A/N This is absolutely not my story. All copyright goes to J.K. Rowling, Stephen Chbosky, or whatever. This was written by my friend. There will probably be no more on this account. It's a tester one shot. (But please review, as I really want her to continue writing, if only so I find out what happens next!)
You don't belong to me. I found you. You were sitting there innocently on the flooded floor of the boys' toilets. They say Michael haunts those loos. That's why they throw up the waste. I don't believe them. Michael was too nice. He would not hurt a fly. Maybe a spider. Never a fly. I guess you don't know what goes on behind closed doors and false smiles.
Michael was my best friend. He was a happy boy. Until the rumours.
They said he was adopted. That his uncle and aunt took him in. That they beat him. That they starved him. That he was forced to share his cupboard under the stairs with spiders. I guess that was why he would torture the spiders. They said he was a freak.
It has been a day since the funeral. A week since the suicide. Yet they still call him freak. Ironic really that "freak" was the word that killed him. Less ironic. More sad. Sad enough for a teenage boy in clothes two sizes too big for him and glasses held together with tape to steal a penknife and carve his skin. To etch the word that haunted him for his entire life on both of his wrists. His left arm was not completed. He died too early. He could not complete his life or his artwork.
Sorry. They said you would understand.