World Eater

6

ALZAR STIFLED A YAWN.

Rubbing his eyes, Alzar shuffled from foot to foot, impatiently waiting outside the student counselor’s office. He blushed as a group of girls passed by him, their stares lingering on his back like a brand.

No one knows I'm here for counseling, Alzar assured himself as cold shame made his underarms wet, they're just gonna assume I'm here to get my schedule changed. He clawed another scab off his back. If anyone asks, I'm just moving around my classes.

He couldn't imagine if the other guys in his class knew he was going to therapy. He could handle them thinking he was gay, but crazy? Locker room harassment was the least of his worries.

Hovering his knuckle against the door, Alzar felt himself hesitate. Miss Hastur had only starting working at the school this year, and Alzar had barely even seen her in the hall. His peers had reported that she was odd, and Alzar wasn't sure what to think.

The door pushed open, nearly hitting Alzar in the nose. He jumped back as an underclassman stepped out. He wasn't as lanky or tall as Alzar, but his eyes were intense. Scraggly dark hair fell across his olive skin and severe features. Alzar recognized him as one of few kids in his school that wasn't white.

“Are you Miss Fancy’s next appointment? She's ready for you,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Alzar said forcefully, nearly choking on his words, “I'm just getting my schedule changed. That's all.”

“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head.

Wiping the blood off his fingernails, Alzar stumbled into the room, head down.

“Good morning, Mr. Lorne. I suppose you're doing well?” a cool, even voice said, making him flinch.

“About as well as I can be,” he muttered, sweat seeping through the straps of his backpack, “I don’t want to be here.”

Miss Hastur smiled, opening her palm. “Please, sit.”

Shakily, Alzar dropped himself into the squeaky chair, hunching his shoulders. Low ceilings and dim lights made the room feel stuffy and claustrophobic.

Miss Hastur was a slim, delicate woman, with fair, flawless skin. Her strawberry blonde curls framed her thin face.

“Now, Alzar, can you tell me why you're here?”

Alzar kept his eyes above her head. He couldn't look at her. Something about her made his nerves go wild. She felt too cheery, almost plastic. “It wasn't my fault,” he growled.

Miss Hastur smiled, following his line of sight. “Are you looking at my painting?”

Alzar blinked, realizing he had been staring blankly at a hanging painting of a bird in the brush. “Uh,” he said, feeling his cheeks turn hot.

“It's of a cuckoo bird,” she explained, drumming her painted fingernails on her desk, “They're not the prettiest birds on this earth, but I find them interesting. They lay their eggs in other bird's nests, a form of brood parasitism.”

They were right, Alzar thought, she is weird.

“But that's enough about me. Let's talk about you, Alzar. I read on your file that you are having some serious behavioral issues.”