War ⇔ Cashton ✓

Someone Who Understands

CALUM

I sit silently at the uncomfortable desk, my bony elbows leaning on the hard surface of the table as I stare at the clock, watching the small arrows tick slowly across the numbers. The students around me are excited, their voices raised in eagerness as the school day comes to a close. They sit on their tables, phones held in their hands and smiles on their faces. I watch them with a gentle gaze, all too aware of the empty seat beside me. Nobody has ever bothered to sit next to me, next to this small tan boy who hides his face behind his sweater sleeves. The only time someone has plopped down in this cold seat beside me is when the teacher forces them to, hoping it will cease the teenager's endless talking for a while. It normally doesn't work, and then I'm trapped at this small table with a loud kid breathing in the same oxygen as I am.

It's horrifying.

My hands shake in impatience, itching to reach into my back pocket and retrieve the smooth envelope containing my letter to Ashton. I have learned not to reveal the envelope during school though, due to the whispers that break out among the students when I do. I can't handle their judgmental stares and the sympathetic glances of the teachers, so I twist my fingers in my lap and wait for the bell to ring.

"Calum?" a smooth voice drifts to my ears and I snap my head up, looking up to see my teacher analyzing my face carefully. I nervously tap my knee against the side of the table, all too aware of the bruises marking my face.

"Yes?"

"You have a swollen eye. What happened?" Her voice is empty, void of any emotion other than a hint of concern. As I stare at her, I can't help to think that she doesn't truly care. Not really. She probably has a family at home. A husband. A kid or two. More things to worry about than the quiet kid with the cracked lips.

"I fell off my bike." The lie leaves my tongue smoothly, and I hate how easy it is to cover up my sores. I hate how simple it has become to lie about the bruises to everyone who asks. Not that the list is long. Most people just ignore it and hope the guilt of not caring enough passes quickly.

My teacher seems to accept this as an answer, and advises me to be more careful next time. I want to say that I'm always careful. I'm always so careful, tiptoeing around knives that point themselves toward me, hiding my tears so that no one has to feel the same sorrow I do. It's just that other people apparently don't feel they need to be careful around me as well.

Thankfully, the shrill ring sounds throughout the school only a few torturous minutes later, and I curl my fingers over the strap of my backpack and slip through the classroom door. I hurry down the hallway, sliding the backpack over my shoulders and sliding out the front door of the school before the stampede of students behind me can.

My black and white Vans carry me out onto the sidewalk, where I slow my pace down to a quick walk. The Australian wind clears the chill bumps on my arms, brushing back the brunette strands over my forehead as I hurry down the road, ignoring the cars that speed past me.

The crisp air settles around my skin like mist and my heart sits in my chest as a stone. It's too cold, too brittle to contain the hopes and dreams that I once had as a child. It lies still underneath my ribcage, blood crusting the edges of the bloodless chambers as though trying to break through the hard exterior, but it is no use. There is no one near to pump blood into the hollow vessels once again.

Cars brush past my shoulder as they speed down the road, driving towards places that people want them to be. I watch them as they drive past with dimmed eyes, faded with grief and too many tears that have washed away the color. I drift along with the slight wind in hopes that it will take me like a fallen leaf, brushing me over hills and horizons until I am left alone in a meadow of roses. Free of bombshells and ammunition.