I woke to the sound of water.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Each drop hit the floor beside my ear, echoing in the silence like it had all night.
I stared up at the ceiling. The same cracked plaster. Same gray blotch in the corner. One of the nails in the sheet that covered my window had come loose — the wind pushed it just enough to let in a sliver of pale morning light.
My eyes burned. My head throbbed.
I sat up slowly, my body creaking like old wood.
The room smelled like mildew, dust, and sweat. The air was thick, unmoving. My blanket had slipped halfway to the floor. I was still in yesterday's clothes — blood-stained, dirt-caked, and stiff from dried sweat.
I looked down at my shirt.
Crimson crust. Faded brown smears. One sleeve was nearly ripped off. My shoulder still ached from where Kendrick's fist landed. My ribs… worse. I reached up and touched my cheek. It stung — swollen, pulsing faintly under my fingertips.
Then I raised my arm.
And I caught the smell.
fffFFF—
I jerked back instantly, gagging.
"I need a shower," I muttered.
We still had running water.The gas was another story.
My father hadn't paid that in months. No hot water. Just liquid ice pouring out of cracked metal.
I stood, wincing at the pain in my legs and back. My body felt heavy, like I'd aged twenty years overnight. I grabbed the nearest towel — crusty, half-damp, but usable — and limped toward the bathroom.
The floor in the hallway was colder than my room. One of the tiles near the door had a crack in it that split it clean down the middle, like a scar no one had fixed.
The bathroom door stuck when I pushed it. It always did.
The mirror above the sink was streaked with fingerprints and years of grime. A piece of glass was chipped in the bottom corner, leaving a jagged triangle like a shark's tooth.
I looked at myself.
Really looked.
Black hair — matted, oily, and tangled from sleep. It used to be soft, once.My face was hollow. Skin pale, with fresh bruising blooming across my jaw and temple.And my eyes…Still that same icy blue.Like a cruel joke painted onto something already ruined.
There was blood on my neck. Dirt behind my ear. A faint handprint on the side of my throat.
I looked like a ghost.Or something half-buried trying to crawl back out.
I didn't look long.
I turned the knob.
The pipes groaned like they were waking up from a coma.
Then the water hit me — straight from hell's freezer.
I sucked in a sharp breath and flinched under the spray, but didn't move.I didn't deserve warmth.Besides, there wasn't any to give.
Goosebumps erupted across my arms. My breath fogged in front of my face.
But the water did its job.
Blood ran down the drain in pale pink swirls.Dried sweat turned the water brown.I watched it all vanish.
At least something could leave.
By the time I stepped out, the towel barely did its job. I dried off in silence, dressing in the cleanest uniform I had — a faded gray hoodie, plain black jeans, and the same beat-up sneakers I wore every day. One sole was separating near the toe.
My backpack was still on the floor of my room, right where I dropped it last night. I slung it over one shoulder, wincing at the pull on my ribs.
I didn't go to the kitchen.There was nothing to cook.
I just grabbed two slices of old bread from the counter — barely soft — and squeezed some ketchup in between.
It was warm.Too sweet.But it filled my stomach enough to stop the ache.
Breakfast.
My real meal would come at school.
If the cafeteria didn't run out by the time I got there.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring outside. The sky was overcast. Cold wind rattled the chain-link fence that surrounded our yard. Some neighbor's dog barked three houses down. Tires hissed on the wet pavement.
I didn't want to go.
But what else was I going to do?
Home was just fists and silence.School was worse — whispers, laughter, pain with an audience.And the streets?
The streets would kill me faster.
So I stepped outside.
Because that's what I always did.
The wind bit through my hoodie as I walked.
The clouds above were thick, a flat sheet of dull gray, stretching over the town like a lid no one could lift. Leaves scraped across the sidewalk. My breath fogged in front of me in short bursts.
The neighborhood changed three blocks from home.
Here, the lawns were green. Trimmed.Fences were whole. Mailboxes weren't rusted.Windows had curtains. Front doors had wreaths.
A mother stood outside with a coffee cup, smiling down at her daughter as she adjusted her backpack. A boy ran past on a scooter, laughing. His dad followed, calling after him with a grin.
It didn't feel real.
It felt like I was walking through someone else's dream.One I didn't belong in.
The school came into view — a three-story brick building surrounded by tall trees and fresh pavement. The flag outside flapped in the wind. Students moved in clusters, talking, laughing, shouting across the parking lot.
Then someone saw me.
And everything shifted.
Heads turned.Voices lowered.Eyes narrowed.
"Is that him?""Yeah. That's the kid from the shed.""God, look at his hoodie.""Does he even wash his clothes?"
Their words weren't loud.But they were sharp enough.
I walked past a group of girls near the stairwell. One of them wrinkled her nose. The other leaned in and whispered, not quiet enough.
"His face isn't even half bad... but he's, like, dirt poor."
The others snorted.
"So you're saying he's your crush?" one girl teased, grinning.
"Eww, shut up!" the first girl laughed, shoving her friend's shoulder. "No way. Paul is my type. Not… whatever that is."
The group burst into laughter. I kept walking.
My steps felt heavier with each one.
Inside the school, the lights were too bright. The floors too clean. The walls were lined with bulletin boards covered in posters for clubs I'd never join. Smiling teachers passed me without a glance.
I passed the lockers.
I passed the water fountain.
I passed everyone.
And still—The stares.
"Why is he even here?""His dad's a drunk, right?""He probably sleeps on the floor."
They weren't wrong.But hearing it…Made it feel worse.
I walked faster.
Homeroom was silent when I entered.
I slid into my usual seat — back row, second from the corner — and dropped my bag to the floor. The plastic chair creaked under me. The desk was covered in old scratches and dried gum. The heater in the corner rattled every few minutes like it was struggling to stay alive.
Outside the window, the clouds hung lower now.It looked like rain was waiting.
The teacher was writing something on the whiteboard.I didn't care what.
My head throbbed.My ribs ached.My stomach twisted from that ketchup sandwich.
I rested my head on my arm.
And closed my eyes.
I didn't sleep long.
Just enough to blur everything.Just enough to escape for a few minutes.
But when I opened my eyes, she was looking at me.
Mrs. Greene.World History.
Her eyes were thin.Her lips tighter.
She didn't say anything.Just looked at me like she already knew everything about me.
He's lazy.Unmotivated.Hopeless.
That's what her face said.
She turned away a second later and continued the lesson.
I didn't lift my head.
What's the point?They already decided who I am.They don't see a person.They see a stain that won't wash out.They see trash in a school uniform.
My fingers curled into a fist beneath the desk.
I wished I could disappear.
But I was already invisible.