The Murder Of Willowstream

Ch.08. A Beginning and An End

Marshal was tired as he sluggishly pulled himself through the school hallways. Perhaps spending the night chatting to Witches and investigating morgues was not a clever idea. The books hung heavily in his arms as his focus was entirely spent on cradling them close to his chest, and walking through the busy school.

The various bumps against his shoulders from passing students, something he would actively try to avoid, barely even registered as he made his way to the row of red lockers where his was housed.

Upon finding it, he turned the dial entering the correct code and opened it with a squeak before placing his books inside, and giving a large and tired yawn. Thankfully he had Art as his next class, a lesson he not only enjoyed, but found it a complete breeze. No thinking there, just feeling and expressing it all on paper.

That was when he turned to see three, large, students standing menacingly before him. He vaguely recognised them from around school, but couldn't place a name to any of their faces. They were intimidating in their stature, much more so with the three of them side by side. Clearly favouring the more athletic classes; they were all much bigger than his short and stocky frame. They stood in front of him like a veritable wall of muscle and weight. Staring at him with a mixture of disgust and what Marshal could immediately recognise as a look that spelled trouble.

Marshal ducked his head in a sign of passivity, hoping that they'd let him pass, and tried to move onwards and to the side. His chest immediately sunk in a distinct, dreadful, manner as one of them stepped in his way.

"Excuse me." Marshal offered politely, timidly. But looked straight into the eyes of his obstructor, as a show of confidence, when he did not move.

Before he could protest further, a powerful shove slammed him backwards into the lockers, causing the air to immediately evacuate his lungs as he let out a heave in a gasp for breath. He managed to land on his feet however, as panic began to set in he stared wide eyed in disbelief at his attackers. They held gleeful, malicious expressions, the centre most figure cracking his knuckles.

Marshal gave fleeting, searching, glances to the few students that had stopped to watch in horror or some form of amusement, as the rest of the student body hurried on their way in a bid to keep out of it.

Again, before Marshal could call for help, a fist landed neatly on the left side of his jaw. His head snapped to the side violently, his body following, as his vision immediately began to blur and grow fuzzy. His head began to ring in a high-pitched whine, while he crumpled to the ground. Marshal was unable to get his bearings as a solid and swift kick to his abdomen caused him to lurch forward sickeningly like they were trying to kick his stomach into his throat. He tasted bile.

"Faggot." He heard a voice spit venomously, followed by a literal glob of spit, that landed slick on the cheek that had already begun to bruise. The word stung more than the fist. It cut straight to the core, and would rend him hollow and alone. He felt weak, hurt, and a distinct sense of poisonous hate at the tears that threatened to breach his eyes.

Marshal had never been bullied before. He wanted his friends. He wanted them to explain that everyone is just highly strung because somebody was murdered on school grounds and that they're just lashing out. Who knew one word could hurt so much?

Marshal winced slightly as he placed a deceptively strong hand on the lockers at his side, and slowly pulled himself up, using them for balance as his head began to clear. He looked to his attackers, steeling himself for the oncoming attack. He would fight.

The man reared his fist back, a twisted grin of determination etched on his face, and just as he leaned forward to throw the swing; he found he could not move an inch further. Another hand had caught him at the forearm in a frighteningly tight grip. A hand that belonged to a smiling: Alaric Santana.