This chapter is a lot longer than the first, but it's also mostly focused on the main character, Gabriel, who's the one telling the story.

The ending of 2010 was coming, and there I was, a sophomore in high school, tall, awkward, and a little overweight. With my curly black hair, skinny jeans, and constant jacket, I wasn't exactly a looker, though I did have a girlfriend, Clover.

She was tall, around 5'10", stick thin with short dirty blonde hair that reached her shoulders.

She wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, nor did she have the greatest sense of humor. She was awkward, though she was beautiful, and very sweet.

She kept me stable.

Somewhat.

She was the main reason Marco and I were apart, constantly sensing something going on there, she'd never leave the two of us alone, walking me to and from classes, making sure I wasn't spending too much time with him.

Through our many fights, and on and off again relationship, I wasn't exactly doing too well.

I was in class, Science, sitting apart from Marco, since our teacher had quickly caught on we weren't exactly manageable together.

Every once in a while I would peek through my raven locks and glance his way, as he hunched forward and smiled with those plump lips.

He's drawing again

I quickly caught on that Marco was a pretty big fan of Yuri. He'd draw it; write about it, and pretty much fan boy over the relationships. He saw it as the mot pure form of love, not like how other guys viewed it. Sure, he did write sex scenes, but they were soft, sweet, fluffy.

I laughed softly.

I'd become his editor whenever he wrote, seeing as he couldn't spell for shit, and didn't really understand grammar, using the wrong 'you're' and 'their' every once in a while. But he was an amazing writer, giving my stories a run for their money.

I knew I'd be editing his newest chapter of his on going story about a young woman who moves in with a vampire goddess. His character development was a hell of a lot better than mine, and honestly, I was a bit envious of how fucking quickly he'd picked up on drawing them out.

Our teacher, an old cougar with a thing for young minorities, began her long and boring lecture, all while stealing the occasional glance at Marco, who had successfully closed his book without getting caught.

Her nasty blue green eyes tracing every line of his body had my skin crawling. It was disgusting, honestly, how a middle-aged, overweight teacher could think she had a chance at Marco, or that it was okay to lust after a 16 year old.

Of course, he'd noticed it before I did, and used it to his advantage, flirting with her to smug a due date, or forgive missed homework, then, afterwards, he'd leave the classroom and laugh about how nasty she was.

I tapped my pencil against my desk and hummed softly, watching the clock in hopes that maybe, with an intense enough stare; the little hands would spring forth quicker.

We had lunch next, and of course, with lunch, came half an hour with Marco, and food. Food was something I defiantly was up for.

Again I fidgeted, causing the cougar to glance my way.

I zipped up my jacket just a little higher, hoping that my non dress-code shirt would go unnoticed under the baggy black fabric.

She narrowed those nasty eyes again, before turning her attention back to the board, allowing me to breathe easily.

I sighed.

I stared down at my callused hands, running one unkempt, dirty nail over the brown skin of my fingers. Though I never took care of them, the skin of my hands was silky, even with all the extra skin I'd developed from constantly picking at my flesh when nervous, I still managed to have such feminine hands. Longs, slender fingers that were soft to the touch. 'Piano hands' my piano teacher called them, 'beautiful' he'd say 'Perfect for the keys'.

I hated my hands.

Thinking back, there were a lot of things about my body I couldn't stand.

For one, I was warm, always warm, my body heat just naturally higher than everyone else's, it seemed. I hated my heat, how it radiated off me, how I was constantly sweating, even in winter. I just wanted to be able to wear a jacket, like anyone else, honestly, but no, every once in a while I had to take it off to let my surprising thin arms breathe.

Then there was my skin. I was brown, like most Mexicans, but I had a yellow undertone to me. And with my Insomnia and dark under eye circles, on bad nights, I'd wake up looking like a zombie, like I had the life drained right from my face. Whenever I skipped a meal, there it was. That yellow tint that made me look like I belonged in a fucking hospital. I hated my skin tone so damn much, I just wanted something smooth, something even, like Marco's, or even Clover's, at least her skin was an even shade of white.

My hair. Shit my curly as fuck hair. I don't really know how long it had gotten, because with all the curls, it seemed to stay around chin's length, and they fell around my face like little raven spirals. They were that even, and honestly, if the hair had belonged to someone else, probably a girl, I'd call it beautiful. But on me, it just looked girly and stupid, though I'd never cut them off, I used them to hide my eyes whenever I decided to stare at someone, which, in retrospect, was really fucking creepy to do, but it was one of my favorite hobbies.

Then there were my eyes, my dark, mud-colored eyes. They were practically black, but not like Marco's. His were big and gorgeous; mine were average sized and the color of poop. Seriously, could God have picked a worse shade of brown to throw into my eyes?

I was also uncomfortable with my height. At six feet, you'd think I'd be okay for a dude, but no, I lived in Phoenix, the valley of the sun, and the valley of the short. Most guys around my age hit my chin, at best, coming off at 5'3"-5'4", and the lucky 'tall' ones were at 5'7", so, in comparison, I was freaking big.

I was also fat. Not too big, but big enough to make me both self conscious, and uncomfortable.

I never allowed the lights on when with Clover.

I never allowed the lights on with anyone.

Fuck, I didn't even undress in the open during gym my freshman year.

Of course, I was still going through puberty, and with my prudish girlfriend at the time, my self-confidence was at a all time low.

Hell, it wasn't until about the start of Sophomore year when girls really started taking a liking to me. Was it my height? My decent looking face? Maybe my personality. But whatever it was, I started getting around.

Which, of course, I hadn't really stopped.

I was addicted to sex. And X. Couldn't forget about X.

Basically, I was popping, smoking, or banging anything I could, anything to help with my raging manic-depressive episodes caused by my untreated bipolar disorder.

Fuck, I hated my life.

But other then the ED, the insomnia, the low self esteem, and the addictions, I was your average, fuck the world kind of teenager.

"Let's gooooooooo" Marco slammed his fragile looking hands down on my desk in front of me, whining.

I widened my eyes in surprise.

I hadn't even noticed the bell had rung, too busy picking at my finger tips until they were practically bleeding again.

"Alright." I nodded, grabbing my beat up black bag from the floor and slinging it lazily over my shoulder. "Time to eat."

It'll get better, swear. For those reading from my Lamia story, sorry my writing style is much different here, it's because time will jump more, and this won't be as focused on day to day, but more like month to month. Hope you guys still wanna read it :)