his defences drop and he allows the tongue into his mouth.

A camera flashes. A shutter is heard.

And John pulls away from him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spits, and then his expression changes into a self-satisfied smirk.

Sam blinks. His eyes widen fractionally. And then he runs.

…………………………………

Monday morning, photographs are plastered everywhere.

John's face has been edited out. But everyone sees Sam, kissing someone unmistakably male. Death has never seemed so appealing before.

…………………………………

He confronts John outside the lockers, after everyone has left to go home. He knows that John has hockey practice after school, and John is sweaty, tired and breathing hard. In no condition to hurt anyone. Especially Sam.

"So, what was all that humiliation worth?" He asks.

The smirk is still there from the park.

"What humiliation?" John asks back.

"From associating with me."

John tilts his head back and laughs, hair falling away to reveal a smooth, pale throat.

"Martin's girlfriend."

…………………………………

Death is not an option anymore. Wrath keeps him hanging.

tbc