Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or the Scarecrow or any villain, hero, gadget and so forth that DC owns. This is a retelling of one origin story of everyone's favourite Crane. I do not exactly own the plot line, although I am adding my own twist to it. Hailey is mine, that's about it. And she's not that important anyways. Now, please read and review when you are finished. I love reviews and constructive criticism. I need to know what I am doing wrong. Cheers!
Shocked
So far, today has been an incredibly awful day. I woke this morning, just after seven, to the sound of my mother violently retching into the toilet in the bathroom across the hall from my cramped bedroom. It seems that no matter where I hide her vodka, she always manages to find it, and she always manages to drink too much. It's a miracle she hasn't suffered from liver failure yet, although I'm quite certain she's a walking time bomb. After being woken by such a dreadful noise, I realized that it was Monday, meaning that I would have to suffer through another intolerable day of high school. And, beyond that, I wasn't even going to be given the privilege of a shower as I didn't foresee my mother being finished up any time soon.
On the plus side, I did manage to make it to my bus stop in time, although I had to skip breakfast and it was raining like mad. I didn't so much mind the rain though; it gave me an excuse to keep my hood up, therefore hiding my admittedly greasy hair. I really should have learned by now; shower at night, before mother drowns herself in alcohol. Oh well, there was no changing the fact that I looked like a homeless boy yet again.
The bus pulled up and I got on, paying my fee and heading straight to the back, as per usual. It wasn't until I was seated that I realized my predicament. My socks, which were stupidly mismatched, were damp and in plain view as my pants happened to be a little too short for me. I had grown about two inches over the past month, and I had a feeling that my mother was completely unaware of the fact that I needed new clothing.
So, here I am, sitting at the back of the bus with my mismatched socks, my greasy hair, and a big frown plastered on my face. The one thing I hate about public transportation, more than the festering germs, is the people who you travel with. Most of them have friends by their side, constantly chatting, whispering, and laughing amongst themselves. Every so often, I catch one of these people looking at me and wonder if, perhaps, the thing they find so funny is me. Me, with my mismatched socks, greasy hair, and too-short pants. If I were one of those big, intimidating football-type guys, I would probably find myself funny too.
In an attempt to distract myself from my harmful thoughts and the snickers of the girls two seats away from me, I take to staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to be intimidating; to strike fear into people's hearts. I bet I could get a lot more accomplished that way.
I manage to successfully distract myself for a good six minutes before staring out the window begins to make my stomach turn, especially after the bus pulls up in front of my school. Perhaps I would find the entire 'high school experience' more rewarding if I wasn't constantly tormented inside those prison-like walls. I get off the bus, the sky still grey and the rain still falling, and I make the short walk to the front doors with my head bowed down, hoping that today, no one will notice me. I've barely stepped inside this stone hellhole when I hear a voice calling my name.
"Crane," it's the voice of a girl, "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
I would have winced at the thought of being noticed, but the voice calling out to me is that of my best, and only, friend Hailey. I stop and wait against the wall, out of the way of the crowds passing by heading to homeroom, as Hailey runs up to me, her long dark hair flying out behind her.
"Good morning," she smiles and punches me playfully on the shoulder as she joins me in leaning.
"Just morning," I mutter back, "Doesn't have to be good." Hailey frowns at my response, her big, brown eyes staring up at me in frustration. I look back down at her, being more than a half a foot taller.
"You're putting me on a downer," she says matter-of-factly, a smirk growing from her recent frown. She's trying to cheer me up, like she always does. But she doesn't understand why I'm always so upset; so to myself. I wouldn't want her to. I'm spared having to give her a proper answer when the first bell rings, signalling that class starts in five minutes. I reach out and ruffle Hailey's hair slightly, just to show her there are no hard feelings.
"Gotta go," I say, drawing my sweater tighter around myself, hoping it'll make me invisible once I join the throngs of people weaving through the hallways. "See you at lunch." And just like that, I'm off, my head still stooped low so that I don't stand out too much.
Twelfth grade English; possibly the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me, all rolled into one and half hours each day. Of course, I'm at the top of my class and Mrs Garret adores me, but sitting two seats behind me is Bo Griggs, the most intolerable, pig-headed boy on the planet. He is one of the reasons I detest waking up in the morning. He is one of the reasons I have often ended up going home, bloody and bruised, not that my mother cares much. I hate Bo Griggs; in all his quarterback, muscular, cheerleader-dating glory.
"Today," Mrs Garret begins to address the class, "We'll be beginning our study of Sleepy Hollow, written by Washington Irving." She walks around the class, passing out books. For a moment, when she places my text in front of me, I am ecstatic. I have always enjoyed this story very much. However, I then take one look at the front cover and my heart sinks. There is a tall, gangly looking man with glasses staring up at me from the front cover of the paperback. And in looking at Ichabod Crane, I feel for a moment as if I am looking in a mirror. I can already hear Bo laughing two rows back.
"Is this that Crane-guy?" he's chuckling with his friend Matt, "It looks like you, eh Scarecrow?" The class starts laughing and I feel my cheeks turn red. That's what they call me; Scarecrow. I guess it's funny because I'm not really scary at all.
"I wonder if this guy is as big a loser as you," Bo whispers loud enough so that I can hear him. I choose to ignore him, in hopes of keeping myself bruise-free for today, and put my head down on my desk. Oh yes, I loathe high school.