Logan Matthews wouldn’t consider himself a particularly bad person.
People often thought he was ignoring them due to his lack of conversation, so he did. Until they made a real effort to talk to him, they were simply background noise. But that didn’t make him a terrible person. He helped people up if they fell in the halls, though they often bolted away. He wasn’t rude to those who truly had a need to speak to him. Logan let people copy his notes and such when they asked. That didn’t necessarily make him a good person, but it certainly didn’t make him bad.
Now, Logan wasn’t a religious person. He didn’t mind people who were, but he just didn’t believe in the idea of a greater being.
And yet, the idea of reincarnation and karma was truly starting to sound more and more reasonable.
Maybe he had done something utterly horrendous in a previous life. He certainly couldn’t think of anything so terrible that he’d done in his sixteen years of living that warranted the current events.
He was mute and people looked at him funny for it. That was the cake. Then there came the fact that he was only selectively mute, and that he had lost a friend over a simple misunderstanding. For his purposes, that was the icing.
The cherry on top was his father. William Matthews seemed determined to make his life a living hell. Currently, the man was screaming at Logan to offer an explanation whilst he was backed into a corner with nothing to write with. It was almost funny, the way the man who made him unable to speak now expected him to magically use his voice again. Except it wasn’t, because Logan knew he was screwed.
Kuro had set up a hearing. Logan knew that much. He had been pleased, at first. Anxious for the outcome, but pleased at the chance. Yet he forgot to consider one minor detail.
His father was the opponent. And didn’t that mean he would be informed of the hearing as well?
But, of course, Kuro, Logan, and Joshua had all overlooked this one detail. And now, Logan was paying for it. He would be for nearly a year. The case may have regarded child abuse, but it was a court hearing nonetheless and thus had to be scheduled around a year in advance.
A year was an awfully long time for Logan Matthews.
He cowered in the corner, shielding his head with his arms. A string of curses kept running through his mind as his father bore down on him. William hadn’t hit him yet, but that only seemed to worsen the situation. The anticipation for the fists that would eventually rain down on him was building slowly, and the more time that passed, the more Logan’s body trembled.
“Answer me!” William screamed, slamming his fist into the wall above Logan’s head. He flinched at the movement. It hit heavily enough to sprout a hole in the drywall. “I specifically told you that if I went on trial again for this shit, you’d be dead.”
Logan tensed as William stepped back again. A cruel, grim laugh sounded through the air, the ominous sound spreading fear through Logan’s body. “I won’t kill you just yet,” he said, his tone light as though he expected Logan to be grateful for the torment he was to experience. “No,” he continued, his voice growing sharper. “I’ll make it last. You’re ruining my career with your bullshit claims. People are starting to doubt me because of a little rumour.”
Logan knew that the next couple of months would be hell. He knew what came after those months were over. The details of the soon-to-happen event had been described to him a great many times, the gruesome threats meant to strike fear into his heart. It was certainly a successful endeavour. He was aware that the fate he would suffer could very well be considered worse than death. He didn’t need William to explain it again.
And the man didn’t, much to Logan’s surprise. Instead, he turned and left. Logan didn’t dare move for fear that he would return. Sure enough, moments later, Willian’s heavy footsteps echoed through the hall once more.
When he stepped into view, the first thing Logan noticed was the backpacks slung across his arms. The second thing he noticed was that they were the very same packs he had shoved away in his closet. The third thing he noticed was how terror built up in his chest. He wanted to throw up. There was no way—
“I found these in my routine check,” William sneered, tossing the bags to the ground. Logan curled in on himself more. Profanity after profanity flew through his mind. I’mfuckedI’mfuckedI’mfuckedI’mfuckedI’m—
“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Logan didn’t move. He had hoped that William wouldn’t, but deep down, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
“Well, I did. And this—what the actual fuck were you thinking, hiding them in such an obvious place. I thought I raised you better than this.”
Logan agreed with William, much to his surprise. He had been taught better than that. It was almost absurd to think he had been so stupid.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Running would result in him getting beaten. Arguing would fare the same results. He felt trapped, but there truly was nothing he could do.
He watched William drag the backpacks away, still huddled up in the corner. William didn’t spare him so much as a glance as he left.
“We’re done here,” he said, pausing at the door. He lifted his head and tilted it slightly, as though peering at Logan from the corner of his eye. “For now.”
Logan remained where he was until William was long gone. After what felt like hours, he finally stood on shaky legs. His limbs didn’t seem to want to cooperate as he stumbled down the hallway to his room.
He was stupid, so fucking stupid. He believed he deserved whatever his father threw at him, maybe even more. He felt numb to his emotions. He knew he needed an outlet, but he didn’t know how.
He’d seen people keep diaries before. He’d read poems that perfectly displayed how someone felt to the point that it was difficult to not feel the same as you read the poem. He supposed that was worth a shot, no matter how his poetry may actually turn out.
Logan pulled a loose sheet of notebook paper from a drawer under his desk. The pencil case he always left on the right side of his desk was soon opened and the contents were sorted through until he found a sharp pencil.
His right hand flew over to the first line on the page, the tip of his pencil flying towards the paper. Yet it never made a mark. He paused his movements just before the tool would have hit the paper and gave himself a moment to ponder.
How did he feel? Like shit, that was for sure. But could he pinpoint exact emotions? Could he even hit the target when it came to finding where they truly came from?
A few obvious ones, sure. But then there was everything he was not only feeling at the moment but had felt that day. They were simply too complex to put into words. He needed something more to express them with. Something that could really pull at someone's heartstrings if used one way but make them feel elated if used another way. Something sweet and sombre and everything else all at once. Something like--
His eyes landed on his saxophone case and guitar case lumped together in the corner of his room.
Something like music.
Music was all that and more, wasn't it? When he played an instrument, he felt free. He could pick a tune to play or create one of his own. He could make someone laugh, cry, smile, or even shudder with a slight sense of fear with only a few notes. He could do anything.
It was perfect.
Logan finally allowed his pencil to meet his paper, the graphite dragging across the paper as various symbols appeared in its wake. He could attempt to play them later when his father wasn't seething with anger. Besides, he had been playing the guitar for years. He could imagine the melody and hear the notes as he wrote them
His eyes traversed the page after a few moments, scanning over the notes. He replayed the tune as best he could, humming softly to himself. There were a few parts that sounded off, but he couldn't tell if it was just his lack of singing skills or if the notes were genuinely wrong.
Logan was hardly even started. He turned the paper over, having filled all of the first side, and continued the melody.
Nearly half an hour later, he finally let his pencil rest next to the paper. The previous thirty minutes had been spent in a combination of scrawling notes onto the page and tapping his pencil against his chin in thought. Thus, his (nearly) final product had been created.
It was everything he wanted it to be and more. Of course, he knew that other people might not understand anything more than sad tune. But did it truly matter if other people understood? He did. He knew. And sure, he was the composer, but weren’t most instrumental pieces like that? Only the composer ever knew the true motivation of the song, the emotions that drive them to write it remaining for their eyes only. People could guess all they wanted, but they might never know the truth.
Wasn’t that part of the appeal of instrumental music? The interpretation was left to the listener.
He began to hum the tune softly to himself once more. A short way through, however, he came to a sudden stop. For a moment, he strained his ears to listen. Then—
Thump.
These footsteps were slow and heavy, the sound they made as they hit the floor audible from Logan’s room even with the door closed. They no doubt belonged to his father.
His father hardly frequented the area near his room, though. He checked the time to make sure he hadn’t accidentally missed dinner and pissed off his father. Nope, dinner was still a good hour away.
The footsteps drew closer to his room. He scrambled to shove his paper away as he tried to think of a reason for his father’s visits.
Come to think of it, did his father need a new reason to be angry? Hadn’t he been screaming at Logan just a little while ago, telling the boy he was going to draw out his pain?
The footsteps slowed to a halt outside his door.
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