"STOP IT!" Johnny screeched as he was thrown back and forth. "You better cut it the FUCK OUT!"
The football players just laughed. "What are you gonna do about it, faggot? Huh?" Their taunts rang in his ears as they pushed him from player to player. He clutched his binder tight to his chest, grinding his teeth as one of them missed catching him (probably on purpose) and he hit the wall. He slid down the wall as the team walked off. "Wacky looking bitch," one of them commented. Johnny groaned and forced himself up off the ground. Just another day at Survival High.
"I fucking HATE that word," Johnny growled as he headed towards the unisex bathroom. Fuck 3rd block, it could wait. It was just gym class. Not like he would need it to succeed. He walked through the swinging double-doors into the bathroom and shut himself into the handicapped stall. He sat on the floor, his back to the wall, and cracked open his binder. Inside were crisp, white sheets of paper, begging to be filled with the spawn of Johnnys beautifully darkened mind. He took out a gel-pen and started sketching a dream he'd had the night before, of a tall man with goat horns standing before a ruined city.
By now, you are probably very confused. Well, allow me to clarify some things. My name is Gorel, and I will be your narrator. Don't worry, I don't deviate from the story often. The young man mentioned above is Johnny C. Just C, and nothing more. Johnny is a high school senior. He's 17, in foster care, and not very well liked. In fact, almost everyone hates him. There's no real reason for it, it's the same old story: the popular kids don't like him, so the wannabes decide that THEY don't like him, which in turn fuels the hate of the rest of the school, which fuels the popular kids, ect. Johnny is short, roughly 5'2'', and very thin. Like 'skinny-jeans-are-roomy' type thin. He isn't very muscular, by which I mean he seems to be nothing more than skin and bone, and his face is smoother than a powdered baby butt, not a hint of stubble anywhere. His bright green eyes peek out from pale skin under a messy mop of jet black hair, which doesn't quite reach the collar of his signature striped, long sleeved, black-and-white shirt. His black skinny jeans hang a bit loose on his thin frame, and he wears a pair of cloven, steel-toed boots that reach his knees. More often than not, Johnny has on a pair of thin black gloves. His foster 'parents' are germophobic, so he is required to wear gloves at all times to "minimize the chance of getting us sick, you filthy little walking petri-dish," as his fosters so nicely put it. Now, if you would be so kind as to direct your attention back to our young artist…
Johnny was in the zone, his pupils as highly dilated as those of a junkie who has just gotten a fix. His hands were steady and quick, and after 15 minutes, his sketch had become a black-and-white work of art.
"Gruuuuuh…" Johnny groaned and stretched, his sketch finished. He closed his eyes and waited five minutes, then peeked at his drawing again. He smiled when he found it really was as good as he had thought when he finished it. "I have earned a treat!" he announced to himself. He reached into his little black backpack and pulled out a canned drink. "Mmmm, Cherry Fizz Whiz."
Johnny guzzled the whole can in under a minute, and then pulled a CD player out of his backpack. He rifled through his CDs until he found what he was looking for: Classical Composers Volume 4. He popped it in and skipped straight to 'Ode to Joy'. He leaned back against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him, one drawn up to his chest, the CD player on the floor next to him. He smiled as the music pumped out of his headphones and into his ears, filling his brain with beautiful notes.
"Well, he ain't in the gym, where else is he gonna be?" Johnny paused his music as the familiar sound of a deep southern drawl crept around his earphones. He grinned and stood.
"Uh! Carriiiiieeee, I don't wanna look for your friiiieeeend, let's go back to the gym, I wanna talk to Deriiiiick!" Johnnys smile soured. Fuck, she brought Dina with her.
"Shush your whinin' Dina. Yoooohooooo! Anybody here?" Carrie called.
"Indeed there is," Johnny said, gripping the top of the stall door and hoisting himself up to perch on it. "Hi Carrie!" Johnny grinned at the sight of his friend. She was slightly shorter than him, around 5' even, and slightly husky. She wore her short hair in a spiky neon pink pixie cut that contrasted well with her cerulean blue eyes, and dressed like the lead singer of The Rasmus, her current favorite band. She was a relatively new student, having moved to town 5 months back from Georgia.
"Ah, the Tiny Tortured Artist, he lives!" Carrie laughed as she looked up at him. "Have you been here all block? You know Mrs. Porkgut is pissed that you didn't show up for gym."
"You speak as though you expect me to care," Johnny quipped, hopping down from the top of the door, landing with a cat-like grace. "And who are you calling tiny? Last time I checked, I still had two inches on you."
"Yeah, but I have several pounds on you," Carrie replied happily, "therefore, you're still tiny."
"Gasp! Superior logic! My one weakness," Johnny joked. Hearing a huff, he turned to look at Dina, who was leaning against a wall looking irritated, her dishwater blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail reminding Johnny of cheerleaders. "Greetings, O Discontented One," He said sarcastically.
"What the hell does that mean?" She said shrilly, planting her hands on her hips.
Carrie rolled her eyes. "He was makin' a joke, Dina. Calm your tits." She turned back to Johnny. "Don't mind her, she's pissy because I brought her along with me to look for you and she wanted to talk to Deeeeeerrrrriiiiiiiick," Carrie wrinkled her nose as she drew Dericks name out, mimicking her bitchy friend.
"She's welcome to leave if she doesn't enjoy my company," Johnny replied.
"Oh, really? Good. Bye," Dina snarked, flouncing out the door.
"I will never understand why you choose to keep company with such a snarky and distasteful girl," Johnny said, leaning against the wall.
"You have obviously never tasted her homemade fudge," Carrie giggled. "No, she has good qualities. They're just thickly wrapped in a layer of superficial bitchiness, bullshit and lipstick."
"Obviously," Johnny grunted.
"So, why is my favorite starving artist hiding out in the bathroom today?" Carrie poked Johnny in the ribs playfully, making him squirm a bit and loose an involuntary squeak. "Spill it young'un."
"Kurt and his gang," Johnny growled angrily. "Same reason I'm always in this dingy, filthy room."
Carrie glared darkly at the door, as if Kurt and the rest of the team might be on the other side of it. "Details please?"
Johnny sighed. "The moron squad was selling weed in the hallway. They tried to sell me some, and I said I didn't want to buy any. Kurt said 'C'mon, all the money goes to support the team. You DO support the team, right?'. I made the mistake of allowing myself to respond with 'No, in the first place, I don't support the team, and furthermore, I don't use drugs'." Johnny looked at the floor, his face colored with shame and anger. "They called me a faggot and pushed me around."
Carrie made a sound akin to that of an angered pittbull. "Are you bruised?"
"I might have one on my shoulder," Johnny said. "Don't worry about it Carrie, I'm fine."
"They won't be," Carrie muttered darkly.
"Nuthin'." Just then the bell rang for 4th Block. Johnny and Carrie both groaned.
Oooooh, looky looky boys and girls, Johnny has a girlfriend. No, I kid. Maybe. At any rate, he's certainly not what you expected is he? Given his description, I'm sure you expected him to go on a rampage and slaughter people .Like some sort of… Homicidal Maniac? Hehehe. Keep those titties and moobs calmed, boys and girls. Our Johnny may not be a rampaging killer, but he is unstable. And as you've seen already, life throws our artist quite a few loops, and lately he's been thrown more than usual. It'll be a slow build, taking little things throughout the day, but don't you worry. His mind is a brittle branch. And we all know what happens to brittle branches in a fierce storm, now don't we?