Folder X - 1. Chapter 1

I stared at the video until it burned, and my eyes began to water. I had a problem. But like a junkie, I required my daily fix. I could control it. Sometimes. Yet, my rational mind wanted me to keep looking. He was studiedly beautiful, even if he realized it or not, and that was his crime. Beauty.

Somebody like Jonah wouldn’t give me the time of day; I’m just a fat, sweaty, hormonal nobody on the social scale, and my nonexistence was assisted by the ravaged pimply face and copper hair. As far as anybody could be concerned, I was one of those teenagers who blended into the walls at Lincoln Junior High, and for me, it was hell.

Glancing at the computer monitor, a smirk broke across my lips, and I felt all tingly inside. I never understood how Jonah managed to captivate me, but I liked him, not that he knew it. Jonah was gorgeous beyond measure. Everything he did appeared to be so natural, and I could tell between those posers and genuine people; Jonah was an angel in my eyes. I had longed to touch his silky brown hair and lay by his side to bask in those magnificent green eyes. I ached to kiss those puffy pink lips, caress those soft cheeks, to hold him, and call him mine. It stung, and I was smart enough to realize that I'd never had a shot at dating that wonderful human being.

I sat forward in my computer chair; the room was dark, but the glow from the monitor cast enough light to illuminate my unkempt room. Mom had been on my case since last week to clean up my 'pigsty,' as she put it.

Except, watching Jonah dancing in the video helped me cope. It was like the sun to flowers, a loyal dog to its loving owner, and a car with an engine. Without his daily dancing ritual posted all over the web for the entire school to see, I'd have cried myself to sleep much more than I already did.

Just the illusion of seeing him in virtual existence made it not feel as lonely. He was right there to laugh with, mentally undress or ignore if he spoke to a girl. It wasn't fair that all the prettiest boys were off the market, out of reach for a nobody like me.

I watched as he effortlessly kicked his leg back and forth and kept in time with the music's rhythm. My eyes locked on his sock-clad feet; they seemed so small and cute, wrapped in that white fabric. I envisioned that he had cute toes, but the thought passed my mind when he slowed to a stop and caught his breath. I'd seen this video so many times that I knew every movement he made.

Leaning toward the camera, Jonah squinted at his cellphone and then smiled.

'Ah, his smile was so idyllic, gentle, and heavenly.'

Even without the jogger pants and his oversized grey hoodie, which amplified his beauty, there was nothing that could compare to seeing him in person. Shaking himself crazily, he hopped on the spot energetically before he dove straight back into another dance, this time some shuffle jig.

Numerous times I had tried to learn those steps, as in the off chance I'd actually get to speak to him for more than a second, I'd be able to dance alongside him to show him I knew the moves. It made me feel good when I figured out some of the footwork; it made me feel closer to my one true love.

Sometimes mom would ask me what I did up here?

Apparently, I made the lights on the ceiling shake so bad, combined with all the thumping, she'd frequently call up the stairs to see I was okay. I don't know what she was expecting? Maybe she always feared that I fell or something, and once or twice I had done just that. I won't deny how fast Jonah’s legs can move, and I found out the hard way when attempting to dance like how he did it.

Eventually, the happiness faded when the video ended, how he’d step up to the camera, lift his iPhone up shakily and cut the recording. It broke the self-delusion I fought hard to keep, as it reminded me that none of the videos were him in real-time. I always pictured Jonah doing the dance just for me, and not the hundreds of drooling girls who commented on his posts; or for the other boys who tried to copy his style.

I reached up to the desk, guided the mouse across the surface until the cursor was on the replay button. Hitting the icon, the video restarted with Jonah placing the phone on the floor before stepping back and getting ready to dance.

My computer made a familiar bop sound, and I knew where to go. Minimizing the Folder X with all the pictures and videos of Jonah, I clicked on the idling Google Chrome app, and a webpage flooded the screen. Refreshing the tab, it showed some new activity. Jonah's Instagram feed took up all the space, but in the background, the video of him dancing continued to play, and I rocked in the chair with the music. It groaned with my weight, something that depressed me, but seeing the new picture Jonah posted 20 seconds ago made me smile, and my heart swooned.

The picture showed Jonah dressed in his cute cobalt-blue button-up baseball uniform, knicker baseball pants that were dragged up to his knees, and a pair of large blue socks met with the hem. He looked so lean and athletic, something I wished would come so easily to me. Yet, that wasn't the case. How did people who do absolutely nothing manage to stay pretty? I'm not saying that, staying good-looking is not hard work, but Jonah just had naturally good genes.

“Matthew…” Mom called.

Turning to the muffled sound, I peered at the door. I started to push away from the computer and head for the landing.

“Matt?” Mom shouted again.

Pushing down on the lever, I exited out onto the landing and peered over the banisters. Mom stood at the base of the staircase, peering up at me. She was pretty, my mom. Tired, sure… but who wasn't? She tried her hardest, being a single parent and all, and in life, you learn from an early age some things are just not fair.

“Yes…” I hollered down the stairs.

Mom probably expected me to take an eternity to appear, but not today.

“Will you take out the garbage?” Mom asked.

I leaned on the railing, and I glanced down at her. I didn't exactly want to go outside. It was cold, but I guess it was the least I could do. I had nothing better to do other than sit in my bedroom, look at Jonah's videos, jerk off or listen to sad music. Anything to distract me from just how miserable my life really could get was better than moping around.

I told mom a while ago about the bullying; plus, it was getting difficult to hide my constant mood swings. After ending up with a bruised arm, I started wearing a long-sleeved shirt so mom wouldn't see the continued bullying. I told her it had stopped, but I didn't want her charging into school, making matters worse, or showing that I need my mommy to fix all my problems.

The bullying has been going on since 3rd or 4th grade, and it's bound to stop soon… right? I'm almost a freshman. I turned 14 a month ago, not that many people came to my birthday party. Though it was nice that Dillion had turned up. Otherwise, it would have been the shittiest party on the planet.

Dillion is the only friend I really have, but he's not very dependable; he's a momma's boy and gets scared easily with confrontation. I seemed to have a habit of drawing a lot of it as I am easy pickings. By putting the two of us together, it's like hunting season for anybody willing to take a shot. When anything happens, I always wish I’d die quickly, so I wouldn't have to experience the humiliation anymore, but it's complicated. My bullies have changed over the years, but I seem to be their favorite target for the past two years running.

Trying not to let the events of my day get the better of me, I nod and agree. Mom seemed pleased that I didn't offer up a fuss. I returned to my bedroom, closed the tabs for Instagram and the video of Jonah. Sighing, I sat on the edge of my office chair and slipped on my beat-up sneakers, then on the descent down the stairs, I zipped up my hoody. I grabbed the trash bag and tracked through the house with the black bin liner from the kitchen.

“Put on a jacket Matty,” Mom said.

“I’m fine… I won’t be long,” I replied.

Unlatching the front door, I pushed out onto the front porch and stumbled down the steps, making my way to the sidewalk. Frost already settled on mom's car in the driveway, and a ghostly plume drifted from my mouth up into the sky. The evening was quiet, but off in the distance, I could hear teenagers messing around.

Cutting the path to the driveway, I strolled to the garbage bin by the pillar, lifted the lid, and dropped the bag inside the box. The putrid smell crept from the bin, invaded my nostrils, and made me gag. So, I backed away from the garbage and seized a lungful of fresh November air.

Someplace down the street, I heard a clop and a whirr of wheels. Not wanting to be on the path when they arrived, I dashed back into the yard. Recently, everything rattled me, and I wasn't sure if I could trust anything. You can say I got a bit paranoid with all the bullying in hindsight, but I never met my tormentors outside of school. Though that didn't stop them from harassing me online from time to time. Calling me names I won't repeat, slagging my 'walrus' shape as they put it. Dropping the occasional death threats and occasional mock-up of some picture they tossed into some photo editor to make me look like an absolute freak. I was beginning to realize everything they were saying happened to be true. I did look like a cave troll under a bridge. And maybe, I should get my yellow teeth fixed. I figured nothing could be wrong with them; they looked white, pretty straight to me despite not having braces. Though now, I saw the ridicule that they were teasing me about; so, I don't smile as much anymore, not that I have the energy.

The whirr grew louder, so did the jeering and laughter. It made me sad, hearing people so happy. How could people be so satisfied with themselves when everything is crap? Finally, three kids hurtled by, two on skateboards and one on a bike. I relaxed, relieved it wasn't any of my tormentors. It just happened to be a bunch of noisy kids and nothing more. Heading back inside where it was warm, I kicked off my shoes by the door and climbed the first step of the stairs.

“Did you do your homework?” Mom called out from the kitchen.

I latched onto the newel post and leaned out to see my mother in the kitchen.

I nodded, attempting to sound optimistic, “I finished it before dinner.”

It was a lie; I hadn't done my homework. My wrist still hurt from the altercation in the boy's bathroom after lunch. Dallas had pinned my arm behind my back for quite some time, and after that, it didn't feel right.

It didn't feel like something was broken or dislocated; it was probably just a bruise.

Mom was evidently pleased with the answer, so she backed down about forcing me to do homework. Normally, I'd do it, but I didn't have the motivation for it.

We exchanged little else, and I asked to be excused. Marching up the stairs, like many times before, I just preferred to be on my own; it cleared my head somehow. These days, being around people made me feel uncomfortable, and it felt like a lot of work to engage in conversations.

Pretending to be happy is a lot of work when you are dead inside.

Since it was almost bedtime, I decided to call it a day. I undressed, hopped into bed, and lay down. Sleeping was the only thing that helped, and it was the only time of day when things were mute. I had a few sleepless nights, but I'd pretend to my mom I stayed up late unintentionally, like watching tv or studying for a test. She knew I reckon. What 14-year-old studies for a test at 4 am?

I tried clearing my head, but it was crowded with what tomorrow had in store. I knew they’d seek me out to inflict their misery, and they’d succeed.

I tossed and turned; everything was annoying.

The way the mattress groaned, how the springs dug into my back, too many blankets, too hot, not feeling tired enough, needing to go to the bathroom. Oh, and god forbid I got thirsty. My list was endless.

Eventually, I conceded; I figured if I jerked off, it would help sleep come sooner; it always helped. Rummaging for my android, I found it tucked under my pillow. I tapped at the chrome application and typed in the particulars, looking for gay porn. I clicked on the top result; as expected, the webpage filled with guys screwing, big cocks, lots of skin on offer, and it sort of turned me on. I started scrolling through the twink category, looking for something to jerk it to. When I found something, I fumbled for my penis and started working at it, though after a few to no avail moments, I switched over to Instagram and saw the picture of Jonah. I was tempted to go through with it, the deed.

Though sometimes, I felt guilty after nutting. I considered I used him in a way I didn't intend. Yet, even if it made me feel gross, I grabbed hold of my penis and started stroking. Inherently the picture worked; I blew my wad and then wiped it up using a sock.

Feeling spent, I rested back and waited for sleep to arrive.

To be Continued...