Ever After

The Daily Grind

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This chapter is in Mark's perspective.

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"Looks like he decided to show up," Killian shrugged, running a hand through his hair.

"I thought he would've pussied out," Will added. He smoothed back his hair as the three of them stepped forward in perfect unison, as if it'd been the "go" signal.

I stepped back in response.

"I would've pussied out if I were him," Felix, still wearing the disgusting green backpack, said. "It is a nice backpack, after all."

Another step forward, another step back.

Killian, surprisingly intelligent enough to notice the pattern, said, "What? You're scared?" He turned to Will. "I guess you were wrong. He is a fuckin' pussy."

"I'm not a pussy," I said, my voice coming out as a whisper. "You asked me to bring my backpack, and I did."

"No, I brought your backpack," Felix demanded, suddenly lunging in my direction. He grabbed at the strap of the beautiful, navy-blue Roots bag, pulling me closer to him, stopping me from stepping back again. "You brought mine."

I tried not to show a petrified expression as he tore the bag from my very back, sending the wind chill up my thin shirt and spine. I also tried not to watch them pour out my homework assignments, pencils, and textbooks, need not mention the script for our play, although it was hard to look away when everything you've been working for at midnight every night for the last week was being demolished. And, when the terror was over and Felix had inserted all of his papers, I couldn't help but take in the sight of him dropping my bag down on top of the work I'd done, sloshing mud all over it, too, as if it weren't enough to be all over my stationaries.

I could feel my eyes burning as Killian turned to me, his glare threatening, sending my blood down to a shiver. "Jack can't fuckin' save you now, Coffee Breath."

With that, he and the two others turned on their heels (in, again, perfect unison), not bothering to prevent from stepping on a few of my papers as they fled the scene. I could now feel the tears escaping my eyes and rolling down my cheeks, waterfalls kissing at me as I bent down, hunched over, clinging to the sheets as I stuffed them into my disgusting, green backpack. I tried to think of the positives as my tears splashed against the lined paper, smudging the ink I'd written in. At least I won't have to sneak this into the hall closet every day so dad doesn't think I'm a thief, I said. At least I still have enough room to fit my things... at least I...

But it was no point. There was nothing positive about this, nothing great at all – in fact, I was shocked that I'd even dug up a few things to think of as positive. But they weren't positive – I was just tricking myself into thinking that they were. No, this was all just one huge, bad nightmare, a dream that I would wake up to, only to lean over the side of my bed and stare down at Jack, my best friend (my only friend), nuzzling into the pillow next to his sleeping bag. He would turn on his side to face me, grinning as he did, saying, "Mark, it was just a dream! We scared 'em off, remember?", to which I would smile and nod, just happy that he was there for me to wake up to.

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Heading off to work had (surprisingly) become one of my favourite pastimes; I have school and home to thank for that, though. School is where Jack ignores me, where Bob and Wade make jokes to one another as I take note on what'll come next in our play, no one even bothering as to ask how my day had been or whether I'd gotten the homework done or not – and, as for home, I think I'd find anything to get me away from my father's headaches, my brother's noogies, and my endless nights spent sleeping on the sofa.