Chapter 7
"You fell into a table?" the school nurse asked, obviously not believing a word of it.
"Mmm," Aiden agreed. The story wasn't really that believable.
"You're going to have some black eye there, son," she said, concerned.
"Yay for me," he said enthusiastically. The nurse smiled gently, and patted his shoulder. Her wrinkled eyes exhibited a wave of sadness, and total kindness.
"You've got bruising on your back, too. That's going to hurt."
"God, I love tables," Aiden grumbled.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I'm the one who has to fill out the paperwork!" He'd been in to see the nurse plenty of times over the past years, and she was the one true person who'd actually shown him any kind of kindness. Obviously, she knew what was going on, but had never raised it with anyone - certainly not Aiden. Aiden knew she knew, and she knew he knew she knew, and. . . . You get the picture.
Mrs McMillan, the school nurse, frowned at Aiden. Eventually, she sighed, "you can stay here until break, if you want."
"How about lunch?"
"Don't push it," she laughed, and handed him a plastic cup of water. "You can take that off in ten minutes," she pointed towards an ice pack, he was prising firmly, next to his black eye. He gave a quick nod to her, and she exited.
Unlike every other adult he knew, she was the only one to show him any kind of sympathy. He was often admitted to the medical room, due to various injuries. She never questioned him, and never mentioned it to anybody else. After all, she had seen first-hand how the school dealt with bullying, amongst other issues.
So, Aiden sat on a saggy bed until the bell rang - too soon. He decided to wait until break was over, and sat for another few minutes until the next bell rang. He shuffled down the corridor at the end of break, grabbed a few books out of his locker, and entered his next class. He was late: a hundred eyes darted towards him. They stared at him, his black eye and bruises. A few whispers ran out through the class. "Uh, sorry, Sir," Aiden whimpered, in the vague direction of the teacher. She rolled her eyes and motioned for him to sit down. He took his usual seat, at the front of the class, in the corner. He dug his head in a text book, and tried to lose himself in a river of words, explaining the Tudor dynasty; which he already knew. But the words stopped him from suffocating in a toxic atmosphere of stares and glares. He felt a pen poke into his back a few times, and a few paper balls rolled his way.
"Page 52!" the teacher called out. Aiden obliged, and rushed to the page. It was a swirl of pictures and words, and it seemed ever so threatening, but Aiden moved his face closer and closer towards the page. "Blind, Aiden?" the teacher called out. What was she on about?
Nothing important.
OK, concentrate.
Concentration was essential. The words mingled with each other, and wouldn't stay still.
CONCENTRATE.
Mountains of words and letters and numbers jumbled around on the page. His fists clenched tightly, and shook his head. Why wouldn't the words stay still?
"Aiden," the teacher stirred. "AIDEN!" he snapped. "Are you listening to me?"
"Uh, can I go to the toilet?" he said, limply. Not waiting for a reply, he stood up from his desk and waltzed to the door.
"AIDEN!" a strained voice shouted after him, followed by a few sniggers and jeers.
He had to get out of this place. This dump.
YOU ARE READING
52. (BoyxBoy)
Teen FictionAiden's life is a lonely mess of suffering and torment. He's bullied daily, and abused by his mother. He's fed up with it, and on the 52nd day of the year, he's going to give up. It's all planned. So why did that have to be the day The New Boy turne...
