annabellemustdie

This was possibly the last place that I would’ve ever wanted to spend the first night of my winter break.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room. I have no clue whose living room exactly,  I'm still working on figuring that out, but I was in a living room. People were drifting in and out of the room, having inaudible conversations at the same volume as some pop-punk song that happened to be blaring over the speakers.

In a way, I feel kind of grateful. Not that I was in this particular situation, of course. I am grateful that at least no one was trying to talk to me. Even then, I would have been stupid to miss the way that everyone who sat down on the couch made it a point to scoot as far away from me as they could. Maybe it’s all in my head.

In my head or not, I feel completely out of place. It’s uncomfortably warm in this god-forsaken room. Even the couch I was sitting on would groan and creak whenever I dared to adjust the way that I was sitting.  It was like it didn’t want me here either.

At least the room itself is nice. I’d probably actually enjoy sitting on this couch if it weren’t for the violent onslaught of teenagers rampaging through the room. If it weren’t for that, I’d probably define it as cozy.

In the corner, on top of the room’s shaggy carpet that had been littered with a few unfortunate fresh stains, there sits an artificial Christmas tree already up. It’s covered in whatever fake snow is made out of and wrapped in colorful flashing lights. There are even presents under it already. 

I could probably figure out whose house I’m in if I walked over and read the tags, but touching stuff, especially presents, in other people's houses, isn’t exactly socially acceptable.

I instead drift my attention away from squinting at the cursive on the tags and over to the brick fireplace. It would be pretty if there were a fire in it, but it was just kind of shabby without one. Actually, on second thought, I don’t think there needs to be any more heat in this room.  

At the top of the tree, there’s supposed to be a star. Something about how the three wise men in the Bible followed a star to find baby Jesus: that never made sense to me. On this tree, however, there was a little plastic angel with its tiny hands clasped together in prayer. It was looking right at me, like it was mocking me.

Honestly, I’m just glad that the room looks clean. Other than the various pieces of trash that these kids somehow tracked wherever they went. It doesn’t smell clean, but it probably would if it weren’t for the stench of someone’s overly strong cologne and the violent attack of the alcohol that was buzzing in the air and stinging my nose.

Even after trying my very best to take an optimistic approach to the current situation, I still feel like a prisoner attached to this couch by ball and chain.

I so desperately need a breath of fresh air. Unfortunately, if I so decided to dare and take a step out into the crisp, freezing December breeze, I’m wearing a zip-up hoodie and jeans– I’m not exactly bundled up. At least not enough to stay out long without heading to the bonfire or coming back in here.

And god forbid I decided to head to the bonfire. Chances are, I would be forced to talk to someone. And people don’t really enjoy talking to me. I share that sentiment. I don’t necessarily want to talk to anyone either. After all, most of the kids that I’m seeing at this party have thrown something at me before, and I think that’s a pretty telling sign that you aren’t wanted somewhere.

A more likely consequence of deciding to go to the bonfire, now that I’m thinking about it, would just be that my presence would end the conversations completely. I can’t decide which would be worse.

So, I’ve decided, rather than moving, to stay as still as I possibly can on this couch. Maybe if I don’t make any sudden movements, or any movement at all, no one will notice that I’m here.

I’ve grown content with fixing my eyes on the door that I’m sitting facing. There are kids from all types of cliques entering and exiting through the deep brown wooden door. I saw a group of conventionally attractive blonde girls enter right after a group of teenagers in dark, gothic makeup. I watched as the kids I always see skateboarding to school came in, followed by a group of rowdy jock-type boys. 

So many kinds of people came and entered, but I didn’t fit in with any of them. I think most people would think that’s sad. I think that I don’t want to be just like any one group. Maybe that’s why I don’t see it as upsetting.

I’m more disconcerted by the fact that the door was propped wide open, but none of the lovely winter air reached me. All of the bodies that were dancing and moving throughout the room just left the air humid and sticky.

Sure, I could walk home, but I don’t know where I am. And it’s cold. I would call my parents, but they would probably kill me for being at a party. Actually, they might be grateful that I’m having an actual teenage experience. Either way, they are out of town. 

I wished for the courage to ask the person who brought me here to drive me home. I don’t actually know him that well. The only reason I’m at this horrendous celebration of winter break in the first place is that the rest of the art club came. Apparently, that means I have to come, too. None of my clubmates really ever spoke to me, so I’m still not all that sure why they were all so insistent on bringing me. Still working on that one, too. God, this night is confusing.

My eyes remained glued to the door. I’m trying as hard as I could to zone out, but unfortunately, you only really ever zone out when your mind is, quite literally, zoned out. My mind is as far as possible from zoned out.

I watch as another group of jock-type boys enters the room. It may actually have been the same group as earlier; I can't tell them apart. They were louder than the blaring music, which was expected from a group like them. There was still too much static interference to make out what they were saying, but they were laughing, quite obnoxiously, so I knew they were cracking jokes. Jokes that were hateful in one way or another. Maybe I’m stereotyping them. I think of it more as divine intuition.

Actually, I don’t really want to know what they’re talking about at all, now that I’m really considering it.

The boys, I think they were a group of five, are now splitting off in duos as they make their way through the room. I’m not really counting heads, but there must’ve been an uneven number because one boy was left behind. I made the mistake of turning my head and breaking my statuesque stillness to watch him until he sauntered over to the drink counter. I then let my eyes return to the door.

He looked like the youngest of the crowd, so he must be around my age. He’s shorter than the rest of those tall guys who probably play football or something. He has a powerful, sturdy build that isn’t exactly muscular, but he certainly isn’t skinny. His blonde hair is dull and uninteresting. He has the greyest blue eyes that I’ve ever seen on anyone. Also dull. Practically devoid of color. 

I guess I would say he’s attractive, just so unremarkably average. Maybe even the most average boy I have ever laid my eyes on. Does that make him remarkable? Who knows.

I tore my eyes from the door to my hands. I began to mindlessly– or at least as mindlessly as possible– fidget with the hem of my grey Smashing Pumpkins shirt.

My mind finally drifted elsewhere. It drifted to the thought of being back in the comfort of the dark brown walls of my room. It drifted to the sound of me placing one of my Smashing Pumpkins CDs into the player, getting into my bed with the fan turned on high. I keep my room cold so I can bundle up in one of my many fluffy blankets and become desensitized to the world around me.

I so desperately wish to return to my room. I squeeze my eyes shut, practically willing myself to be in my room. Some stupid part of me believed that when I opened them, I’d be back on my bed instead of this damn couch. But the thought of a fluffy blanket sticking to my slightly damp skin made me want to throw up a little bit, so I knew I’d still be on the couch when they inevitably had to open.

When I was about to face reality, I felt the cushion I was sitting on dip. Not the cushion next to me, the cushion that I was sitting on. I felt an arm against mine and had to force myself to open my eyes and rip them from the hem of my shirt.

I made the unfortunate discovery that the boy I had been staring at a moment before had taken his place directly next to me. He had a lopsided smirk on his face, sitting uncomfortably close to me, so much for the concept of personal space.

“Got a staring problem, sweetheart?”

It was mildly disconcerting that that was the pet name he decided he would use. That sounds like something you would hear from the voice of a forty-year-old man, not the barely pubescent voice of someone who couldn’t be more than fifteen.

I think he must’ve realized that I wasn’t planning on responding, because the shit-eating grin on his face faltered for a moment. I watched something in his eyes flicker to irritation for a brief second. But that grin was soon plastered back on.

“What?” He cocked his head to the side, “Nothing to say, princess?”

That most definitely did not hit right. Gross. I averted my gaze again, to the wall, focusing on the crown molding where it met the floor. I was making a desperate attempt to focus my attention anywhere but him. I started holding my breath. Maybe staying as still as a statue would work again. Hopefully, he’ll get bored.

Then, I felt an arm snake around my shoulders, sticking uncomfortably when his bare skin pushed over my neck. My heart rate quickened. Not in the way that most people’s heart rate would quicken when an attractive guy gave them attention. I just felt disgusting.

“What’s your name? It’s rude to ignore someone, you know.”

I don’t know what compelled me to respond. It might have been the firm grasp he held on my shoulder. A jolt of fear coursed through my body when his hand squeezed my shoulder. His nails dug painfully into my skin, even through my hoodie and T-shirt.

I let out the breath I was holding and began responding, even though every part of me detested the idea. Part of me was hoping that I’d hold it long enough to pass out.

“Illi.”

“Oh, what the fuck.” He laughed loudly, as though my name was the funniest joke he’s ever heard, “I’m Vincent.” He started caressing my shoulder with his thumb, soothing over the previous violence he had exerted on me.

His head began to whip around. It almost seems like he’s checking if the coast is clear or something.

It then occurred to me that this substandard wretch of a teenage boy wasn’t laughing at my name. He was laughing at my voice. This boy thought I was a girl. I hate assumptions. Someone is always examining me to find out if I’m a boy or a girl. Why can’t I just look the way I want? It must be a crime to put on mascara or wear a clip in my hair. Who cares?

Well, evidently, Vincent did.

I was just becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the moments passed. For the past five minutes, I’ve been trying desperately to keep my eyes fixed on the wall, the floor, the fireplace, anywhere but him. My eyes drifted to the angel in the tree as his left arm, which was wrapped around my shoulder, began trailing down my torso and coming to a rest on the waistband of my pants. The angel’s stupid blue eyes taunted me. I squeeze my eyes shut again and will time to pass by faster.

I could fight him off, but I’m aware of my reputation. People see me as the freak gay kid. If I even dared to lay a finger on their precious Vincent, there was always that lingering possibility that everything, the pushing, shoving, throwing– it could all become worse.

So I sat still, like a deer in headlights, and let it happen. I’m so stupid.

Vincent finally stood up, and I let out another breath that I wasn’t even aware I was holding. I should’ve have appreciated that brief second of relief more. Just as soon as he let go of my waist, finally returning my personal space that he had rudely intruded, I was harshly yanked up by the collar of my shirt.

Vincent was addressing me as he spoke, but he didn’t so much as look at my face. He was staring past me. “Come on.”  He spat out when his lips opened, and I was in range and got sprayed as he spoke.

He said it like it was an invitation, but I wasn’t given much of an option before I was being dragged out the front door that I had spent so much time staring at. I was stumbling down the stairs under his harsh grasp. 

I began frantically looking around, begging silently that someone, anyone, would realize and make Vincent stop. Of course, this had to be the one time no one notices me. I watch as the bonfire disappears behind the same red bricks of the fireplace as I’m shoved around to the side of the house. Vincent firmly grips the sleeve on my shoulder as I’m brutally slammed against said bricks.

I wish that I had decided to go to the bonfire now. Even with Vincent’s body pressed rigidly against mine, vigorously grating my back against the textured outer walls of the house, I feel colder than ever. Way colder than I would have been if I had just gone outside. Right now, I yearn for the sticky humidity of the living room couch. I wouldn’t mind the thin layer of damp sweat on my body. I wouldn’t mind awkwardly standing at the bonfire, making the conversations around me dissipate. Anywhere but right here, right now.

“You’re a guy, right?” Vincent asks, almost excitedly. 

I don’t know how he expected me to respond when his hand was squeezing my cheeks together painfully. I don’t think he wanted me to. I watched as his eyes began to drift down my body and settle on the waistband of my pants.

I stayed silent, beginning to hold my breath once again when he tangled his fingers into the black hair on the crown of my skull, forcing my head and then my eyes up to look at him.

“That means you have a dick. Right?” Vincent questioned, his grin practically reaching his ears. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, but the likely answer was that he just got off on seeing fear in my eyes.

I jerked my body away from his as much as I could without putting my hands on him, but he had crouched down slightly and now held a vice grip on my hips. I felt my tears threatening to spill over my waterline.

What people say about everything happening in slow motion is true. I was overly aware of every movement of his body against mine. I felt his nails dig into the skin of my hips. I felt every bit of it. It felt like everything was happening ten times slower. I found myself praying. I’m not religious, and I found myself praying. I was praying to be anywhere else as he unbuttoned my jeans, desperate to get a look at my genitalia.

He cackled, I'm not sure exactly what at, as I made another attempt to lurch away, only to be vehemently slammed back against the brick wall. A whimper of pain left my lips as my head made impact. “You freak! You like it!”

His grin never faltered from his face as he dove his hand into my pants. The tears that had been edging my tear ducts are now freely spilling over my face in silent agony. He just carelessly toyed with me.

I wanted to yell, scream, cry out, but my throat was completely dry.

You know when you have a nightmare and everything around you is happening so quickly, but as much as you try to move, it's like you’re underwater, and the force is pulling upon your body, and you can’t match the pace of anything around you? And when you try to scream, but your voice won’t rise above a whisper, no matter how much you exert your vocal cords? Do you know that feeling of frustration?

I can’t scream. People would see us, and Vincent would tell everyone that I was forcing him to do it. And I know that everyone would believe it. 

And Vincent knew it too.

“You know,” He began, his high-pitched voice inharmoniously assaulting my ears, “You can't say anything about this.”

After what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled away from me, carelessly turning away to rejoin his friends.

I was alone again, and my back slid against the cold brick until my rear met the wet, frosted grass. My sobs silently rocked and jerked my body around as I took my trembling hands to rebutton my pants.

I had never been this cold.

thank you for reading if you stayed all the way! this will probably be on my AO3 (also @annabellemustdie) at some point when i get more done. there probably wont be smut in this fic because idk how i feel about writing that with highschoolers but idk!