My name is Steven Micheals. I’m 18 years old and have been a faithful brony since the humble beginnings on 4-Chan. There used to be two of us in my small school of about 400. But when my friend Collin moved away, I was it. I was being harassed, called names, beat up on one occasion. Something happened to me a few days ago that I need to tell the world about. I don’t know how to describe it, but here’s my best shot.
The date was Friday, March 6th, 2012. I had just dragged my still half-asleep body out of my blue and white bed cover and drudged across the hallway to enter my bathroom. It was freshly cleaned and smelled of lavender. I shut the door behind me and plopped down on the toilet. I ran my hands across my face. The warmth of my hands was uncomfortable against my face. I quietly stripped and ran a hot shower. As the water began to heat up, I put in my contacts. The left one went in with no problems, but as usual, the right one folded under my eyelid. I cursed under my breath and took the contact out once more. I looked at it, it was ripped.
“Just my fucking luck,” I muttered. I took my left contact out and threw both of them into the trash bin next to my sink. At this point the room was beginning to steam up from my shower, so I hopped in. The water was perfect, as usual. I sighed in relief, the hot water hitting my tense muscles.
I hopped out about ten minutes later dried off, and walked to my room. I quickly threw on a pair of jeans and my grey Derpy shirt. I ran over to my desk, grabbed my messenger bag, sweatshirt, my wallet and my phone. I jumped down my stairs, and walked over to my families kitchen. The closest was already half open, so I walked over and grabbed a pouch of Pop-tarts. The pocket in my sweatshirt was beckoning for them. I complied, placing the silver pouch in my pocket. I heard my bus horn go off, and I ran out of the door, grabbing my keys from the basket next to the door. The door was open, and behind it was one pissed off driver.
“Sorry I’m late.” I muttered to the driver.
“Whatever kid.” The door shut behind me and I walked on. I tried finding an open seat,
but found only one, in the back row. The short walk to the back seemed like a five-mile hike. I was the hiker and the kids were the obstacles. Then I came upon the end, blocked by the bear.
“Hey faggot, how are your toys?” I sighed. It was Matt Conway; the executioner. He was the one who tormented me. He was the one who made my life hell.
“Why the hell would you want to know?” I tried walking past him, but with no success. A foot in the aisle and a push from behind sent me flying to the ground. Something moved me midair, causing me to twist 180°. I landed on my backpack. I had brought my laptop that day.
“Oh shit.” I twisted over on the ground, only to be resisted by a large, unclean foot preventing me from getting up. I lied on the ground; met with defeat, preparing myself to take whatever cruel punishment the executioner was preparing to give me. My crime? Not living up to so called “gender normality’s”. Apparently, in Nebraska, that’s a capital crime.
“Get up asshat.” The executioner had granted me a temporary pardon. I scurried up, grabbing my backpack off of my back. Once I had reached my seat, the zipper was done and my computer was out. I sighed. They fall had cracked the screen and the track pad. I was done for the day, even thought my day hadn’t started.
I stood up. “Bus Driver! Take me home.” The executioner looked up with a sly grin.
“What did you say?” A faint call reached my eardrums. I moved forward toward the front of the bus.
“Take me home.” I had repeated my previous statement with more roughness in my voice. From a bystander, this would have sounded like a threat, instead of a request.
“Sorry, no can do.” I leaned over the white line, and glared at the person who I currently trusted with my life.
“Then stop the damn bus; and when you radio this in, say that I had an emergency and would not be attending school today.” Everyone was silent, everyone except Mr. Executioner. He was laughing his ass off, not believing that I could stand up for myself.
“Alright. Just wait until a red light or something.” I retreated behind the line satisfied.
About five minutes later, the bus came to a stop. I hadn’t sat down since my demands were met, so I simply thanked the bus driver with a nod of my head, looked to the back of the bus, staring at the Executioner, then walked off. I stopped on the sidewalk to see where I was. There was a public bus stop, a McDonalds, and a small park. I sat down on the bench and pulled out my phone. This was one phone call that I didn’t want to make.
Mom: Hello?
Me: Mom?
Mom: Steven? What are you doing calling? Shouldn’t you be at school?
Me: It’s a long story; I had to get off the bus. I’m at the bus stop near Prinston Park and McDonalds. Can you come get me?
Mom: *sigh* I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Go into the McDonalds and get something to eat.
I approved her demands, said goodbye, and hung up. I dropped my phone in my pocket and began my walk across the street. Being 18, no one except those who had seen my departure off of the bus knew that I was a high school student.
I was waiting inside of the McDonalds when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It was my mom.
Mom (text): I’m here.
I sighed in relief and grabbed my stuff. Sure enough, in the parking lot was that recognizable blue sedan shared between the legal drivers of my family. I opened the passenger door and hopped in, backpack on my lap.
Mom: Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?
Me: It happened again, only worse this time. Plus they broke my laptop.
Mom: YOUR LAPTOP? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT COST?
Me (Starting to tear up): Yes mom, d-d
o you think that I meant for that to happen? This happens every fucking day. I’m sick of it.
Mom: That’s unacceptable. I’m calling the school.
Me: Do you think that that will solve anything? They’ll come after me again. Call his parents, threaten to sue, get the laptop replaced. But please don’t call the school.
Mom: Okay.
The rest of the ride was silent. It was only a five minute ride from my drop off spot to my house, but the tension made it seem like hours until we pulled into the long, gravel driveway that attached to the large, Victorian style building that I call home. I opened the door and stepped out, streching.
Me: Can you call today? I have a ton of work on this computer; like, work that’s due next week.
Mom: I suppose. If there’s any trouble, I’ll call the school to explain. If you want, I can leave out how it was broken.
Me: Okay. Thanks.
I grabbed my backpack and began my slow walk to the front door. I walked in, turning to go to the staircase.I staggered up the stairs and down the hallway until I reached my door. I opened it, dropped my bag on the ground, and threw myself at the bed. I felt like crying, but I knew the tears wouldn’t help at all. I’ve gone through this more times than I can count. I crawled to the top of my bed, only stopping when my head hit my pillow. I immediately fell into a deep sleep. The only comforting thoughts were those of pastel colored ponies.
