The alarm clock rattles on his bedside table. A thud. He's awake. The bedsheets being to tremble as the half-awake beast clambers amongst them, puzzling his way to eventually emerge from the snow white sheets. His deep purple eyes stare at the ceiling. His messy, ice blue hair rests upon his forehead...

"School."

--------------

'6th january 2025

I wait for the bus. It is cold. It is cold like.... something that is cold. '

He closes his diary, embossed with a poorly sewn-on name spelt wrong:

"Popsikul"

He thinks to himself as he looks left, then right. He looks straight. His mind seems to tick. A few seconds pass. The wind blows against him, softly fanning his hair and reddining his cheeks. His large but thin navy blue jacket rustles slightly. His eyes widen.

He scrambles for his diary. He scribbles on the page before composing himself.

He looks at the page. He ponders. He closes his diary.

That'll do.

--------------

The doors to the school corridor opens. He wanders in. Hustle and bustle attack the airwaves surrounding him. The mixture of laughter, shoes screeching and locker doors opening and closing create a concoction of chaos. He is unfazed. He walks at a steady pace through the crowds, disturbing no one. His soft footsteps make little to no sound. No one notices him.

-------------

He sits. The classroom fills as he remains perfectly still. Muffled chatters. the teacher arrives. The chatters are no more.

"Right, i assume youve all eyescanned?"

A chorus of "yes" in a lazy and unbothered tone rings out. 

"First and foremost i need you in groups of 3..."

The teachers voice begins to muffle.

The world around him begins to blur.

He wonders.

"It is cold...."

What else is cold?

"It is cold, like... like..."

WHACK!

His head hurts. The back of it... had been slapped.

"Oi dopey. Youre with me and specky, I guess." A portly, piggy-looking boys says, as 'Piggy' gives his giggling friends a dirty look whist he whips a chair around to a table, insinuating that the boy follows suit.

The ice haired boy turns slightly.

A girl. Red hair. Large glasses.

'Specky'.

"Hair red... like a flaming rose."

The boys stares at the girl.

Green eyes. Reddish cheeks. Small lips.

"Bright green eyes... like a gleaming emerald."

The boys leans in closer.

Oranges freckles. One mole, brown.

"Blushed orange... like marigolds on a summers day."

She looks up.

They stare at each other. Point blank.

The boy does not hesitate.

THUD!

The boy lays on the floor.

He stares at the spinning ceiling.

The room is full of laughter, mainly radiating out of piggy boy. A prank. A piggy boy prank.

-------------------

The boy nods.

"If he does anything else, you know Mrs. Johnsons office is just down the corridor, ok sweetie?"

The boy nods once more.

"Ok great, off you go now :)"

The boy walks out without saying a word. The corridors are empty. He makes it too the doors. He musters up the strength and gives the doors a big push.

They open slightly. He pushes again, just enough for him to wriggle out. He stands, outside at last.

He looks up. Its getting dark.

"Poop." He says.

He walks.

-------------

"Oi, you."

The boy continues to steadily stroll, his diary open, his pen at the ready, racking his brain for ideas.

"Oi! You hear me?"

...

Three lads suddenly circle the boy. He stops walking. He looks up, expressionless.

"You got me detention today."

The boy stays expressionless.

"So, what you got to say for it? It was you. It was YOUR FAULT!"

The boy stays silent.

"Right then. Con, pass me that bat for a moment-"

A quiet noise tickles the air.

A few seconds of confusement overcome the 3 lads.

"Did he just say somethin- Did you just say something...?"

The sound happens again, this time a little bit louder.

"Sorry."

The 3 lads look at each other. They think for a moment. They burst out laughing.

"Too late, I've made up my mind."

He raises the bat and begins to march towards the boy.

-------------

The boy walks slowly.

He opens his diary.

"It hurts... like...."

He thinks.

He thinks some more.

He scribbles something.

Suddenly, the page begins to moisten.

His footsteps have halted.

His back begins to hunch.

His fingers tighten around his diary.

His eyes overflow with tears.

Only one word fills the page in scraggly, scratchy handwriting.

"Why?"