Trainspotters

iii.

"california dreamin'"

--//--

Cold.

It was cold and foggy, that Friday morning. The leaves began to fall, not at a rapid speed, but quick enough to let others know fall was coming to an end.

And standing in the middle of the pathway, staring at the trees,

was Gray.

Ever since seeing the world in colour, he could just appreciate some of the simple things in life now. Sure, him staring straight up at the trees kind of made him look like a weirdo, but he was far too distracted by the beautiful colours to ever think twice about where he was standing.

Scott pushed Gray over, making him fall to the ground. The asshole.

"Hey, watch where you're standing, fucker!" he yelled. "What a dork-ass loser."

Gray could hear laughter in the distance coming from him.

It wasn't as bad as the bullying he suffered in high school, however. To him, it was just another push and taunt. Nothing new.

He gets up, dusts himself off and walks inside, immediately hit by the feeling of eyes staring at him. He could never catch a break. The poor bastard. It was never-ending psychological torment for him. Everyone just purely watching him, judging him. Truth is, everyone there was focused in their own conversations. What did he have to worry about, really?

He knew. He just had this underlying feeling, this strong sense of dread looming behind him.

He leaned against the wall, letting out a sigh. Back to people watching it is, then.

Well, he had no one to come to, to talk with, to just be with. What was he to do, if not stare at the crowd flowing through the hallways while he could see himself just merely stumbling behind them?

If he read, he either wouldn't be able to focus on a page for even a minute, or he'd be too invested and lose track of time. And either way, some of the words -- especially larger ones -- would just swim around, getting all fuzzy and muddled. On his phone? Distracted. Easily. Many people already do get distracted with a phone, sure. But Gray? Once he's lost in a subject he's remotely even interested in, he's too far gone and you can't pull him back out. Draw? He doesn't have the skills. Maybe wander around? No, people would think he was stalking them if he did. If he paced back and forth in a circle, or a figure of eight, he'd look like a maniac. A paranoid, schizo maniac.

He tapped his foot ever so slightly. All he could really do was stare at the clock, and wait. Wait for everyone to head inside.

He bit the inside of his cheeks. Sure, it was an unhealthy habit. But it couldn't have been less healthy than what other people were doing. Compared to everything else? Merely a meaningless fraction.

And in the blink of an eye...

Wait.

Where did everyone go?

...oh, fuck.

He makes a run for it. Goddammit. Why's he always late? There was no real explanation, no excuse under the sun that can help back up some of his answers. Nothing. Everyone heard it all at this point. Everyone was fed up.

It wasn't his fault, though! Why wouldn't anyone believe him...?

Whatever.

He had gotten so used to people yelling at him that it was just another part of his daily freaking routine.