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Leave Me Be

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The freezing winds lashed against my face. Once friends of mine in the summer, the harsh winds had become bitter, almost angry, as they whipped bits of pebble and dead leaves against my cold face. There was no use pulling my hood over my ears and my cheeks; the wind blew it back again each time I attempted to block it.

Cars drove by me swiftly, contributing to the winds. Looking at me as they passed, older friends laughed hysterically at my blatant discomfort. Friends who used to smile and wave, on certain occasions waving me to the car to offer a ride, now swerved toward my path, as if to frighten me.

That was fine with me. Before, I would take offense to this, sometimes slightly tearing up as they mocked me. But now I didn't mind. I had grown accustomed to their rude mannerisms. In fact, it had grown monotonous, as if I knew what they'd say before it escaped their mouths. Besides, I was only a few blocks away from the school. I wasn't the one wasting my money on gas.

Passing by houses of former friends pained me a bit. Recalling all of the memories, I couldn't believe that such a small thing could push the greatest of friends apart from one another. To my left was the Tyler's house. Tyler certainly wasn't my best friend, but he sure could make a guy laugh. He'd do the most ridiculous things to score some giggles, especially when a girl was watching. He was the guy who was always showing off, even though he'd look better if he'd be himself.

A tear froze in its path as I passed by Dylan's house. Dylan was my best friend since grade school. He was the kind of friend who would never stop being there for you no matter what, or so it seemed. After the incident, he blew me off, refusing to speak to such filth as myself. He bashed me as if we'd been enemies for a lifetime, making fun of me with every opportunity that came by him. But the worst came soon after my secret was exposed. Dylan was rather upset, so he took his anger out the same we he always had; violently. After telling him what I'd held back for years, Dylan was clearly taken aback. His fist and my gut met each other for the first time that night, and, needless to say, his fist made a frightening first impression. I ran home and cried for hours that night. This huge burden I'd been carrying with me for years had been given back tenfold.

Dylan and I were growing apart, even before I told him my secret. He'd begun to gain an interest in football, while I took up acting. His lover for video games furthered, and I began to read while at his house. Things were obviously going downhill, but neither of us had expected things to hit so suddenly.

But Dylan was just one of hundreds of students to mock me after my secret was exposed. People became unfriendly, and, at some times, hateful. Words were muttered in my direction, and my friends stopped talking to me.

Almost as if on cue with my train of thought, Colten, a friend since middle school, ran up to me and asked, "Hey bud, how ya' doing?"

Thrown off, I responded, "I'm doing fine, I suppose."

He patted my back and said, "That's good to hear. Catch you later." He laughed and began to run toward the front doors of the school building.

I ray of hope beamed into me. I thought that I might actually have sustained a friendship.

As I walked into the front doors of the school, its wondrous warmths wrapped around me, smothering me in a blissful heat. My hair defrosted, becoming wet yet again in the process. It looked almost as if I stepped out of the shower and into the school building.

I looked up from my feet at everyone around me and realized that they were practically all staring at me at once. I was confused, but above all, I was angry. Some of them were laughing. Others pointed in my direction.

"What's so funny?" I snapped, nearly screaming.

Realizing that I understood I was the butt of everybody's joke, they began laughing even harder. They must have thought that it was funny to make fun of somebody when they knew it.

In a fit of rage, I stormed to my locker, taking of my jacket while I stomped.

When I reached my locker, I began twisting the knob frantically, hoping that it would come open on the first attempt.

34-20-38

No such luck.

34-20-38

Was I doing it wrong?

34-20-38

This time I was mad. My fist pounded the locker, shocking many around me, including myself. I hadn't realized what I could do when I was angry, but apparently denting metal was one of the things I could do.

Looking up, I read the number at the top of the locker.

74

Well that explained a lot, considering my locker number was 75.

I peeled away all of my winter clothing and stashed it away in locker number 75.

A piece of paper was hanging from the back of my jacket.

A piece of paper that I hadn't seen before.

A piece of paper that had the word "f-----" written on the back.





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