Page 15 of Fragments

Professor Kensington—who, let it be known, was way too hot to be a teacher—was immediately fired, though I think his wife finding out he likes to fuck guys might have been the more detrimental consequence.

And I was expelled, just like I knew I’d be. All the money and sweet-talking in the world from my parents couldn’t undo the emotional damage I’d caused. The tarnished stain I apparently made on the good name of Columbia University.

Dramatic much? I mean, come on. They act like they’ve never seen a professor raw-dogging the life out of a student on his desk before.

Do I regret ruining Professor Kensington’s life like that?If I say yes, will anyone believe me?

Sure, he didn’thaveto fuck me… In his office. With the door unlocked. But still,Icame ontohim. And I did it for no other reasons than to sate my infinite, unwavering boredom, to get a rise out of my shithead parents, and play the part of exactly who the hell I am; who they allexpectme to be at this point.

A willful worshipper of chaos.An American Psycho, if Patrick Bateman was justpretendingto give a shit about his lavish lifestyle and stupid fucking business cards.

At least, I said the words.I’m sorrydid leave my lips while I was seated in the dean’s office, beside my irate, ashamed parents. But they were just that.Words. With exactly zero substance to back them up, and my parents could obviously tell. In the Town Car on the way home, my father told me I’ddisgracedour family.

I felt nothing from that either.

That was six months ago, and while I was successful in getting myself out of school, it kind of just brought me back to square one. Living at home, in the same giant Upper East Side townhouse I grew up in, with my parents who actively despise me, and absolutely nocluewhat I want to do with my life, or even how to spend my time.

For months, I’ve been drifting, like a well-dressed tumbleweed, and unfortunately, the constant uncertainty, paired with nonstop indifference and loathing from my parents is guiding me back into old habits.

Staring at the orange flame, I watch it drifting closer and closer to my fingertips as the match burns. The heat warms my skin, then stings as it begins to singe me, sheeting my body in chills. It burns out and I drop it onto the floor of my bedroom terrace with the rest of them.

A sweet breeze of early summer rustles through my hair, brushing it in my eyes while I strike yet another match. My eyes stick to the little burst of fire, though this time, I use it to light my cigarette. Taking in a long drag, I hold the smoke, puffing it out into the air and watching it swirl. Floating away… into nothing.

What am I supposed to do now?I think to myself while I smoke and sit and stare. Yes, I hated school, but at least it wassomething. It got me away from this home of unmet expectations and bitterness. Now, there’s nowhere else to turn. It’s all blending together.

Days spent in the gym, flirting and hooking up more than actually working out, followed by nights spent bouncing from club to club, doing drugs, getting fucked, and passing out just before five, only to wake up and do it all over again.

The lifestyle of a rich, gay sociopath.

At least if I could find a way to earn my own money, I wouldn’t be stuck under the thumb of my parents. The insufferable pricks who brought me into this world, only to show me nothing but loathing from the moment I popped out of that waspy cunt.

They wanted a good son, a clone of my father. A quiet, preppy, future conservative entrepreneur, who plays polo and wears slacks, to discuss the market with over brunch. Who would graduate from Columbia and climb the ladder of the wealthy Manhattan elite, marry a boring, pedigreed girl just like my mother, and make more clone babies to continue the bland bloodline in an almost incestuous fashion.

Instead… they got me.

Their only offspring is a gay, mentally marred narcissist, with no earthly desire to partake in any of their esteemed bullshit.

Even if I’d had the potential to be the son they wanted, how would they have known? I was raised by au pairs and miscellaneous staff straight out the womb. No kidding, I actually thought my nanny, Tabitha, was my mom until I was three years old. My parents only ever showed up to pluck me out of the comfort ofthe helpwhen there was an event, or an activity that required them to portray that rich, successful,perfectfamily image. So naturally, when I began acting out, they blamed everyone but themselves.

When I was eleven, I took a razorblade to my wrist in the middle of one of my mother’s charity functions. And then the therapy sessions and over-medicating started. Coincidentally, at the same time, I realized Ilikedto inflict pain on myself.

It was also when I discovered that lies roll from my mouth much easier than the truth.

Cigarette pinched between my fingers, I take another drag, then bring it down to my arm. I flip my left forearm over, revealing the tattoo I got last year; the wilted rose covering thin raised lines of jagged skin.

I press the ember into my flesh and breathe out slowly from the pain, the sting of searing heat unearthing a shivered chuckle. Hurt awakens sensations within me. I feelalive, if even just for a moment. It’s a fleeting ache of pleasure, but I’ll take what I can get to feel something.Anything.

Pushing past the baser human instinct to drop the cigarette and stop the pain, I keep it there, my toes wiggling as I burn myself until the cigarette goes out.

Nothing ever lasts.

There has to be something else; amore powerfulpunchto feed my emptiness.

Tossing the butt away, I stand up and saunter back into my bedroom to get dressed. I guess I’ll go for a run. Maybe shoot a few hoops.

Basketball is the only sport I’ve ever enjoyed playing, and I’m actually pretty good at it. I used to hook up with a guy I met in the park, and he taught me his moves…in exchange for me teaching him a thing or two about how to properly push past a gag reflex.

It was fun for a while, but now I prefer to just shoot alone.Not a euphemism.