Ruinous Warmth

A chilling wind blows into the balcony from the empty halls.

The heavy bag slams into the railing, discarded with grief and borderline-hate. Maybe something in it broke, maybe not. The trailing concern gets quickly drowned to the point of corruption in piling resentment. You should've just tossed it over the barrier into the ground below anyway, make sure things ended up smashed, bent and soaked, unusable. It's not like they had any worth; they're yours after all, and you deserve nothing. Yeah, just throw away the things entrusted to you like trash, you ungrateful, disgusting piece of shit. An useless pig like you deserves nothing but a kick in the teeth and a knife down your throat. Let someone find it, worriedly return it to the Lost-and-Found, then absolutely fail to explain yourself like the mentally deficient little faggot you are once someone gets your name from it. Maybe that'll push you hard enough to finally do the world the only justice you're capable of and rid it of yourself. But no, that sounds scary, doesn't it? You don't even have the fucking balls to start that chain off, do you? How disgusting.

Then I'm just as horrid as usual, aren't I? How are you surprised that a scumbag continues to be a scumbag?

It's called having a fucking conscience, you rancid vomit, which honestly just makes it worse that you continue to dig further below rock bottom with every second you persist in breathing despite knowing what you should do.

The boy slams himself into the back wall, head bouncing off it once before landing on it. A ringing pain spreads from the impact, practically squeezing at his tear ducts. Is it bleeding? Most likely not, world's unfair like that. He's not strong enough to do that anyway. Pulling his sleeves all the way up his arms with force, he digs his damaged nails into his upper arms. Skin breaks and scrapes as he tightens his grip, but doesn't reach to the point of bleeding. He could say he's just making sure he doesn't bring any attention to himself by leaving marks, but its more like he's such a bitch he won't dare do it.

What stupid bullshit was it this time? Oh right, that, being too braindead to do simple tasks literally everyone can do. It was almost humorous, really. He slams his fist into the floor in rising frustration, the action only resulting in a barely audible, pitiful thump to contrast the pain that shoots up from the side of his hand and pinkie. He had to run from there, crybaby's waterfalls threatening to burst. He was teetering dangerously close to losing the cold yet eternally disgruntled mask he keeps on. It was completely foolish to think he was capable of fooling anyone with his ridiculous efforts, and yet no one really approached him, so he could at least pretend to be a decent actor. Of course, the only role he's fits in is as an extra to his and everyone else's life, but that's for the best.

Back to the point; You're an irredeemable dumbass who plateau'd from day one.

Aren't you supposed to be smart? Logic dictates that if you're smart, then the only other conclusion here is that you're failing on purpose, so it's your fault! Just the recollection of moments prior brought a flurry of shame, hate, rage, despair, resignation and a million other variations of repugnance towards his own existence rushing and flooding his mind. He had just sat there. Staring at the board, at his work, then back at the board, lost. He looked to the others in the room, but them? They were fine. Smiling, composed, even relaxed, like what was in front of them was the most obvious and easily understood subject in the world. And yet here he was, completely dumbfounded at everything. Actually, completely was incorrect(as he always is). No, there were bits and pieces he understood, or at least thought he understood. It just made it worse, when he tried everything he believed should work, and all that came out was failure. Failure, failure, failure like every single other fucking thing he puts his mind to, and everything he will ever put his abominable, revolting, cursed hands on! The fact that he hasn't been drawn and quartered already for wasting so much of everyone's time and resources is a godsdamned crime against all who live, along with the rest of his detestable life and body!

Face twisted in wrath, another fist swings, this time straight into his cheek, knuckle making painful contact with the cheekbone. The skin stings immediately, but he keeps swinging in a flurry, now aiming at his torso. Two, three, four hits land on his midsection, alternating sides, until the internal pain catches up to him and overcomes his flare of fury, immobilizing him from continuing. His breath catches as he slides down the wall, holding the area he just started to pummel, with a whispered fear of something inside rupturing drifting through his head as he doubles over. The world should be so lucky, his brain comments, adding feelings of further loathing and twisted hope into the mix as fingers hook into his flesh with what little strength his self-defenses will allow.

It is like this every day. Both the complete failure to keep up in practically every way with his juniors, and the process of choking on his own madness and indignation when given the space. Among the people he called underclassmen just last year, he was a simple, almost generic loner. Sat on the back corner of the class, didn't speak more than a dozen words on a good day (class exercises not withstanding, which assured to them he actually could speak), would shut down all but the most formal, work-related of approaches, and generally gave off a negative vibe to any who dared to acknowledge his existence. Multiple people had tried to make contact with the boy; Friendly gestures from good-natured people, curious prodding from the more sprightly classmates, and even some mocking jabs from some of the more ill-mannered of his peers, it all consistently received nothing but cold apathy and silence. After a particularly persistent case of attempts to bait a reaction out of him caught the attention of the staff and several people a date with the counselor's office, it seemed they had all come to an agreement to just generally ignore the repeat year student, much to his relief and desolation in equal parts.

That's what's right. That is the correct course of action to take with you; to treat you like what you are worth, and what awaits the rest of your infection of the planet, absolutely nothing. As long as they avoid you, as long as the world forgets your wretched existence completely, you can minimize the damage you cause to all you manage to interact with, if only microscopically. Obviously never enough to make your continued survival forgivable, but we both know you're not fixing that yourself.

His hands drag up his torso, digits drawing red lines on his skin. Yeah, because I'm too much of a fucking worthless little bitch, alright?! Too afraid to act, too stupid to find a way out, and-- His shirt catches on his fingers. He tries to lift his hands, but his index finger's nail catches on the cotton.

Frustration levels already unstable, he wildly pulls in anger. --too much of a godsdamned vile blight on the universe to just fucking end myself! He tears a very small hole on the hem, and splinters his nail.

His hand free, his rage quickly chills, all the way around into desperation. He stretches his crumpled form back out, and he throws his legs carelessly in whichever way they may fall. His palms come up to cover his eyes, ever-clawing fingers digging through his basil green hair into his scalp in an effort to shut everything out in darkness and pain. His head once more slams into the wall, pushing his already running tears out as he grits his teeth, wails of anguish and sorrow barely being held back. His breathing hitches and shudders along with the rest of him, his grip on his head tightening. Silence envelops everything but his own gasps, as is routine.

Please, just kill me. I can't do it myself. Don't let me wake up again. I beg of you. I can't stand it.

The incoming inner derisive retort is stopped in its tracks as the world suddenly shifts. He barely hears a thump beside him before he feels thin, unknown hands slide beneath him. His arms move from in front of him in surprise, his eyes getting a blurry glimpse of light before his face is obstructed again. With a disproportionate amount of force compared to the arms around him, he feels himself being held up, the hand on his back supporting a good deal of his weight while his head is pushed forward by the other, fingers gently running through his hair onto his still-stinging skin.

After the rare moment of actual inner silence born out of shock passes, his mind starts processing sensations in overdrive. The sound of sweet, whispered hushing in his right ear. The slowly intensifying heartbeat on his left. The blurry image from his right eye of close-up fabric and skin. The scent of honey with a hint of strawberry. But most of all, the feeling. Softness. Warmth. Kindness. Compassion. More so than the decidedly feminine body holding him so tenderly close, gradually adding heat to his own, he felt a wave of clemency and benevolence flow through him. The poisonous tongue of his mind lashed out, berating him for letting yet another poor soul come into contact with his putrid self and shaming him for his physical enjoyment of her touch, but to no avail. While his memory was surely engraving the words into the deep recesses of his brain for later, his consciousness was being too quickly overwhelmed by the comforting feeling of the girl's touch to really react or even understand the admonishments. With a final jeer over how easily he submit to the slightest touch of affection, he feels even that omnipresent voice muffle out into the core of negative emotions in his depths, the soothing heat giving him that silence he desperately desired.

His brain finally slowing down for once in his life, he only feels half-aware as he realizes he's clinging tightly onto the unidentified caretaker. With nothing but muted hints of grievances from the far reaches of his soul to object to his actions, he fully gives in to her, pushing himself further into her embrace as his shivering gasps begin to slow. A deep breath is let out against his ear. Her hands start stroking at his hair and back, sending ripples and vibrations through his body he could only describe as beauty itself given form in physical touch. He could, if his head didn't feel dull and full of clouds and cotton and relief and all things kind.

Their intertwined balance shifts as she pulls him with her. His relaxation extends to his arms as they lose some of the strength he was pulling himself close with, but he doesn't let go. He would never even dare to lose her embrace, he'd rather be torn to pieces first if at least one of them could stay here, with her. The sensation of her warmth only intensifies as he breathes deeply against her, distantly noticing the feeling of wetness on the area his left eye was pressed against. Settling against the wall, he pulls his dragging legs up to a slightly more comfortable position, and finishes weaving himself into her grasp, practically melting on top of her. As their slow respiration synchronizes into a sleep-inducing, sluggish rhythm, he feels his eyelids descend to the calming beat of her heart pushing up against him, reciprocated by his own in kind...

Until, that is, the piercing ringing of the school bell marking the end of lunch period detonates with the fright of a nuclear alarm. Awakening with a jump, he shakes his head quickly, disoriented and confused. The feeling of warmth on him completely alien to him, he turns only to meet his yellow eyes with a pair of large teal ovals on a borderline-crimson face, which he noted felt like it mirrored his own, along with their shared embrace and something else. It only lasts a quarter of a second as remembrance stampedes through his head, and they both push off each other. His liftoff is, unfortunately for him, less graceful than that of the girl he now recognizes, Fluttershy. He just kicks off backwards and lands on his back, head getting slammed for a third time. He puts his hands on the impact spot, curling up and eyes closing in pain for a few moments. Third time's the charm, it seems, as he feels a little wetness from it. Trying to push past the pain, the yelling in his head returns full force as he makes for his bag. He notices the pink-haired girl's vanished, no trace from her even in the hall coming up to the balcony.

A deep groan falls from his grimacing mouth, dreading whatever mess he's now surely brought upon himself awaits him. The pain in his head dulls under the smarting of cold air against the wound. The thought of just straight skipping class crosses his mind, but remembers that she's in the next class with him, and is probably going to tell on him if he's absent for roll call. No choice but to get fucked, then. That thought has his memory bring up the feeling he had while he was dozing.

...Yeah right, who're you kidding? Your emotional disaster of a head is already having extremely stupid dreams of being close to her. Someone gives you an inch and you come running for the whole mile. You're. Disgusting.

With a heavy sigh, his entire being droops into his trademark hunched over stance, shouldering his overfilled bag. He starts walking, bracing himself for what's likely to be months of creepy attraction for the girl, pathetic failures in emotional intelligence, and the intensifying hatred of a thousand suns for himself.

So disgusting.