They Buried A Boy And Woke Up A Monster In Suit

Ethan Grey was never fond of mirrors. Standing at 6'2" with a muscular, well-toned frame and broad shoulders shaped by years of training, he looked nothing like the boy who once shivered in locker rooms. His face featured a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes that noticed everything. His dark brown hair, neatly swept back, showed no signs of the messy, unkempt style from his teenage years. Yet none of that mattered when he looked in the mirror. Ethan still remembered the boy who had been forced to stare into toilet water before it flushed. Ten years ago.. Ethan Grey sat alone at the edge of the cafeteria, tray untouched, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His thin frame was swallowed by his oversized school blazer. If he was usually ignored that would’ve been even better. He was noticed — every day, and called various insultive names. “Stick Boy!” someone called. “Don’t snap your wrist lifting that spoon!” Ethan’s fingers tightened around his fork. He wasn't the only one being bullied on a daily basis. Across the room, Celeste Aldridge stumbled forward, her tray clattering to the floor. Her books were soaked in milk. Her sleeves covered her arms, but nothing could hide the red, inflamed acne that spread across her cheeks like a cruel mask. A pack of girls giggled behind their phones. “Oops,” one said. “Clumsy Queen strikes again.” From across the room, a cruel voice shouted: “There go the lovebirds! Mr. Bones and Pimple Queen!” They all laughed as they took pictures. Ethan looked up as Celeste looked back. Their eyes met, but they didn’t feel any connection. Instead, there was a quiet, shared dislike. Not for each other — not really — but for what they had to become in this place. ********** Later that afternoon, Ethan stood under the weak stream of a broken shower, alone with a towel around his waist. He had just finished the mandatory sport session imposed on him. The door slammed open. “Hey Stick Boy,” said one of the footballers. “Time for your special rinse.” Before he could move, they grabbed him, two at the arms, one by the hair. “Guys, stop—don’t—” His words didn’t matter. They dragged him across the tiles, shoving him into a bathroom stall. One pulled the chain. Another slammed his face toward the bowl. “Smile for the yearbook.” Flush! The water surged over his mouth. He thrashed and creamed as he choked. They finally let go as Ethan collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, his glasses broken, his pride in pieces. “Next time,” one whispered, “don’t breathe so loud.” Ethan stayed where they left him sprawled on the cold, wet tile, body shivering. The back of his shirt clung to his ribs. His glasses were gone. His jaw trembled. He coughed up water. His hands shook. He pushed himself up to his knees, still dripping, and stared at the toilet bowl. It took him three tries to speak. His voice cracked. “...Why… me?” The words barely came out. He grabbed the edge of the stall wall and pulled himself to his feet. Then it hit him. He slid back down to the floor. His knees pulled up to his chest. His arms wrapped around them as his forehead dropped forward. Then, a choked sound escaped from his mouth, “D-don’t…” he whispered to no one. “Don’t cry. Don’t—” But his voice broke again. A sob punched out of his chest — as he felt completely helpless. And once it started, it didn’t stop. He shook his head gently tear drops ran down his cheeks. The kind of crying that made it hard to breathe. The kind that made you hate yourself for being human. His face buried in his arms as his voice was muffled. “I hate this… I hate them… I hate—me.” Meanwhile across the school, Celeste clutched her books like armor as she turned the corner. Three girls blocked her way. “Got a date with Stick Boy tonight?” one smirked. Celeste didn’t answer. They grabbed her arms, smeared lip gloss across her cheeks, yanked her hood down. “Let’s make her pretty.” They shoved her into the sink. Her head hit the faucet. Her books fell. They laughed and walked away. Her books lay in a soggy pile behind her. Her hoodie was soaked at the collar. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror as she felt like a ghost. She inhaled, Then again...then, Faster...Her lips trembled. Her eyes darted side to side, as if someone might still be watching. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t cry. Don’t give them that.” She wiped her cheek roughly as she bit down on her lip, hard enough to bleed. But her body betrayed her, Her shoulders quivered. Then — a soft, gasping hiccup, her eyes blurred. She squeezed them shut. Another breath. Another— “Why…” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why does it always have to be me?” Her knuckles turned white against the sink edge as a single tear slipped out. Then two, then the dam broke. She covered her mouth with both hands as the sobs came — not loud, but raw. Ragged. Animals. “I’m not… nothing…” she whispered between gulps of air. But the more she said it… the less she believed it. She sank to her knees, arms around herself, and wept. *********** The bells rang for school dismissal as a printout fluttered to the floor a mock “wedding photo” of Ethan and Celeste, scribbled with hearts and insults. They passed each other silently. Their eyes met again. This time, neither looked away, but they didn’t speak. Because if they did… They might break in front of each other. And that would be worse than anything the others ever did. That night, in their separate rooms, Ethan and Celeste both did the same thing. Cried into pillows. Bit down on their fists to stay quiet. And whispered the same words into darkness: “One day… I’ll be someone they can’t touch.”