Being the 3rd bastard child of a whore of a mother sucked. Being named "Trevor" sucked. The fact that his mom had so little discretion and self-control over her affairs pulled at his heart constantly during his formative years.
Trevor became twelve before he learned to hate the world, and his own mother. He knew he probably shouldn't think like that, but he thought it anyways. Miss Phillips at school had become his savior most recently. She couldn't solve Trevor's problems, but at least she was honest enough to admit that, and was always there to listen to him complain. Miss P always showed him her most beautiful eyes and smile, while encouraging him in his words.
How he longed for that sort of understanding from another human being, slinging his book-bag reluctantly over his shoulder and walking towards the steel and stone and pummel and mortar edifice that was his school. His cold reality.