If anyone ever had a right to anger, it was him.

He stared at the match between his fingertips, watching the fire eat up the sliver of wood hungrily. The flame singed his fingertips, getting too close. Using his other hand, he pinched it out quickly before lighting another.

He was surrounded by morons, all placating smiles, and "I'm so sorry"s, and disapproving glances. He was positively drowning in idiocy, his life absolutely overwhelmed by a monotony of uselessness. He wondered if they knew that they couldn't possibly understand, or if they really were vain enough to believe they could put themselves into his shoes. He pinched the match out slowly, letting it burn his fingers. A throbbing pain pulsed under the skin. He didn't care.

It always surprised people how easy it was, how pinching matches was a feat on par with lighting them. He liked the crisp hiss as the powder caught, the organic breathing nature of the flame, the way it stung when you got too close. He liked the fact that it scared people. He threw the spent matchstick away, flicking it towards the girl sitting in front of him. He was disappointed when she didn't respond, didn't notice. He had been hoping for a fight; just sitting quietly was dreadfully boring.

Of course, playing with matches had gotten him here in the first place. It was unsurprising, really. It would be more shocking if he ever made it through a week without being disciplined, but what were they going to do? Tell his parents? A pretty girl passed by the door and waved to the girl sitting in front of him. She waved back. He hated her.

She spent about half as much time as he did here, although never for the same things. Her pretty friend seldom made appearances.

She was a stupid girl. A stupid girl with a stupid bob and stupid clothes that didn't fit her quite right. He hated her; hated her stumpy legs, hated the way she would bite the end of her pencil when she was thinking, hated the way she thought she knew everything. He really hated her younger brother; that snooping know-it-all who just had to have the last word on every matter, no matter the sniveling tone it was delivered in. He would always come at the end of the day to walk her out in some nerdy display of familial affection. That idiot had some sort of weird vendetta against him, he just knew it. Probably because he hated his older sister so much, as if it was his fault that she was so undeniably heinous.

He stared at the wall, concocting some truly hateful insults he would have to remember for later. He scribbled them out in his notebook with his own gnawed-on pencil before perusing some of his earlier notes, congratulating himself on his unending cleverness. He had a full arsenal of things guaranteed to make her cry, and one of these days he was going to do it.

He drummed his pencil against the desk, trying to think of more reasons to hate her.

Her stupid parents; that was a good one.

Her parents were easily and single-handedly the worst people he had ever had the displeasure of acknowledging, with their tacky "family spirit" smiles, acting as if they had no greater pleasure than inflicting three of the worst brats ever created upon this sorrowful earth. He thought back to the girl, to her tasteless clothes and shapeless form and found a smug comfort in how easy it was to hate her.

Finally, the clock struck the quarter hour. He stood up quickly, shoving his things into a messy pile before making his quick exit, pausing only to shove her brother as he walked out, making sure he tripped embarrassingly in front of the pretty girl. He smirked to himself, pleased with his work for the day.

..

...

..

AN-

What? This isn't where we left off! How completely and utterly confusing

Cheers