presley bolton | district three | fin

"Mom, seriously. I. Do. Not. Care." He pushed his hands over his ears, a last ditch effort to drown out the sound of the middle aged woman that had given him her coffee brown eyes and fair complexion when he was born. "Oh, come on Pres!" She plead, and he rocketed himself off of the couch as she leaned in to hug him. "No. Ew. Gross. I don't wanna hear about your's and Dad's... romantic...life." He huffed, shuddering. The woman sighed. "Fine, be a loser." "If it means avoiding this talk, fine then, I'm the biggest loser ever." Then his mother smiled and punched him in the leg. "Whatever, punk. While you're up go and make us some popcorn and I'll put in a movie and we can have a lazy day til Dad gets home." He didn't answer, only smiled again, genuinely grateful to have a good family in a world as cold as the one they lived in.

Presley Bolton has always been considered lucky when it comes to his home life. Parents that love him, a father who's job gets them enough money to afford anything they might actually need, so long as it isn't too outrageous, but his home life has always been the only life that has been easy for the boy.

He was a victim of bullying from his first year in school, boys all calling him a girl, pushing him, laughing at him while he cried, and as a result he despises leaving his house. Several times he has come home with bruises, his light skin painted purple and blue, but they are easily hidden by wearing long sleeves or sneaking into his mother's make-up. Several times he has feared walking through the halls alone and forced himself to anyway, refusing to let them all know how terrified he truly is. More times than he can count, he has opened his locker and found his things missing, or embarrassing notes taped to the back wall, but all of this is worth it to him.

He may be hurt a lot, but he stays true to who he is.

The movie was almost over, only a few more scenes until the screen blackened and gave credit to all those that deserved it when his father walked in. Both the boy and his mother sat on the couch, only a small plastic bowl filled with popcorn separating them. His father leaned over the back of the couch and kissed his wife on the cheek, then turned to his son. "Hey, son." And reached over and gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze. He almost fell over backwards when the scream echoed throughout the room. Presley looked at the floor and refused to meet the gazes of his parents. "Uh... s-sorry." Then he stood and turned to hide in his room, to hope the unbearable pain in his shoulder disappeared, but his mother's hand stopped him.

"Pull up your sleeve." He scoffed. "Why?" Pres, jus-" He yanked his hand free, glad it was attached to the shoulder that didn't hurt. "No. I'm fine, I just..." He blinked away the tears as they formed, trying his hardest to appear calm, but neither of them were buying it. His father slid the sleeve of his shirt up and his mother gasped. Black splotches of swollen flesh danced across it making it look rather grotesque. "I hit it on my locker at school... I'm fine, really."

The one thing that Presley will always believe is that being who he is will always be a good decision, even if it doesn't seem like it. He is honest, and will tell someone just how he feels, even if it's the last thing he should be doing. Most of the time, he comes off as snarky and sarcastic, but he doesn't care. He wouldn't be caught dead wearing something tacky or disgusting, and he expects others to do the same, and if they don't, fine, let them look ridiculous, but he isn't just going to stand by and let them without at least letting them know.

As rude as he may seem, he does mean well. It just takes a lot for him to actually open up to someone, for him to come out of his shell and show people who he really is. He seems cold and acts as if he doesn't need a single person other than himself to survive, but that couldn't be any further from the truth. What Presley wants- what he needs- is a friend.

"Presley, how could you not tell us about this?" His mother struggled to keep her voice calm as she loomed over him, her hands pressing into the uncomfortable bed in which he sat. "It's not that bad, Mom. I just-" "Not that bad? Son, your shoulder was out of it's socket! You have things torn and twisted and stretched and you are trying to say it's not that bad?!" In a way, he was glad they had found out. A large part of him wanted them to know, and he had come so close to telling them, but the other part of him warned him against it. If they found out, then they would want to know who. They wouldn't relent until he told them.

As if his mother were reading his mind, she pressed further. "Who did it? Who hurt you, Presley?" "Mom I-" She stood and turned away from him. "Don't tell me then. I'll just go to the school and find out for myself." With that, the door closed behind her and his father sighed. "You know she'll find out. One way or another." The boy fought off tears as he spoke. "Yeah, I know. That's what I'm worried about."