Jason carefully applied the blue eyeshadow to his left eye as he remembered the very moment the pain had stopped. Phil and Sam had trapped him in the changing rooms and pinned him down as Meg painted his eyes with this exact shade of eyeshadow, none too gently of course. Then she had spat in his face. Phil and Sam had let him go and called him a fag as they walked away, satisfied that they had done their work for the day. Jason decided at that moment he was going to die and as if by magic, the stomach churning agony that he had carried with him every day for the last eight months, just fell away. He now knew how to end his suffering. And that knowledge was like as if his body was being flooded with a wonderful anesthesia. He walked around the school in a daze for the rest of the day and the rest of that week.
 
He endured the petty humiliations, the casual brutalities, the gradual annihilations, as if they were happening to someone else. Even his parents were moved to remark that he seemed happier in himself. He smiled and hugged them, knowing that they were planning on going away this weekend. As a responsible fifteen year old they were leaving him unsupervised. He knew the pain would be stopped forever then. All would be better. No one would ever hurt him again, no adult would get to continue turning a blind eye to his suffering and he would not have to see the terror in his parents‘ eyes as they continually failed to see that his agony, was not just a phase.      
 
He waved them off from the front porch. It was a beautiful and sunny Saturday morning. He went back inside the house and locked the door. He took a long shower and standing naked in front of his bedroom mirror, applied the blue eyeshadow to his left eye but not the right. He stood back and looked at the mirror. His body was slight and lacked the hair most of his peers were proudly showing off in the locker room. That first day in the locker room, that first comment, that first invisible bruise, all began with his body. Someone had pointed at his crotch and called him a girl. The laughter had almost deafened him. Within a week the cheerleaders were in on the joke. By the end of the month, he was a cock sucking faggot and everyday was a waking nightmare. Everyday they would push each other to find new ways to remind him that he was scum. He was an AIDS ridden homo. He was a cum guzzling perv. 
 
He tried to endure. Tried to follow the code of never telling, but his resolve cracked and he told a teacher. The teacher assured him he’d inform the Principal. He was summoned to the Principal’s office where he was lectured at, by the Principal and the School Nurse about the importance of fitting in. About boys being boys, about manning up, about good Christian values and the dangers of alternative lifestyles. Perhaps he had done something to deserve this abuse? Did he have a girlfriend?
 
He did not complain after that. He just endured. He attempted to shield his parents from what was happening. But they heard his nightmares, they knew he threw up before school. They saw his grades drop from A’s to D’s. But they thought it was a phase. Perhaps he should listen to different music. Get a girlfriend. Have a party and invite his classmates. He smiled and didn’t tell them what it was like to exist as one tender bruise. How even alone, safe from the bullies, their words continued to flay. How he had begun to wish he was gay as they seemed able to endure these kind of attacks, while he also grew to hate their very existence, because it meant he was receiving the abuse meant for them.  
 
He spared them the truth and he intended to spare them from the trauma of finding their son’s dead body. He looked once more into the mirror. Looked at the body and the face he had been taught to despise. His pain would end and he would spare his parents. They would get over him. He did after all, deserve to die. He was a disappointment to them. They worried all the time and never once did they think to protect him. They would have a new son, a better son. A son who wasn’t faggy and weak and who didn’t deserve to be spat on by the beautiful girls. 
 
He went to his closet and chose his favourite boxers, jeans and tshirt. He looked in the mirror again. Yes, he should at least look well when he died. It was important to make a good impression on strangers. He would hate to think his parents would have to face the doctors and cops knowing he looking unkempt. His constant failures were shame enough. He opened his drawer and reached under all his spare stationary and found the baggy of pills. He took them out and examined them. There were three different colours. Anti-anxiety tablets he had been prescribed when the nightmares began. His Mom’s sleep medication, which he had stolen earlier from her bathroom and several oxycontin capsules that were left over from when his Dad had broken his leg at work. Altogether twenty tablets and a bottle of Scotch in the den. Jason smiled to himself. No more pain.
 
He took his laptop with him to the Den, remembering to unlock the front and back doors on his way. He looked at his Mom’s prized glass display cabinet. It was her pride and joy. All that shiny crystal from all over the State. Anywhere they holidayed, she had to have a crystal vase, or a crystal goblet. And on very special occasions, she and Dad would use two of the tumblers to share a few drinks of his finest Scotch. His parents appreciated the best things in life. He sighed in annoyance. It was so obvious to him now that he was not the appropriate child for such people. He was just not up to the mark. 
 
He opened the cabinet and chose the most beautiful of all the glasses. He placed it on the mahogany side-table, next to the leather couch and then looked at the bottles on the drinks table. He wasn’t an expert but he assumed the oldest would be the best. He saw a 50 year malt. It was unopened. Yes. His father would surely forgive him this liberty. He may have been a let down as a son, but the end of a life required a certain solemnity. He unscrewed the bottle and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. He opened the baggy and blindly took a handful of pills from it. He crammed them into his mouth and gulped the whiskey down.
 
He promptly plonked himself down on the couch and tried to stifle his desire to both cough and scream. The whiskey burned in a wholly unexpected way. How could something so smooth looking taste so harsh? His parents drank this shit for pleasure? He got his breathing under control. He swallowed the pills and the burning sensation disappeared, to be replaced by an almost instant glow of satisfaction. Oh. So that’s the point. He grinned to himself and switched on his computer. He logged onto his twitter account. He ignored the stream of invective and porn-bots that littered his timeline and typed his message. His last message, hoping this would get someone here before his parents got home.  
 
@jason1998abc: Today it ends for good. None of you will ever hurt me again. Please, no fake tears at my funeral. 
 
He hit send and sagged back into the couch. He switched off the laptop and poured himself another large measure of Scotch. He picked up the baggy of pills and took one put. He popped it in his mouth and took a sip of whiskey. He sighed contentedly. He decided to take his time. He didn’t want to risk throwing up and ending as one of those sad cases that try to kill themselves and just come across as pathetic attention seekers. This had to work. It was his only option. The only alternative was pain. He could not take anymore pain. 
 
He grew accustomed to the fiery taste of the whiskey. He grinned to himself, imagining that if he had lived, he would one day have shared a tumbler or two of this with his father. Oh well. perhaps Dad will have another son. A better son. A son he would be proud to share a drink with. He took more and more pills. He could feel his breathing beginning to slow. His mind dimming. His eyes beginning to unfocus. He felt contentment. A real and beautiful contentment. He was almost free. His escape was at hand. He pictured his Mom, he pictured her face as she hugged him and told him how much she loved him. Tears began to flow from his eyes. The glass dropped from his hand. His brain vaguely aware of it smashing against the hardwood floor. His Mom’s face filled his head. He fell sideways. Panic beginning to grip him. He tried to call for his Mom. His hand fumbled uselessly at his hip, wondering where his cell phone was. Confused as to why he couldn’t move properly. He tried to call for his Mom. His tongue felt like over large buds of cotton, stifling his voice. He tried to pull himself off the couch. He could only manage to fall heavily, face first, onto the floor. He heard his nose shatter and wondered when his body would react to it. He waited for the agony. His tongue tasted the bitter iron of blood. He reached it out and felt a gap where his front teeth had been. 
 
He sobbed in terror. What was happening to him? Why wasn’t his body working? Where was his Mom? With one last gargantuan effort he heaved himself onto his back. He struggled to regain his breath, but every moment that passed, he took in less and less air. His chest was gripped with a stabbing tightness. He was aware of blood pooling in his throat but was now incapable of swallowing or spitting. He stared blindly at the ceiling, tears flowing from his terrified eyes. He could no longer call his Mom. His bladder let loose. An uncomfortable warmth spread from his groin. Then he knew a growing coldness, beginning with a numbness spreading from his feet. In minutes he could no longer feel the piss warming his crotch. Even the hot red pokers lancing his chest disappeared. He closed his eyes and mercifully lost consciousness. His bowels loosed as finally his heart stopped. And there he lay, the dead body of a child, resting in a pool of shit, blood, piss, whiskey and tears. And there Jason Beglan was found. The reek of his passing, making the house uninhabitable for weeks.
 
THE END
 
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