He stood at the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. He had run up there the moment he got home. Ignoring his Mother calling to him. He was scrubbing at his face, scrubbing off the purple marker they had used to write "FAG" on his face. Even after it was physically washed away, it was still visible to him. He could see the hate they had written on his face. He continued to scrub, wishing he could scrub away this face, this life. Finding an accepted form of him under it all. One they would not torture everyday, one they could be civil to. When his face started to bleed he realized there was nothing under his face, other than himself. Nothing they would accept. He held back the tears that were building up behind his eyes. They can't win I won't cry this time. He wanted to think of another way out of this…Out of getting beaten up, out of being labelled with markers, out of the laughter, out of the pain, out of this hell. He looked at the medicine cabinet, full of pills. He opened it, now the tears fell. Dozens of bottles. A ticket out. He could leave all this. He stared, unblinking, unmoving, just stared. I could get out. Never deal with any of this ever again. To scared to move. Only thoughts and tears flowed. A darkness covered him. But it was no darker than how he felt walking home in his underwear. They had stolen his pants. People were staring, snickering, whispering. That was the worst, the whispers. He reached for a bottle. His hands shaking. He closed his eyes, still and silent, than opened them. Like he woke up. He put the bottle back and closed the cabinet. He wiped off his face. Wiped away the tears, the blood, the thoughts. He looked into the mirror. I've survived yesterday, now I've survived today… I'll have to see about tomorrow. He left the bathroom. To find his mother standing there. Her daily look of concern on her face. He just smiled for her benefit and disappeared into his room.