Jaime snatched it up and angled his torso away from the old man. He abandoned all polite manners he had held up till now, tearing through the paper. There, neatly clipped to the front of the candidates’ documents and records, was a crumpled yellow-lined note. Jaime’s hands shook as he slipped the note out, squinting at the large, tight, pointed blocky letters, the graphite was already fading from the initial soft-pressure. On the other side of the note was some numbers and radicals and half of a solved equation, as if Fishburne had just grabbed the nearest medium he could get his hand on to jolt down the names.

It was undoubtedly Fishburne’s handwriting. Jaime had seen it so many times to immediately recognize it with a single glance. He had seen them cramped by the margins of his proposal plans. He had seen them on the colourful Post-It stuck on the side of his desk, thanking him for his timely follow-ups. He had seen them sprawled across the back of his hand when they met the first time, almost two years ago, and Fishburne insisted to give him his phone number and email address to discuss Advance Functions and Philosophies coursework.

His eyes blurred, touching the names beneath his fingertips as if he could somehow summon their hosts’ soul and strangle the life out of them. “He didn’t include me.” Jaime breathed. The Headmaster reached toward him, saying something—something awfully like a pitiful comfort, an ill-mannered apologize—but all the sound warped into a mesh of warbles as Jaime kept turning and turning the idea around his head, forcing his brain to comprehend each syllable, Olle didn’t even consider me he didn’t even consider me that damn dog didn’t even consider me me the one who did all of the work for him while he’s out flirting with goddamn Dal Bland me who never complain at the workload his lazy ass left behind me who didn’t make it because I’m not in his circle of friends.

“Jaime, love,” The Headmaster murmured, fingers ghosting over Jaime’s forearms and trailing down and enveloped his clenched fists. He didn’t even start at the boy’s icy skin, instead gently prying the boy’s fingers loose and let the note fluttered down to the ground, out of their sight.

“He didn’t include me.” Jaime repeated.

“I’m sorry, dear,”

Jaime thrashed away as if the words, or the Headmaster’s presence, burnt him. He lunged for the knife, but the Headmaster’s steely strain on him forced both of them to tumble over the side of the desk. A wounded howl ripped from his vocal cord, shattering the glass. The man braced him against a standing drawer, whispering a continuous stream of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

Jaime snapped at the old man’s neck. The Headmaster reeled back for a fraction of second, grip slackened briefly, however Jaime barely got to draw his knee up before he was slammed back in place, pinning down motionless. “You’re not sorry at all,” He screeched. “Bastard. You promised, you promised me. You fucking lead me on. All you have to do is write my name and sign off a fucking sheet, that’s all. Oh. Is this funny to you? Is it amusing to lead me by my ass? Huh? It must be so, watching me kneel and bow to your feet.”

“Jaime, this is precisely why I can’t let you be the Head Boy,” The Headmaster yelled, shaking him. A peal of mad laughter escaped his chapped lips. Behind him, the cold metal devoured his flesh. Acute arrows penetrated through his shoulder blades, and he wondered if the Headmaster also saw the glistened tips that had pierced his heart, that were stained with his blood.

“Yes, of course,” Jaime said. “Because all you think is your dick. You’re scared that the moment I become the Head Boy I’ll stop being your bitch.”

“No. Jaime. Dear, no.” The Headmaster lowered his voice, his eyes were so dark and concerning. He seemed hesitant, as if he didn’t already know whatever spew out of his mouth next would hurt all the same. “You’re too unstable.”

“Unstable?” Jaime guffawed. He wanted to yell so loud that it would pierce the ignorant man’s eardrum. He wanted to say, I am fine, I’m completely and absolutely fine. But the Headmaster was staring at him, and he didn’t need to spell it out. His thought was pretty much written across his forehead, based on a simple twitch of his mouth. “Unstable, you say?” His voice quivered to an ear-piercing screech. He didn’t realize it, but he leaning so far into the Headmaster’s face, their nose touching, digging into the old man’s wrists until he felt blood swelled under the nails and bones strained to a fragile point. His body shook with so much, so much fury. “Unstable, as in deranged. As in, a nutcase. As in a potential psycho serial killer. Perhaps the next person with a knife up their throat wouldn’t be you.”

The Headmaster stiffened.

“Maybe you should tie me down, then. Or, no, prescribe a mandatory daily dose of sleeping fluid for me. I better dead on bed than awake. I’m unstable, right? If you take your eyes off me I’ll go run around with killing people.”

“How can you think I’d do that?” The Headmaster shouted, panting hard. Jaime bare his teeth, more a savage animal than a human being, and he rather enjoyed the dark, ugly, thorny sensation at the pit of his stomach when the Headmaster’s demeanour crumbled away to something raw and impuissant. He gripped Jaime’s shoulder caps, mouth opened, but finally, painfully slowly, released Jaime. His touch hovered in the air, still caging Jaime against the drawer. He drawn in a trembling breath, and murmured thickly. “How can you think that?”

Jaime’s gaze fell to the dark patch of hair chest visible over the gap of the Headmaster’s nightgown. Flame scorched his chest, his belly, his mouth, his eyes, as he helplessly drowned in the abyss of ink and shadow. His cackle collapsed into itself, into breathless sobs and tearless weep. He wondered how would the Headmaster treated him if he was to break down in a battered heap of gore and blood. Would the old man toss him the same dark cloth he had tossed at him, or would be cradle him in his chest and clean his wounds to stop the bleeding? The bruises on his forearms spread tumour throughout his limbs, and he could already picture the gnarled purple-yellowish lines coiled tightly like a lover’s mark. He waited for a long time, swallowed hard, tried to piece the necessary letters to form a coherent sentence. It shouldn’t be hard, he told himself, it shouldn’t be because I’m going to state a truth. Yet, yet, he spat the words out like it’s acid, still the sour hiss at the undertone. “You forfeit all of my hard-work because some random woman decided that I’m quite volatile?”

But, Jaime didn’t wait for the answer. He didn’t need to hear it anyway. Instead, he raised his palms and pushed the Headmaster off, stumbling out of the study. A faint fog sprawled on the unlit hallway floor, stirring at every creaking on the wood. He felt like walking on air, every step sent him toppling over invisible balance line. It had been quite a long time since he had heard the term “unstable” directed at him, nonetheless it stung him hard, like a direct blow between his eyes. Dr. Ponce was a newly-grad psychiatrist anyway, so her so-called professional judgment note on seven-year-old Jaime Kenneth’s “suicidal committal tendency” was, as far as he concerned, inane of any weight. Even though his mother disagreed, he had always disregard the matter since most adults would assume he become more docile as he matured, especially seeing that he had whipped himself to become the embodiment of an ideal child. It certainly wasn’t a probably for him when he applied to school and to gifted children’s program. Although the Headmaster, during his interview, had raised a skeptical eyebrow when he asked about his “condition”, he had never really say anything afterward. Jaime had thrived in his environment, like a sunflower greedily absorbing sunlight and nutritious fertilize, and never once he would have thought that he was deterred by a “mental issue” that he doesn’t have.

He bursted into the Headmaster’s bedroom again, angrily shoving himself into his shirt and pants, fingers moving frantically and out-of-control.

“What are you doing? Stay for the night. It’s dangerous outside.” The Headmaster appeared, mustered up his authoritative tone. He cursed aloud at the stubborn zipper of his flannel jeans, willing his hands to be goddamn still for a second.

He gritted his teeth, finally managed to zip himself up. He shrugged in his jacket, yanked the collar high up to cover his mouth, and wound his scarf around his neck.

“Jaime, don’t be ridiculous.”

Jaime pulled his cap on and marched straight at the door, jaws set and tense, eyes determined to regard the Headmaster as mere air. The man caught Jaime’s shoulders again, blocking the exit. His voice was gruff, hard and stony and masculine, like the aftershave that lingered in his bedroom.

“Jaime, it isn’t just about your mental state.”

Jaime’s nostrils flared. “Oh? What other sort of dirt would you want to throw onto me, Sir? That I was from a house of traitors? That my mother was a town whore and my birth was accidental? That was I adopted by a pair of fallen Congressman and woman?” He craned his neck. “Save it, Headmaster. I know you chose Passmore because of his parents’ money, because he’s more a social butterfly, because he serviced you better, because he’s more stable than me.”

The Headmaster flushed, features softened and hardened and softened again as if Jaime had punctured a giant hole in his defence and he didn’t quite know how to adjust around the damage. He lowered himself to Jaime’s eye level, hands moved to lock Jaime’s head so that he couldn’t avoid the inevitable eye contact.

“Jaime, listen. You’re the smartest, brightest boy I’ve ever met. And I love you, I do. You made me remember the days of my youth, of my first love. You’re invaluable to me, and everything I’ve tell you is my true feeling. I love you, physically, but I also love your mind, the way you think and speak and weigh your action, the way you hide yourself behind a perfect mask. I love your intellect. I know this thing between us are complicated, but I swear I’ve been thinking beyond this.”

Jaime studied him impassively, while inside he was itching to snarl at the man and shred his poetic confession into pieces.

The Headmaster sucked in a breath, nervous. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t be the Head Boy. I’m sincerely sorry. I did intend to make you the Head Boy, but I forgot your—” The Headmaster stuttered a bit, before clearing his throat. “—your condition, if you will. I’ve to abide the condition, and no matter how I slice it, as long as the record of your mental state remains there, you’re disqualified. One thing I could do is to arrange a meeting with a professional and let them deem you as stable again.”

Jaime stared for a second, then gently removed the Headmaster’s palms off his body and sidestepped the man. As he slipped past the gap between the door frame and the man’s towering body, his hand flung out and grabbed the man’s cock, squeezing the length and smirked when the Headmaster jumped. He tiptoed and whispered in the man’s ear, purposefully let his hot breath caressed the sensitive spot below the lobe. “Lock your doors well, Sir, for I’ll make you regret your decision for eternity.” With that, he strode out into the calamity outside, his thin figure a stoic moving object amongst the bending and whipping around him.

It’s either achieved the goal or nothing else.

And since he wasn’t chosen to be the Head Boy, Jaime was hell-bent on dragging everyone else into the pit of hell with him.