A Hidden World

Chapter 5: Scott Williams

                                                                                 Two Days Later at Breakfast 

A steaming bowl of unappetizing oatmeal was stuck in front of my face. I stared down at it with a look of revulsion. Glaring down at the table I sullenly pushed it away to mom who in turn, with a deep frown, pushed it back.  I glared at her through the strands of hair that were covering my eyes. I guess she had radar vision or something because her raised eyebrow told me too lose the attitude. NEVER! I refuse to back down.

" You need to eat!" My mother stated as a matter of factly. "You need to stay healthy so you can play on the soccer team and you need to-" 

" What I need is for some peace and QUIET!!"  I yelled, very NOT quietly. I grabbed my bag from my chair and rushed out the door, slamming the it angrily behind me. Instantly I felt bad but things weren't going so well for me at the moment. I had been trying to deal with all of this drama but it was so hard without anyone to talk to about it. I always felt so alone and the sweet and kind parents that I once knew seemed like they were replaced by these cold and distant .... things. I reached my destination and opened the large wooden doors with brass knobs that had been painted gold with intricate patterns. The libary. It might seem weird but this was like my safe haven. I was supposed to meet my friend Michael Cross and I spotted him over in the Manga section. Typical.

" Hey! Michael!" I cried softly, remembering that we were in a library. He looked up and his face broke into that same familiar, warm smile just like it had always done since we were 6. He strode over to me and caught me up in a bear hug.

" Where've you been? I missed you!" He asked setting me down after a few seconds of me flailing around in his arms choking out that I couldn't breathe.

" I missed you to!" I exlaimed. " I'm really sorry I didn't call you the past week but I was really busy y'know? Just some personal stuff to deal with. It was kind of messy." 

" Oh, sure, I understand." He said nodding vigorously. Thats what I love about Michael. He always understands me and doesn't press me on things that I don't want to talk about. In fact, if we weren't best friends I probably would've dated him by now. But that would be a bit awkard. Speaking of awkward I realised even though he had put me down, we were still in an embrace. Blushing just the tiniest bit, I untangled myself from him, turning my face away so he wouldn't see.

" Let's go sit down somewhere." Michael said. I nodded, with a little too much enthusiasm than I would've liked. Was it just my imagination or did Michael's voice sound a bit shaky? Heading over to our chosen spot I grabbed this mornings news paper off a rack in case there was anything interesting. Plopping down on a soft beanbag chair I let myself sink in too it before flipping open the paper. I casually browsed the section for a couple of minutes when a picture caught my eye. I gasped and Michael looked up from his book. 

" Don't worry," I say not really paying attention to him and he returns to indulge in his reading. I look carefully at the article not believing what I'm seeing. There on the 4th page of the New York Times was a picture of the boy I had touched. He was sitting, curled up in a ball, on a ugly white wooden, chipped, bed with dirty grey sheets. The ivory walls were streaked with burns and murky water dripped from a crack on the ceiling.                                                                                                                 The boy himself looked like a mess too. Wearing a loose hospital garment and his hair was greasy and messy, tangled over his face. His eyes were sunken and huge, black as night. Cheekbones stood out pointedly and his mouth was cracked, dry and bleeding. His nails were yellow with half moons of dirt crusted underneath. His face had a look of mad confusion and desperation. My chest tightened as my eyes snaked their way down to the article.