The bell rings, jerking me out of a half-doze and signaling the end of homeroom. Mr. Leftler raises his voice to be heard over the sudden scrape of chairs, “No homework, just look at the third chapter tonight! Even just the cover page!” he calls desperately to the student’s backs as they file quickly past him, talking and laughing. I notice that Melissa has been caught up in a group of sparkly-pink barbies on the way out, and roll my eyes. I’m the last out of my seat, and Mr. Leftler throws me a scorching glare as I rise.

“Fletcher.”

I stare at my desk, my fingers curling around the edges of it, and try to suppress a surge of anger. Successfully pushing it down, I straighten and look at him; not his face, but in his direction. Keeping my gaze down, I make my way to the front of the room.

“Come here, Duncan. Let’s talk a minute,” he tells me as I approach, crossing his arms and leaning against his desk. A jock gone slightly to pot, his dirty-blonde hair was beginning to gray and his face to seam. He was still strong though, and I had to push down the urge to dart for the door.

“I just…” Mr. Leftler begins as I came to a stop in front of him, forcing myself not to flinch away as he pushes himself off the desk and moves a step closer. Sighing with what I consider just slightly too much flair to be sincere, he begins.

"I just don’t know what to do with you, Fletcher. You're not dumb; you could get the grades. You’re a sophomore in high school now, Bud. It’s time to quit acting like a kid.” He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder.

My throat goes dry and my stomach drops, leaving ice in its place, and I focus everything I have on keeping my entire body relaxed as Mr. Leftler continues, “I’m not trying to be a jerk, but you’ve got to grow up a little: Pay attention and quit sleeping in class. Apply yourself. You're not stupid; you could get the grades if you ever tried. Quit spending all your time trying to prove you're tough." His gaze is equal parts superiority, concern, and annoyance as he takes in my split lips and swollen face, and I struggle to remind myself that I’m in school…

“Do you get it, Duncan? Let’s make this year the year you turned it all around, and started making something of yourself, okay?” He smiles and pats my shoulder with this last, and I felt fear flash in my eyes for a split second before I can force it down. I swallow and succeed in a slight, almost normal nod.

“Yes, Sir." I wait a moment, then: "Got it.”

He doesn’t move.

“C’n I go now, Sir?”

Mr. Leftler sighs and lets his hand drop, along with his head and shoulders: the perfect theatrical end to his speech.

“Sure, Duncan. Just…actually go to class, okay?”

“Yessir,” I mumble as I turn to go. I can feel his eyes following me as I force myself to walk, not sprint, for the door.

With a mental refrain of ‘You're in school, you’re in school, you’re in school’, I make my way to my next class, trying to quell the panic rising in my gut, threatening to turn my limbs to jelly. Mrs. Thompson takes one look at my ashen face and thrusts a hastily scribbled note under my nose, ordering me to the nurse’s office with a stern look. I snatch it from her hand and leave, crumpling the note as I make my way jerkily downstairs to the ground floor. Instead of going to the nurse’s office, I duck down a hallway and into a janitor’s closet as my heart threatens to pound itself from my chest.

I fumble for the lock, my back to the door, and, when I feel the deadbolt slide home, let my legs give way, sliding to the floor. I try desperately to control my breathing as I press my forehead into my palms, rocking back and forth, but it’s no good. I shut my eyes as tightly as possible and hug my knees to my chest as memory of early this morning rakes across my mind, and a whimper escapes me…

******

A beefy hand pins me to the wall by the collar of my shirt. A booming yell and inch from my face. Hot breath, reeking of stale liquor.

“I said give me the fucking money, you useless piece of shit!”

The searing rage that floods my body: that horrid flash of ice, then fire, in my veins. My own voice, quiet but shaking with fury, rising to a shout at the last: “I gave it t’you last week, Bruce. It ain't my damn fault it you blew it ALL ON FUCKING DRUGS!”

The hand not twisted into my shirt pulling back. The bitter hopelessness that wells in my gullet and threatens to choke me. My soft, venomous snarl of “Fuck you” before pain explodes in my head.

The whining voice that can’t be mine crying out, “STOP, you fuckin’ spun-out BASTARD!” as I’m on the floor on my left side, trying vainly to block the kick that’s aimed at my stomach with my arms. The shattering agony as the first once connects. The desperate wheedle of that same stupid, pitiful voice, “Stop, damnit-“ as the second kick rolls me slightly, knocking my now-numb arms aside. The third kick knocks the breath from my body; the fourth is searing pain and terror.

The strange, searing numbness that has spread through my entire body as I lay, bleeding, on the carpet of the living room.

The soul-crushing exhaustion that is trying to lay claim to my mind.

The brief surge of relief as that last kick slams into my head and drives all thoughts from my mind.

******

“Hey. Hey!”

I moan and try to squeeze myself into a smaller, tighter ball.

“Hey, kid!” A foot pokes me gingerly, “Get up! You can’t be in here.”

I groan and drag myself up and out of the closet, brushing past the janitor and mumbling something that could be construed as thanks. I hear him call after me as I stagger away, but I ignore him and keep going. I slip into the bathroom, to splash some water on my face and try to pull myself together.

 I lived alone with my step-dad, Bruce, and have since I was nine. My dad died when I was two, and my mom hadn’t been able to handle it. She’d turned to drugs to numb the pain, and during her meth phase, she’d ended up marrying her 'dealer', Bruce. I was five.

Bruce was a mean little bully, and he would sometimes hit my mom. She started chasing a high that would take the her further away, and discovered opiates around the time I was seven. 

Bruce had smacked me out of his way, into the wall, and my mom was too high to care. After that, he took to knocking me around when my mom was so high she wasn't aware of her surroundings, and I did my best to stay out of his way.

My mom overdosed one day when I was nine, and I’d been alone with Bruce since then. Six long years with him had taught me two things: Doing what he told me, when he told me, with no back-talk kept me on Bruce’s good side; and when Bruce was high, he had no good side. Bruce wasn’t so bad as long as he was just drinking, but when he got his hands on some meth, well…

When Bruce wasn't spun, he usually just screamed, only occasionally hitting me upside the head or something if he thought I was giving him lip. If I kept my mouth shut and didn't sass him, I could usually avoid getting smacked. Once Bruce was spun, though, there was no getting around being beat. Bruce got so whacked when he was tweaking that even if I did what he told me, he’d change his mind when I was in the middle of whatever it was and get furious. No matter how carefully I spoke to him, trying to respond like he wanted me to, it was never the right way. It didn’t matter what I did, he’d beat me anyway.

After he broke my arm for the second time when I was eleven, I’d left in the middle of the night and just not gone back for a few days. I and spent the next three nights in the tunnel bridge in the park downtown, hiding in the library a few blocks away during the day. When I came back, Bruce was sober. He was pissed that I’d left, but he didn’t hit me again, or even yell at me. After he took me to the hospital, he’d just told me that a broken arm was no reason to slack.

For the next few years, life with Bruce fell into a routine of just suffering though those times when Bruce was sober and looking forward to when he had enough money to get high.

When Bruce was spun, yeah, I got beat if I wasn't fast enough to escape, but at least I was free to stay away as long as he was high. When I was thirteen, I left for a few days after an argument with Bruce while he was drunk, and he'd swung on me. When I came back two days later was the only time Bruce ever beat me while he wasn't tweaked. He was 'sober' for the next five weeks straight, piling on more and more work and telling me what a stupid piece of fucked-up shit I was. I decided pretty quickly that I liked Bruce better high: Vicious and violent as he was, at least when he was spun-out, he was stupid.

As my anger at Bruce’s treatment grew over the years, I started using those times away from the house to vent that anger: I started hanging around with the older kids that I’d see hanging around the park; picking fights and partying, and by the time I was fifteen wound up with a grade-point average of like 0.03 and a reputation for being a burned-out trouble-maker with one friend.