The taste of blood and vomit clung to Kylexsis' tongue—a vile, metallic bitterness that coated his throat like rusted chains. His body ached, sour and raw, marinated in pain from the endless assaults by the college frat boys who seemed to enjoy playing god with his broken frame.
He blinked. Slowly. Dragged himself back into a waking world he wanted no part of. The first thing that greeted him wasn't peace—it was the harsh glare of golden sunlight slicing through his window like a blade. He winced, turned his head away, only for a stabbing pain to crackle through his ribcage like lightning in bone.
Hmm. Pain.
It was more than a feeling—it was a ritual. A cruel, never-ending mantra carved into the flesh of his existence.
Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every breath.
He used to think, maybe after eight years of this, he'd grow numb. That the ache would become background noise, something he could learn to tune out. But no.
It still hurt.
Every. Single. Time.
Each fist, each kick, each object hurled at him with rage or glee left more than bruises—they hollowed him out.
Chipping away at who he was.
Leaving behind something half-alive.
Physically? He was collapsing.
Mentally? He was unraveling.
Emotionally? He was a ruin—decorated in silence, stitched with fear.
A low groan clawed its way up his sore throat as he clutched his ribs, like that would ease the pain. It didn't. It never did. It fucking hurt—and there was nothing he could do about it.
He couldn't afford a doctor. Hell, he could barely afford his shoebox apartment and his daily diet of ramen and corner-store junk. He sometimes wondered how he was still alive without any support. He used to feel proud for surviving… but lately? That pride was cracking.
His parents had cut him off at eighteen. But the real hell began when he was fifteen—when he realized he was gay. That was all it took.
Suddenly, he was public enemy number one.
At home.
At school.
Everywhere.
Why?
Because he liked boys.
In his religious household, that was enough to turn him into a disgrace. An abomination. He was "lucky" they waited until he was legal before tossing him out. Or maybe that was the curse—because what followed wasn't freedom. It was survival in slow motion.
They did everything to break him—except kill him. Though they tried, in every way that didn't bleed. He wanted to end it so many times. But he refused to give them the satisfaction. He clung to the dream of a better life… and oh, how wrong he was.
He was never their son. He was a punching bag. A scapegoat. A dirty secret. His dad—a drunk—beat him like he was the reason for his miserable life. His brother? Treated him like a test dummy for his martial arts. His mother stood by, cold as ice, and sometimes joined in. And his sister? Smiled sweet and stabbed twice as hard.
They didn't raise him.
They wore him down.
He starved more nights than he could count. Grew up frail, underfed, barely scraping five-seven. He was never full. Never safe. Never loved.
Just surviving.
When his brother exposed his secret to the whole school, he knew he was done for. Life never went back to normal. School became a battlefield—bullies waited at every corner with fists, slurs, and laughter sharp enough to cut bone. And at home, his family took turns giving him their own brand of hell.
After he turned eighteen and got kicked out, he scrambled for jobs—tailoring, IT at a dingy cyber café, even kitchen work. It barely paid enough to survive, let alone feel satisfied. But he made it to college. He had hoped for a fresh start. Somewhere nobody knew him. Maybe even a friend or two.
He was wrong.
History repeated itself—only crueler. The abuse was worse, more constant, more creative. The only person who gave him a reason to keep breathing was Clarke Conners. His best friend. His anchor. He was kind, thoughtful… too good for someone like him. And yeah, he was falling for him. But Clarke was straight. He would never cross that line.
Taking a shaky breath, he forced himself up. Pain exploded through his torso. He could barely stand. The clock read 7:00 AM. His final exam was at nine. He'd missed so many due to the beatings, the school gave him one last chance—ace this one, or leave with nothing.
Limping to the bathroom, he winced with every step. His ankles still throbbed from last night's three-mile escape from the frat boys. He needed a hot shower. He needed something.
The scent of lavender and citrus greeted him as he flipped on the light. Bright tiles gleamed back. Clean. Orderly. The only piece of control he had left. He shuffled to the sink and looked in the mirror.
Lifeless dark emerald eyes. Dry, cracked lips. His face was untouched—on purpose. They never hit his face. The school had anti-bullying policies, and they didn't want to leave evidence.
He peeled off his hoodie and stared.
His chest was a horror show—splotches of purple, blue, and yellow bruises bloomed across pale skin. His ribs were a canvas of cruelty. He reached out and lightly traced one of the marks. Even the gentlest touch burned.
Why him?
Why this life?
Was he born to suffer?
He moved away from the mirror and stepped into the hot spray. The water eased the tension in his muscles, but when his scented body wash slid over the fresh bruises, he couldn't stop the tears. Still, he gritted his teeth. Let it sting. Let it clean. Let it wash away whatever it could.
After the shower, he dressed in layers—brown boxers, three pairs of black jeans, a white tank top under a long sleeve shirt, then a red tee. Hoodie. Sleeveless anorak. Thick socks. His Air Force 1s—Clarke's gift. He knew he looked ridiculous, like a marshmallow, but Germany's cold and he couldn't afford proper winter clothes. Layers were survival.
He grabbed his heavy blue backpack, an apple from the near-empty fruit bowl, and stepped out. Maximilianstraße was already buzzing. He kept his head low, careful not to bump into anyone. One wrong step, and he'd be back in pain.
The snow sparkled under sunlight like sugar-dusted rooftops. It actually made him smile—just a little. Nature always gave him peace. Forests. Soil. Cold wind. It felt like home. Like something that understood him, even if no one else did.
By 8:40, he reached the university. The main doors were already open. He passed the receptionist and guard at the front desk—caught their sneers. Didn't bother greeting them. They saw him as nothing more than the gay boy. What a privilege.
He slipped into his usual corner seat in anatomy class, pulled out his biology textbook, and buried himself in study.
Five minutes passed. Still alone.
Then a hand touched his shoulder.
His heart leapt. He jolted back with a scream and crashed to the floor, pain rippling up his back and spine.
"Shit—Kylexsis, I'm so sorry," said a familiar voice.
He looked up.
Ice-blue hair. Sapphire eyes. Clarke.
The boy knelt beside him with a sheepish, apologetic smile, hand outstretched.
"Let me help you up."
Kylexsis took Clarke's hand, still silent, still reeling. He winced as the other boy gently rested a hand on his torso to steady him. Pain flared instantly, and his lips clamped shut to keep the sound from escaping. Clarke frowned, his eyes scanning Kylexsis' face with quiet concern.
"Lexi… are you okay?" he asked softly, head tilted, blue eyes trying to meet his.
Kylexsis swallowed hard and nodded, pulling away from his touch. He couldn't let him look too long—Clarke always saw through him. "The storm in your eyes," he once said. Only I can read it. That made it worse.
He eased back into his seat, body stiff and trembling. His throat burned, raw from screaming and crying last night. He couldn't speak. He didn't want to. He just wanted to disappear into himself—curl up inside the shame and exhaustion and drown in silence.
He was so tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of breathing.
His heart dragged with dread, humiliation bleeding into every beat. His thoughts were sharp and cruel, his chest tight with anxiety. He didn't want to exist anymore. But he couldn't even die. He didn't have the strength to end it.
He was a coward. A mistake. A ghost in a body that never asked to be born.
His head throbbed. His body felt like it was breaking from the inside out. And the voices came back—those wretched, unforgettable echoes.
You're a failure.
A disgrace.
A disgusting faggot.
Useless.
Trash.
Die.
Just die.
Do the world a favor and disappear.
He bit down hard on his lip. His eyes squeezed shut. His breathing quickened, then spiraled into panic. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
You're dying.
No!
You deserve this.
No!
His thoughts spun out, like a wheel slipping in mud—deeper and deeper into the void. Every breath was a struggle. His lungs screamed, but his body refused to inhale. His heart clenched like it wanted out of his chest. Everything hurt—his body, his mind, his soul.
He wanted it to stop.
Make it stop.
He dropped to the floor, vision dimming, limbs frozen.
Please… God, make it stop.
Clarke's voice yelled his name, but it was distant—like he was calling through water. His panic didn't register. Nothing did.
Just pain. Endless pain.
It hurts.It hurts. It hurts.
MAKE IT STOP.
MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOP.