A Queer Life
You'd think there would be a limit to how many tears you can spill in a given time. Perhaps there is, but the quota seems to be higher than should be possible for a fox. Over the course of my life, I've probably cried my body weight in tears, and I'm only sixteen. Physically, I was your typical fox. Red fur, black socks, amber eyes, a lithe body, long tail, standing about 5'2". I used to be typical for mentality and emotions, but the past few years had made life hard for me. Even my parents treated me worse since I came out.
I had reason to cry often enough, and this time, it was because I had been beaten up--a fairly common occurence--and locked in a locker at the high school I went to with the promise of being freed in a hour, after school. I knew better than to make noise to attract attention. The teachers might let me out, but they wouldn't care too much, and the students would just laugh at me.
It would be easier to bear if I had even one friend, but they had all abandoned me at fourteen, when I came out. I didn't even have a sibling to rely on because I was an only child. My parents tolerated me, but no longer showed any particular warmth. I was alone, a freak, an outcast, just trying to survive each day without getting severely wounded. My grades had fallen along with my social standing, giving the teachers more reason to look down on me. Most days, I wondered why I bothered getting up in the morning. I should have never admitted it. After all, I was bi, so I could have just pretended to be normal. Everyone ignored the fact that I was attracted to both, though, and just called me queer. It was getting harder and harder to bear, and I found myself considering taking over the recommended dose of my sleeping pills each night.
I had no way to measure the passage of time in the dark locker. I could feel my fur matting on my face as I silently cried, although the tears eventually stopped. I knew they'd be back at least once before the day was out. Ever since my fourteenth birthday, I had cried myself to sleep every night. I had stopped journalling, too. It was too depressing. I let my tears write the story on my pillow as I hugged a stuffed border collie doll close to my chest. Not even my parents knew I slept with it. I didn't need to be ridiculed for being childish as well as my sexual orientation.
Finally, the bell rang. I would be free soon. I heard students in the hallway, opening the lockers next to my cell. Eventually, the noise died down, but I wasn't worried yet. The bullies wouldn't open it with everyone there. I silentlyh counted the seconds. One minute... two minutes... five minutes... I lost count at around 400 seconds. I was getting worried. I wouldn't be locked in here all night, would I? I was on the verge of tears again when the lock spun and the locker opened.
I was cramped up from my imprisonment and fell out of the locker. They let me fall, laughing as they closed the door. I got a few kicks for good measure before they walked off. "Fucking queer," one said as she walked away.
I slowly picked myself up and went to my own locker to grab my stuff. I had been in the locker since lunch, which amounted to about two and a half hours. I grimaced as I worked out the cramps and readied myself for a long walk home. I had missed the bus, but I usually walked anyway to avoid the stares, namecalling, and rolled up pieces of paper that were hurled at me. It took me around an hour and a half--just enough time to get home to eat before spending the night in my room doing homework and surfing the net on my computer. The internet was my only refuge, the only place I could find others like me. I stayed up for hours sometimes, escaping from my harsh reality.
I fiddled with my tail as I walked, a nervous habit. Once in a blue moon, I would encounter a group of kids who would have fun beating on the queer kid. The most embarrassing time had been when the group of about a dozen twelve year olds ganged up on me and brought me down. I had endured even more abuse for a month after that for being a weakling who couldn't even fight off elementary students.
This time, I got home without incident. I made quick work of my dinner (spaghetti and meat sauce) and went to my upstairs room, locking the door behind me. I quickly stripped out of my sweat- and tear-stained clothes and sat myself, still naked, at the computer. I signed on to the internet, and let out a sigh. I was free--free to be myself without ridicule.
I quickly opened a chat window with Fiona. She was bi, like me, and a fox, like me. She was my one good friend whom I could talk to about anything. Unfortunately, she lived about a twelve hour drive away, so we'd never met in real life. I did my best with just words over the web, but I wished we could actually hug. I was starting to develop feelings for her, and I suspected she had some for me as well.
She asked how my day had been. I told her about the locker incident, and she quickly gave me a virtual hug. Even those three letters could make me feel a little better. She had a better time than I did because her parents supported her, but I didn't begrudge her that. I didn't want anyone to go through what I had to deal with.
All too soon, it got late, and she had to go. I stayed up another hour, reading stories and looking at... art (cough cough). When I finally went to bed, I could feel the tears well up as I held my plushie close. As always, I silently asked God, _Why couldn't you make me gay like everyone else? _ With thoughts of Fiona filling my mind, I drifted into fitful sleep.