Okay, there are two “she”s here, one being the teacher and one being the mother. If you squint, you’ll be able to figure out which is which easily enough. And yes, I know there are no caps; it was a mood I was in when I wrote it. When I typed it up, I decided to leave it like that to help capture how I was feeling at the time. I don’t know what exactly it symbolizes, but it seemed to fit the story better. (shrug) Please don’t forget to review, okay? Thank you.

at school everyone stays away from him, but he likes that. after being at home with her, he just wants people to stay away. unable to control his life in his very own room, where he should feel safest, he manipulates everything and everyone else instead.

so he flinches when people touch him, but no one ever witnesses that because no one gets close enough to try.

when he doesn’t turn up to class, she frowns at his empty desk, more annoyed than concerned. throughout the lecture, her eyes gravitate towards his chair. she wonders if he finally ODed and died in his own bathroom, wearing his own boxers, lying in a mess of his own vomit. what she doesn’t know—because that is his carefully guarded secret—is that nothing in her house belongs to him: not the bathrooms, not the clothes… hell, not even the drugs are his.

(they are the ones he steals from her underwear drawer, buried under the marijuana and coke and pictures and memories of ‘remember when.’ it’s there, buried beneath all that he hates—hates desperately, but craves with just as much passion.)

“you wish i was dead,” he chuckles darkly, a knowing smile marring his expression. dark eyes bear into hers, watching the denial flit across her smooth, pale features. after all, teachers aren’t supposed to hate their students, even when said students drive them to the brink of insanity.

before she can speak, he sighs, sharp eyes lessening in intensity. “don’t worry,” he says softly, “i wish i was dead, too.”

(and the denial dies on her lips.)

he curls in on himself, like the worthless dog she accuses him of being. for the most part, he is able to hide from her the tender parts of flesh. his fingers are securely tucked beneath his armpits so that she cannot stomp on them like last time. but this just infuriates her further, and she kicks until he starts to weep. she kicks until he stops feeling it anymore. she kicks until he falls silent again, thinking he’s already dead. she kicks until he wishes that were true.

she had come to his house to discuss his future (or lack thereof) with his mother. now she wishes the thought never had the audacity to cross her mind – because now his terrible secret is forced upon her.

“kill me,” he begs. “kill me, please.” one broken, shattered hand creeps forward to the shadow, blurry through two black eyes.

pityingly, she looks on, seeing him so differently now that his bruises have been uncovered. “you’re not going to die,” she reassures, voice barely audible.

when he raises his gaze to her, she feels her heart stop, feels it catch in her throat. they are more than black and blue, more than bloodshot; they are broken and resigned. vaguely, she wonders if she was wrong; perhaps—on the inside anyway—he is dying. at one point in her life, someone told her, “eyes are the windows to the soul.” now she thinks she finally understands what the old adage means.

when he next speaks, his cheeks are damp and flushed; but she can hardly see that past the dark, angry bruises. “i know,” he croaks, “that’s what scares me.”

this time when she talks, he is silent, once defiant expression now subdued in such an unnatural, unnerving manner. she finds herself unable to meet his unwavering stare. meanwhile, as she feels awkward in her own skin, she lectures on about his self-worth. after months of treating him like dirt, slumped in a desk in the back of the classroom, she spins a story on quite the opposite side of the spectrum, like a fairytale to his disbelieving ears. but he already grew up long ago; he doesn’t believe in fairytales anymore.

she tells him he’s worth it, but he’s lived long enough to know that even teachers lie.

lying on the floor of the living room (she’s gone out for a drink, so he feels safe enough to do this), he smiles at the blood bubbling up to the surface of his skin. crimson runs with peach, but it doesn’t hurt. oh contraire, such a sight is beauty to his corrupted mind.

because this time, he lifts the razor blade himself, cuts the jagged lines (into) himself. because this time, she has nothing to do with his injuries. because this time, he is in control of his own fate. and that makes all the difference in the world.

fire burning fiercely in her eyes, she snaps, “i can’t help you if you won’t try to help yourself!” she’s angry because he frustrates her, because he doesn’t trust her to help, because—damn it—he won’t even look her in the eye!

“thanks for the platitude,” he smirks, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in amusement.

she had thought that finding out his terrible secret would give her infinite patience to deal with his attitude. now she realizes that despite the fact that she thinks she shares a part of his life that no one else does, she doesn’t know him. she doesn’t know his favorite sport (hockey), how he sleeps (curled into a fetal position—that is, when he gets to sleep), or if he ever knew his father (he didn’t). while he suffers from another night by her hand, she can drive home in her red minivan and pull into a driveway beside a white, picket fence—not a single worry in the world that can compare to his day-to-day life. all she understands is that she understands nothing.

(she cannot do this! she’s much too young and naïve to understand the plight of some teenager who doesn’t even want her help, one whom she can never begin to understand.)

when she glances over at him again, he sees comprehension dawning. under his breath he mutters, “it took you long enough.” then, he uncrosses his arms and calmly sits down on the couch. only now that she admits that she is not ready for this does he admit that he finally is.