Wish I Could Scream At You
Chapter 1- Interesting, but Damn
"Do you think I'm crazy?" Kit asks his platinum blond hair getting into his shiny sapphire eyes, "Well? Do you think I'm crazy?" the seriousness in his question is practically non-excitant.
I stare at him for a couple seconds then confidently shake my head. He can be a bit neurotic sometimes, but he's not exactly crazy. I wish I could explain that to him.
"Really, you don't think I'm crazy!?" he hollers, grinning like a madman with shiny teeth. I nod once meaning he has to jump up to bear hug me while giggling like a little school girl. Moments like this make me wonder why am I friends with him? But we have known each other since we were little kids, and just because we're teenagers now, does not mean I ever stopped questioning this friendship. I'm not quite sure why I bother to put up with him, but someone's got to do it.
Once he finally stops hugging and giggling in my ear, he jumps back with, "You're such a great friend, even though you can't talk anymore!" I force a smile and write down in the blue, sketch book sitting in my jean covered lap that I have leave. Kit shouts goodbye as I make my way out of his living room, and out of the house.
I sigh, although only the sound of air escaping leaves my mouth. As I slowly make my way down the sidewalk home, I can't help but think of what my life would be like right now if the accident hadn't happened. I know I should stop my whining because it has been like a month since it happened. My mind refuses to let it go, though.
I kick a small rock with my trainers, watching it roll off the boring, gray sidewalk into the road where it unfortunately hit a motorcyclist in the head. I wince as I think "Oops". The guy on the red, motorbike jerks to a stop next to me, ripping off his silver helmet.
He screams, black hair flying, "What the hell is wrong with you?! Don't you know how dangerous that is?!" his black, glove covered hand pull at his hair. Hazel eyes filled anger burn into my face. I blink green eyes at him. Not quite sure what to do, I nod my head frantically. I hope he got the right meaning to that message. If he didn't I am so screwed.
"Then why did you kick the damn rock at me?!" he screams again even louder than before. Oh thank god he understood. I glance around nervously, my auburn hair falling into my eyes. Why is no one helping me? What I am supposed to say to that? And where is everyone, it's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon?!
I panicky rip out my sketchbook as fast as I can than write, fast, in messy handwriting: I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you, I was just bored. I give a nervous smile, looking up at his angry face. Why is he still mad?
He stares at me in confusion, "Why the hell didn't you just say that in the first place? Why did you write it down instead of saying it out loud?" His hands are on his jean covered hips, and he honestly is creeping me out.
I flip to a new page to scribble: Because I can't talk anymore. Please don't ask why, I pray. I'm my hands are shaking around my sketchbook because of my nervousness.
He nods as in some weird understanding, and then glances around. I hope his not like going to kidnap me because that would suck. He's probably looking for a cop or some shit like that, which wouldn't surprising.
He scratches his head, and then looks sternly back towards me, "Where are you going? Surely there must be someone that takes care of you?" He's just full of stupid questions, isn't he? I mean, come on, I'm mute, not bloody blind!
I glare then turn around and start heading in the alternate direction of my house. Before I could even take a more than a damn step, he stops me putting his hand on my shoulder and yanking me back to face him. My god this guys an ass.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" My god does he not know how to stop looking angry, and is that concern in that face too. That is so annoying. I don't even know you! Stop looking at me like that! I don't need your pity.
I continue to glare as I flip to another. I quickly write: Home. Is there something wrong with that? I hope he can "hear" the sarcasm.
He sighs. "Yes, because people like you shouldn't be out by themselves with no supervision." My glare intensifies as my fists clench my sketchbook hard enough to practically destroy the paper. What an asshole! People like me? Why in the hell is it bad to walk around by yourself when you're mute?!
I flip him off, while yanking my arm out of his grip. I turn around and run as fast as I can toward my house. My red and white, unbutton, plaid shirt flying in the wind. I would be cold if it wasn't 80 degrees outside and I do have on a gray t-shirt on underneath the plaid.
I don't look back until I'm at the front door of my eggshell, white house. Nothing is behind me. Thank God he didn't follow me. With a smile on my face, I excitedly entered my house. That was so messed up. That was probably the strangest thing to happen to me in a while, and I didn't like it one bit.
My excitement dies when I hear my mother ask, "Aaron, is that you?" her call floats to me from the living room. I knock on the wall three times to signify that, yes, it's me. My face is blank as I make my way forward into the home.
She shouts back, "Okay, that's good. You can go up to your room if you want." She acts like I'll actually consider going in there to 'talk' to her. Why would I do that? I rather enjoy the silence of my bedroom. At least there no one gives you unwanted pity. Down the hall to the right is where my bedroom stands. When I enter, I flip on the three year TV and plop onto thee chestnut brown, desk chair.
. . .
Ah, school how I loathe it. Pacing through the halls before my new first period, which is this special class that teaches sign language and some other carp; I can't help but wish I could have been killed in the accident. My god that was cynical. Anyway, there should be like six students, counting me, plus the new teacher the school hired in the class. At least it's not many people to deal with.
Standing in front of classroom 22B, I can honestly say I would rather not have to pass through that blue door. Sadly I have to. I open the door as fast possible, without banging it against a wall, and then speed walk into the room staring at the ground. I park myself in the first seat I see. Looking up, guess who I see, that dark haired motorcyclist who yelled at me yesterday. Great. I guess that means he's my new teacher.
Good thing he hasn't looked up yet. I can still make my escape. I quickly stand, and rush to the back of the classroom. To hide myself, I yank one of my textbooks from my messenger bag, open it, and stand it in front of me. That should work.
A few minutes later, the rest of the class shows up. I know none of them. The good news is I have managed to not be seen by motorcycle guy. I'm quite proud of myself. Of course, it's not hard to be stealthy when the only noise you can make is the sound of your feet when you walk, oh well.
Motorcycle guy finally gets up only to start writing on the board. When he turns around it reveals what has been written, which so happens to be his name. Peters. Lame, oh so very lame.
He speaks, "Hello everyone, I'm Daniel Peters, and I'm going to be your teacher for the rest of the year." I scrunch up my face. He talks with his hands. "Now, in this class, as you may already know, we will be learning how to use sign language, and about how blind, deaf and disabled people go about their everyday lives." Seriously, doesn't that sound lame as hell?
I already hate this class. I hope to God that neither he nor anyone else asks me stupid questions about how I live my life. Talk about insulting. If I wanted to be humiliated, I would try to sing in front of everyone, which would be pointless considering I can't talk.
"Okay, I'm going to take role. Just say here when you hear your name," Mr. Peters says picking up the attendance record and a pencil. Why do teachers even say that in high school? Obviously we know what to do by now?
"Here," says a small girl sitting in the front row. That's some bright ass red hair.
"Here," says a big guy over on the other side of the room. He looks like a Goth. Cool.
A quiet, "Here," comes from the hooded girl in front of me.
"Here," says the short guy near the door. These people have weird last names.
"Here." She's sitting directly in the front. I see a teacher's pet.
"And Aaron Wheeler."
Well, doesn't this stink? I can't even say here. So what do I do?
"Is Aaron Wheeler here?" Peters asks glancing around the room. If I could talk, I would say here. I guess I have to raise my hand, don't I? I put the book on the desk and raise my hand while tapping the desktop with my fingers. I have to say, this is embarrassing even for me, and I've done a lot of embarrassing things.
"Ah," he says, with a severely serious face, "Mr. Wheeler, from now on I suggest you sit in the front." That causes everyone in the room to freggin' laugh like it's the funniest thing in the damn world. My god, what jerks. Mr. Peters doesn't even do anything about the laughing! Asshole! I frown leaning my head onto my right hand.
That was the worst day ever. Why? Because in all of my damn classes, the teachers put me in the freggin' front row and treated me like I was made of goddamn glass! It was sickening.
That's not even the worst part. No, the worst part was that like half the students were giving me pity (which is disgusting), and the other half were fucking laughing at me! The teachers didn't even do anything about it! My god I hate that school right now. What's even more outrageous is as I was walking home, like I always, Mr. Peters stopped me before I could even get to the sidewalk.
I had written down: What? , glaring as hard as I could with my green eyes flashing danger.
With a glare from his hazel eyes he harshly asked, "Where do you think you are going?"
I'm going home. Is that a problem? I snarled back with my teeth showing and everything.
"Yes, it's a problem!" He had the nerve to tell me, "From now on you'll be getting rides from your parents or friends it's safer that way." I glowered at him, as he dragged me back inside the school by my arm.
What sucked the most was that after, he made me wait until my mom came to obtain me. The only good thing that happened was when my mother released me from the car when we were a block away. At least she understands that I hate cars, her, and people.
So here I am, butt planted on a swing in an empty park. Most people would find it odd that I hang out in an abandoned park after school, but it's quiet out here and that's just how I like it. Quiet. Okay, I admit it is a little creepy here at night, with the eerie creaking of the merry-go-round, the swings swaying in an invisible breeze, and the strange rustling coming from behind me. Wait, What?
I turned around so fast I think I give myself whiplash, and there standing behind me is Mr. Peters. I open my mouth in a silent scream, falling out of the purple swing and onto the wet ground. Why the hell is the grass wet when it's like seventy degrees out here?!
"Aren't you supposed to be at home?" I close my mouth faster than a lighting strike, and quickly scramble for my note pad.
In sloppy handwriting, I write: What are you doing here?! I hold it up to him hands shaking; he glowers.
"The better question is what are you doing here?" There he goes again, talking with his hands. He's not serious, is he?
I was only trying to clear my head! I huff at him as best as I can, while crossing my legs.
His glare intensifies. "And you can't do that at home because?" He has one hand on his hip. If he had both hands on his hips, then he'd be my mom when she's mad.
I write: It's not the same. I stare at the ground after showing him what I wrote. It's true that I can't really think at home. Too many memories are in that house.
Seeing the gloomy look on my face, Peters says, "Look, I know you've been through a lot these past few months, but that's no reason to put yourself in more danger by being alone." He squats down and holds out his hand waiting for me to take it, and I do. Only out of convenience, really.
Once we're both standing, he pats my head (which is disturbing), "How about we make a deal." It's a statement, not a question. I give him a perplexed glance. What is he on about now?
He answers my stare without me needing to write it down, "What I mean is, how about you come to me when you need a place to think, or you just want someone to talk to, and I'll let you walk to and from school?"
That sounds completely unfair to me. Why the hell should I go and talk to someone I just met about my problems? I don't even want to talk about my problems with myself!
I scribble: Why the hell would I accept that? He frowns, eyebrows and everything.
"What?" I feel like a badass for some bizarre reason, "Why the hell wouldn't you?"
I smirk and write: I don't even like you. My problems aren't any of your concern. Holding it up for him to read, I feel the ruff paper start to bend under my fingers.
"I'm your teacher!" That makes no sense, although he does seem to have reached red-faced, angry, scary person. I have never seen some one turn so tomato before. I bring my sketchbook to my chest and swiftly spin around.
"Get back here! It's not safe to be by yourself!" He shouts. I hear the stomp of his feet as he runs to catch up. It's sad he has to run, I'm not even walking that fast unless strutting is considered fast. I doubt it is.
I feel callused hands grab my shoulder and yank me to a stop. This day just doesn't want to end! I glare at him, again. I glare at him a lot, I wonder why. Why does he look out of breath? Must be out of shape, how sad.
He pants out, "Where - do - you think you're going?" I swear if he asks me this one more time I'm going to punch him in face. Now that would be surprising because I am not a violent person.
Fine, I'll humor him. I flip to one page in my book, and cover up some of the writing leaving only the word: Home.
"I don't think so," he growls. Okay, his grip is starting to hurt. I grimace at the slight pain, and bring my left hand up and attempt, rather poorly, to remove his pain causing hand from my person. Awesome leather jacket though. Peters blinks, releases his grip, and takes a deep breath. Uh, maybe Peters goes to anger management classes?
"Sorry, it's just - I - never mind, go home," he sighs, his shoulders slump over. Peters pats me on the head again then shoves his hands into black leather pockets. I am dumbfounded. I stand there and blink for a good couple minutes before heading home.
That was so strange. I have never seen someone do that before. I wonder what he was trying to say. I look up at the darkening sky and breath in the scent of damp, freshly, mowed grass. This year is going to be interesting.