18. West
Flashback
Age 15
I lean over the faucet, catching icy water as I spit out the crimson liquid dripping from my mouth. A fleeting sense of relief washes over me as the cold dilutes the heated metallic taste, though I know it won’t last long.
Today, Dad lost a lot of money, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—as usual—earning myself a good little punishment. When he gets angry, he completely blacks out, and it always ends the same—with my face bruised and swollen from his fury as I desperately try to wash away the blood.
Usually, it takes me about ten minutes to clean up, but today feels like an eternity. Breathing is harder, and I’m starting to think he might have broken my nose.
Not that I can do anything about it now. I’m already late for class, and no one is going to care if I ask for a doctor. Everyone has the same opinion about me—a guy who can’t control his emotions and lashes out at everyone, ending up with a busted face. They don’t know I’ve never initiated a fight, not with my peers, not with anyone.
My dad is too perfect in their eyes for anyone to believe what he does. And why would I bother telling anyone? I’m not a whiny pussy looking for help. I can manage.
Pressing a paper towel under my nose, I let the material soak up the blood—all in a desperate attempt to stop the flow, at least until my class ends. But it’s all futile. Sighing in annoyance, I decide it’s pointless to stay in the bathroom, so I let my feet carry me out.
I knock before swinging the door open and stepping into the classroom with my head bowed. I look and feel like shit—my face and body are smeared with sweat and blood, my backpack is torn, and I’m wearing a loose sweatshirt riddled with holes, paired with cargo pants in the same condition, if not worse. It’s almost funny considering my dad is one of the richest people in the state.
Chloe gets all the clothes, makeup, and gadgets she wants while I’m stuck earning mine. And let me tell you, it’s impossible. Dad seems to take pleasure in how everyone laughs at my appearance, and even when I do the job he assigns me flawlessly, he still never bothers to get me new clothes.
“Ah, West,” the teacher greets me, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. He’s used to my tardiness and still thinks it’s because I’m an irresponsible fuck-up who enjoys getting on his nerves. “Twenty minutes late. Should I call your father again?”
It’s a never-ending cycle—getting beaten up until it’s hard to move, spending precious time in the school bathroom cleaning myself up before class, arriving late, and him calling Dad to complain about my behavior. As always, Dad promises to talk with me, and when I get home, he uses his fists again—not because of a bad day at work, but because the teacher reported my lateness.
A storm of whispers erupts around me, quickly escalating into laughter. I catch snippets of ‘weirdo’ and ‘idiot’ among the other indistinguishable names they love to call me.
The irony is, I could silence them all effortlessly by taking each of them down. But ignoring them feels like the better option—I already deal with enough violence at home and have no desire to bring it here and inflict it on my classmates.
The teacher ignores the laughter as he continues to bombard me with questions that I can’t answer. Every day, he feels the need to scold me in front of everyone. I feel utterly helpless—before him, my classmates, and my dad. The anger boiling inside me is hot and searing, twisting my insides and fraying my nerves. I want to scream, but on the outside, I am paralyzed, my mouth clamped shut.
Every time I have to act or speak, my tongue feels tied, and my limbs become unresponsive. It’s as if an unseen cage is closing in on me, offering no chance to break free. I am a puppet confined in a glass box, exposed to a crowd that laughs and points at my helplessness.
Finally, when the teacher finishes his pointless lecture, he gestures to my seat. I quickly jog to my desk, careful to step over the outstretched legs of my classmates, who love to trip me. I made the mistake of not paying attention once and ended up on the floor while they laughed at my expense.
I won’t let that happen again.
I plop down into my seat, the wooden chair squeaking beneath me. My back presses against the rough surface, the bruises a constant reminder of what awaits me after school. I try to focus on getting my stuff out, muffling the buzzing thoughts and whispers that won’t stop since I entered this cursed classroom. It’s getting old for me, but for them, I seem to be the most interesting topic of discussion.
As I pull out my book, a wave of shame washes over me at the sight of its tattered condition. Dad got furious when I struggled with my homework and, in a fit of rage, ripped it apart before throwing it out the window. I spent a long time searching for it in the bushes. The spine of the book hangs loose, its pages damaged from the water sprayed by the hydrant, and some are completely ripped. Still, I place it on the table in front of me before shifting my attention back to the contents of my backpack.
Shame quickly transforms into fear when I spot my headphones, the wire torn in half, with red and blue strands jutting out of the white casing. Tears blur my vision as the sickening realization descends upon me—I don’t have the money to buy new ones. Dad won’t give me any—he’ll tell me I didn’t earn anything.
It’s all my fault. I let myself relax and listen to my music, completely oblivious as he kept calling my name. When he found me, he was furious, and, as a lesson, he destroyed my headphones by cutting the wires. I should have known to listen to the music only at night, when he was asleep. Now, I’m left with nothing.
A thick lump forms in my throat, and my lips tremble as I gaze down at the wire lying at the bottom of my backpack. I try to swallow, nearly letting out a sob as intense emotion surges through me.
Suddenly, something catches my attention. From the corner of my eye, I sense someone watching me—not the usual mocking stares, but a piercing, almost hypnotic gaze that commands my attention.
I turn my head and lock eyes with my classmate Amelia—a quiet girl who has never made fun of me, at least not out loud. There’s a flicker of something indescribable in her blue eyes, and when they crinkle into a smile, I nearly choke on my breath.
Shame rushes back with renewed intensity as she bows her head, scribbling something on a piece of paper before folding it four times and handing it to me. Licking my dry lips, I extend a shaky hand to accept the note from her fingers. She quickly returns her attention to the teacher, and I take the hint, careful not to raise any suspicions.
As I unfold the note, a smile spreads across my face. I read the text over and over, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Written in neat handwriting are the words that make my heart race:
‘Want to go out? :)’
Yeah, maybe not everything in my life is so bad after all.