sleep.

Chapter I: The Introvert

     Malcolm didn't have any friends at school. He preferred to live his teenage years on his own, with his online friend.
     Malcolm likes school, but at the same time, he doesn't. He doesn't like the teasing, the stress, or the noise. But he likes the fact that he doesn't have to deal with his family for half the day.
     Malcolm also has scopophobia. If he sits next to someone who has to face his direction in order to look at the chalkboard, his neck starts feeling like it's getting squeezed, but not like he's choking. His shoulders tense up, and he lowers his head until his neck is practically covered up. That becomes his main focus, and he can no longer focus in class.
      He rests his hand on his head, his mind filled with stress and fear of the seating situation. He wants to get out. He wants to get out. He wants to get out. He keeps repeating in his head that he needs to make a plan to take a different seat before someone else does. He goes on his phone and sets alarms. Not an alarm. Multiple alarms. Each one having a message;
     "Get to school early so you can get a better seat."
     The teacher calls his name.
     "...Malcolm?"
     Mr. Foster had asked a question before he called his name, but Malcolm never raised his hand to answer. It looked to Mr. Foster like he wasn't paying attention.
"I'm.. s-sorry… what… what.. exactly was the question..?" Malcolm asked nervously.
     Two boys laughed, which isn't that many. But to him, it felt like the whole school was laughing at him. He tensed up, looking down at his legs.
     "What's the common technique used to shade in graphic novels?" asked Mr. Foster,
     "Um.. hatching?" Malcolm answered,
     "Correct." Mr. Foster replied.
     Art class. Malcolm chose this for his Grade 11 course, given the problems with last year's art class. He almost failed art last year, and he didn't like how Mr. Foster would criticise his assignments and ask him to change aspects about it, as if he didn't know what he was doing.
     He has an art assignment long overdue. His expressive self portrait assignment. So far all he's got done is his long and bed-headed brown hair, his albino eyes, and his missing canine. The tooth, not the animal.
     He's got the physical traits finished, but he hasn't built up the courage to express himself on a piece of paper that he'll have to show Mr. Foster. I mean, they aren't really close friends.
     Mr. Foster resumes his lesson,
     "Now, who would like to tell me why graphic novel illustrators use ha-" the sound of the school bell interrupts his question. Everyone starts running towards the door, since before, they were already packing up to leave and not listening to the lesson. Except for Malcolm.
     Malcolm doesn't bring his phone to school, nor does he use a laptop in his art class. He doesn't have any devices that tell him the time.
     Malcolm packs his stuff up and gets out of his seat. It feels to him as if Mr. Foster is staring at him the whole time, making the situation awkward. Malcolm leaves the classroom and starts to head home.
     He takes the long route home that no one else takes. The short route is on the street where there are loud cars whooshing past him and 7th graders from his school heckling him. The long route is through different neighbourhoods, so it’s mostly quiet.
    After the 30 minute walk home, he arrives at his house. His heart races fast, hoping his dad wasn’t home. He reached his finger out to enter the pin on the lock on his front door. If the buzzing sound of the lock turning was heard, his dad wasn’t home. If it wasn’t heard, he was home.
     He entered the pin:

19 12 5 5 16

…nothing