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Description
The hate and despair always hit him in what feels like waves. Huge waves that make him tumble over, make his chest feel tight. Make him feel like drowning.

Sometimes it happens when he's at school, sitting in class, bored out of his mind, scribbling on his desk "bored bored bored so fucking bored" in code so the girl next to him can't read any of it. It's then when he remembers some sentences he read somewhere (She doesn't want to be girly and pretty and sweet) (And why would she want to be gay and a freak if she could be heterosexual and normal?) (She can't actually change her chromosomes, just force her body into a facsimile of masculinity.) and he feels his fingers curling into fists.

Then he just tries to keep his breath steady, slow and deep, silent as always. The girl to his right doesn't notice a thing, doesn't think anything of his hands jerking upwards, to his neck, clawing at the skin at the back of his neck, the juncture of shoulder and neck. The burning makes him feel better, the now hot skin under his fingers. He claws at it until he feels something slowly trickling down his spine, only a few drops of red liquid.

He doesn't care that the boys in the last row might see. He just doesn't want to cry.

At home, it doesn't matter. Whatever he's doing when he becomes overwhelmed – he just stops and gets up, walks over to his bed. His hands will be clawing at his short hair again, clenching and pulling until he feels a sharp pain cursing through him, making him forget the nausea churning in his stomach.

He flops face-down onto his bed, face buried in a pillow, silently sobbing, shoulders shaking. His pillow is soaked with tears and he doesn't quite notices it.

Then he can only think of what's wrong with him, not that he's smart and talented and other things he's told all the time. He doesn't think of his friends waiting for replies on Skype or his mother sitting in the kitchen downstairs, talking to his dad.

He just keeps thinking "Let me die" over and over again.

Because he's not right, he's not like the others. He hates himself, the too-wide hips, the curves of the body he despises, the way everybody thinks of him as a pretty and nice girl.

When in truth he is a boy, a bastard who's unable to care about the pain of others because he doesn't feel anything but the tightness of his chest and throat, the stinging in his limbs and the burning somewhere around his heart, his lungs and those organs in his stomach that shouldn't be there, can't be there...

Description
The hate and despair always hit him in what feels like waves. Huge waves that make him tumble over, make his chest feel tight. Make him feel like drowning.

Sometimes it happens when he's at school, sitting in class, bored out of his mind, scribbling on his desk "bored bored bored so fucking bored" in code so the girl next to him can't read any of it. It's then when he remembers some sentences he read somewhere (She doesn't want to be girly and pretty and sweet) (And why would she want to be gay and a freak if she could be heterosexual and normal?) (She can't actually change her chromosomes, just force her body into a facsimile of masculinity.) and he feels his fingers curling into fists.

Then he just tries to keep his breath steady, slow and deep, silent as always. The girl to his right doesn't notice a thing, doesn't think anything of his hands jerking upwards, to his neck, clawing at the skin at the back of his neck, the juncture of shoulder and neck. The burning makes him feel better, the now hot skin under his fingers. He claws at it until he feels something slowly trickling down his spine, only a few drops of red liquid.

He doesn't care that the boys in the last row might see. He just doesn't want to cry.

At home, it doesn't matter. Whatever he's doing when he becomes overwhelmed – he just stops and gets up, walks over to his bed. His hands will be clawing at his short hair again, clenching and pulling until he feels a sharp pain cursing through him, making him forget the nausea churning in his stomach.

He flops face-down onto his bed, face buried in a pillow, silently sobbing, shoulders shaking. His pillow is soaked with tears and he doesn't quite notices it.

Then he can only think of what's wrong with him, not that he's smart and talented and other things he's told all the time. He doesn't think of his friends waiting for replies on Skype or his mother sitting in the kitchen downstairs, talking to his dad.

He just keeps thinking "Let me die" over and over again.

Because he's not right, he's not like the others. He hates himself, the too-wide hips, the curves of the body he despises, the way everybody thinks of him as a pretty and nice girl.

When in truth he is a boy, a bastard who's unable to care about the pain of others because he doesn't feel anything but the tightness of his chest and throat, the stinging in his limbs and the burning somewhere around his heart, his lungs and those organs in his stomach that shouldn't be there, can't be there...