End of the Line
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Warnings, this story contains drug use, swearing, violence, abuse, possible rape in later chapters, possible slash in later chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Avengers of any of the characters
Chapter 1
School started last Monday for everybody else, and by the look of the front doors, they'd been trying to wash away that paint for the past week. Maybe longer. You could still read it though. Even if the black spray paint was gone, they'd scrubbed at it too hard, and scratched the angry letters into the glass itself. Happened all the time when the better end of town got tagged. Rich people don't know shit about spray paint.
I pulled open the doors, the words 'Welcome to Hell' now etched deep into them, and joined the line. The buses dropped us off early, but already there were too many people lining the hall. Shifting my weight to my good leg, I fished out the paper from my pocket. The door behind me shut with a bang as more people pressed in. Felt like they were everywhere, all crammed into the same too small space. All talking, and laughing, and loud. Loud as a car crash.
There was only one way out, and there wasn't anything to do but wait. The room got hotter, too many bodies too close together. I balled the note up between my fist and the crutch. The ceiling was high, painted white with wood beams- all exposed and dusty. It was supposed to look nice. It looked like an unfinished attic.
"Next." I looked down, to the security guard waving a fat paw for me to move forward. His head looked too heavy for his thick neck, which looked too big for the collar of his shirt. I shuffled a few feet closer to him and the empty doorway. I'd been through a metal detector before, but that had been before everything had happened. Looking at the detector now, close up, it didn't look like either of us were gonna fit through it. Though, for different reasons.
"You got a note?" He barked.
I held out the uncomfortable little paper I'd crumpled in my fist. The guard unfolded and studied it through narrowed eyes, looking up from the note to give me a quick once over. Like he was trying to tell if the note was real. Like I would just show up in crutches and a full leg brace for the fuck of it.
"You James Barnes." It was supposed to be a question but it came out like an accusation.
You caught me, I just like stealing doctor's notes for the hell of it.
"Is this you?" He demanded, louder, turning the note back into my face.
I nodded.
"Alright, arms out, bag on the table." From a holster at his side, the guard pulled out a smaller metal detector, shaped like a flat kind of wand. Damn, this must be what it's like in an airport.
Awkwardly, I shifted the backpack onto the table where it slumped like an old sweater. It was the same standard issue black and grey bag they gave everyone at the home. Came with one notebook, one folder, two pencils- all metal free and cheap. School wasn't the only place that didn't trust us not to turn paperclips into projectiles.
"Hurry up, arms out," the guard sounded even more annoyed.
I obeyed, sticking my arms straight out from my body for him to wave the wand over. With the crutches under my arms and one good leg to stand on, I felt like the world's most idiotic imitation of an airplane. Which, I can't say I'd ever experienced before.
And to think, this was gonna happen every fucking day.
At least the hallway wasn't crowded behind me. Dozens of eyes boring into the back of my skull. Maybe if I broke my other leg they'd just give up on me entirely an-
"Clear," the guard announced, his face somehow more bored than before. "Move along." He pulled back a chain that connected the two doorway detectors, it wasn't much space, but it was better than the alternative. I pulled on my freshly ransacked bag, not even bothering to zip it up, and hobbled my way past the gates.
On the other side of the hallway, the school was more open. There were still people everywhere I looked, but they moved freely around each other. It was easier to breathe here, but the further away I got from the hall, the harder it was to move around. I had plenty of space to walk, even with the crutches, but that wasn't the problem.
I didn't need the stupid airplane routine to remind me I was the only entry in a 3-legged race, and I really didn't need the stares. And I could definitely feel them. They were less obvious than the ones before, stolen from behind lockers, out of the corners of eyes, but I could definitely feel them. It was like I'd decided to slit my wrist in a shark tank.
I focused on the floor, making my way for the homeroom one awkward step after another. I just needed to make it through.
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