They cornered him again. Jim wasn't the type to make friends very easily, but he also wasn't the type to try. He had his sketchbooks and that was all he needed. Drawing was his life; the only way he could vent his emotions. Right now he felt like passionately drawing a rather gruesomely vivid picture of his attackers being torn to pieces. Again. "Well well, what has the little freak drawn for us today?" The leader of the bullies jeered. "Go away, Carl," Jim mumbled, so quiet, it was as if he was speaking to himself. It wasn't easy to speak up to Carl since he was twelve and Jim was only nine.
"Why would I do that," Carl snatched Jim's red sketchbook away, "when I can tear apart these sorry excuses for art?" His little entourage roared in agreement. To Jim's horror, Carl began tearing out each one as slow as possible while the other idiots laughed and pushed him to the ground whenever he tried to get to his drawings. Jim watched as each of his beautiful pictures were torn to ruin; the Rose bush at the front of the school, his orange tabby cat Sebby, and countless others. They all sounded as if they were crying out in pain as Carl ripped and crumpled each page, watching Jim shout in protest. Then Jim froze. Carl had turned to a rather important one; it was a portrait of a man with black slicked back hair, deep brown sunken eyes and a formal suit. He had an odd smirk on his face, one that made you want ask him why he was smiling. His father. "NO! STOP!" Jim shrieked, but it was too late. Carl tore it into eight pieces (Jim counted) and threw them into the air like confetti, celebrating his victory. All of the other students whooped and cheered. All but one. A boy that looked about Jim's age was edging his way toward Carl with an odd look on his face, as though he knew something the rest of them didn't. "Y'know, Carl..." The boy stated as he tapped the older kid on the shoulder, "you've got less than thirty seconds. You better hurry." Carl turned to look at this kid who had the nerve to interrupt his gloating.
"Until what?" he snapped. "Until the gym teacher finds your steroids in the locker room," the boy said, unfazed by Carl's sudden change of mood.
The bully's voice sunk to a whisper. "How did you..." "The backs of your hands, they've got hair on them. Too much for someone your age. Not to mention your more frequent naps in class after gym. Clearly using steroids then. You're always very protective of your gym bag when you bring it to school on Mondays, but on Fridays, when you take your bag home to get your uniform washed, you make one of your friends carry it, so you must've used them all up by the end of each week. That means you know how much will get you through a week. You and I both know it's only Tuesday and there is enough left in your possession to get you expelled. I suggest you start running before Mr. Phillips sees them." This entire explanation lasted roughly fifteen seconds, and was said loudly enough for all the boys to hear. After a short moment of staring at the boy and recovering from the embarrassment Carl crossed his arms smugly. "So what? I'm the best swimmer at this school. He won't care if I'm using them, and he can't find out anyway. My bag is locked up." "Oh, is that what this does?" Carl stared in horror as the student held up a silver padlock with his index finger. "Oh dear, you're out of time." He was barley done with his statement when the intercoms started blaring for Carl Powers to come to the headmaster's office. If looks could kill, Carl's glare towards his snitch would've reduced him to ashes.
"You'll be lucky if you see the light of another day, freak," he snarled, and he and his groupies stalked away, slamming his shoulder into the boy's as he went. This left just the unmoved boy and the completely dumbfounded Jim alone, the latter still on the ground. Carl had forgotten about him. "Here's most of the pieces, the last is behind you," the boy said as he held out seven fragments of Jim's father's portrait with a pale, bony hand. "Thank you," Jim said quietly. He took the pieces and turned to pick up the completing strip of paper a few feet from where he had been lying. He tried to put them together again on the ground like a puzzle, and as he did, he felt tears streaming down his face. Suddenly he realized that he had forgotten to thank the other child. He turned to have a better look at him. He was certainly either nine or ten, but he was carrying a course book two years ahead of Jim's classes, so he must skipped a few grades. That would explain why he could see Carl's unusual behavior; he must've had classes with him. A longer glance told Jim that his hair was a dark chocolate brown with a few perfect ringlets. His skin was quite pale, which made a dark little bruise on his wrist quite visible. He was also remarkably scrawny, but the most incredible thing to Jim were his eyes. They were like icy blue-silver knives, piercing and cold. "By the way," the kid said, "it may do you some good to pay more attention in math. Your grade's a C at the moment." Jim was shaken by this but stood up with his fathers face clutched in his hands. "Um, okay." He replied. "And thank you." "For what?" The kid asked. "For getting rid of Carl. You sure stopped his laughing." The skin and bones in front of him smiled. "Hey, freaks should stick together, right?" Jim closed his eyes and laughed. He wondered why he had never seen this kid before. "I'm new around here," he heard, as if his new acquaintance read his mind. "But I know how it feels to be called a freak." The boy glanced down for a minute at the bruise on his arm, and Jim felt a twinge of sympathy. Carl may have destroyed Jim's belongings, but he never actually assaulted him. Wherever this kid came from, Jim hoped to never to find himself in the same shoes. "Anyway," his voice snapped Jim back to reality. "I'm about to be late for chemistry. Good bye." "Wait! I didn't get your-" Jim cut himself off as he saw the boy walking away, "name..."