blue hair and bruises.

7 - Addict With A Pen

A school bell rang. It was the second one to sound while two broken boys, who were sitting on the dirty bathroom floor in the very last stall, found silent solace in the presence of one another. Both looked up in acknowledgement of the audial reminder of the passing time.

"Y'know, you... don't have to stay here, Fisher," Travis said, breaking the silence, "I can figure this out on my own..."

Sal shook his head.

"Why not...? You've got places to be, right?"

Sal huffed and crossed his arms.

"... right. You already said it." Travis looked down into his lap. Meanwhile, Sal found his Sharpie again. Out of paper to scribble on, he brought it to the wall.

Do you want to go to the infirmary?

He tapped Travis on the shoulder and brought his attention to the wall. Travis read and shook his head. "N-no... No one needs to know about this."

But you can't stay here. What will you do?

"I haven't figured that out yet. I can't go back to class, but... I can't go home... like this..."

Sal sighed, thinking. Obviously, neither could stay in the bathroom for much longer, and he wasn't about to abandon Travis. But if Mr Phelps specifically was to be left out of the picture, where could they go?

"I still don't get it though," Travis spoke again, "Even if you... uh... w-why would you help me? I'm such an asshole, especially to you and your crew. Johnson particularly hates me, and you guys are best friends already. So... why?"

Sal picked up his Sharpie again.

I'm not one to ignore someone in pain.

There was another silence as Sal thought some more about the situation. It then occurred to him that his dad would understand, and that they have first aid supplies at home. Maybe, if they were lucky, there could be a way to convince Mr Phelps that Travis has gone to a friend's house for a while. They weren't exactly 'friends' per se, but it could be the excuse they needed to get the boy cleaned up and presentable to his father, without him finding out about the mess.

We could go to my place.

Travis looked over the words, considering them carefully. "But what about...?"

My dad isn't going to judge. He has to deal with me, remember?

"My dad will kill me..."

To Hell with your dad. We'll figure something out.

Travis zoned out and observed the state of the wall. Scattered about, there were such miserable declarations. Words of heartbreak, of anguish, words of every woe. Even empty death wishes were in abundance; but amid these distressed phrases, there were the first words of solace. Comfort. As if one gem surrounded by a cumbersome mass of coal. These words came from Sal. They came from the boy who didn't talk, with wounds from his hands upwards. Travis almost smiled. 

He looked back at the other boy. Sal had stood up already, and was staring down expectantly.

Travis sighed. "Fine, I'll go with you," he said, "but this doesn't make us buddy-buddy."

He could've sworn he heard a little chuckle from behind the mask.