Author's notes:
1- This idea came up to me after one of the latest comics illustration I had drawn for Heath, and which he mentioned on Twitter. As the story progresses, you should be able to guess which one it was about. ;-)
2- "BULLET PROOF" can be read, even if you know nothing about Wrestling. I'll try to make it accessible to everyone. I'll also try to remain as close to reality as I can when mentioning places and towns. Yet, sorry for my English, I'm a French speaking person ;)
3- I have another thriller story almost finished with Heath Slater: « WHAT THE BIGGER PICTURE IS FOR ». But since the latest chapter got so few reviews while it was extremely complex and revealing for some characters, I assumed most of you just didn't see it if the flood of fic updates. So I won't publish the final chapter unless I get more reviews. Trust me, it's not a mean move, it's for your own good! :-)
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BULLET PROOF
Chapter One - Silence
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Progressively, Bastian Heath Miller unclenched his fists pressed against the top of his head and carefully lowered his fingertips on the floor ahead of him. His eyes were still close, knees and face against the ground in a tuck position. He was trying to guess the soil texture by slightly brushing his fingers over the hard surface. The air he was breathing was making him suffocate. His initial reaction was to cough but a deep instinct told him to remain silent.
He rose slowly, carefully unfolding his spine until he was sitting on his heels. He opened hazel eyes and observed his surroundings through strands of straight ginger hair, masking partly his face.
As soon as he became aware of the scenery ahead of him, he leant backwards and sit on the floor, in shock. He wasn't sure about what he was seeing, yet the place was sporting some familiarity.
Under the blistered and blackened paint on the wall, under the ashes and dust covered floor, behind the half-charred doors and broken windows, it was his school he was recognizing. Moments before – or so it seemed – walls were covered with bright blue paint, half hidden under notes announcing course changes, home-made posters for the "vote for your classroom chief", slightly more professional posters for a friendly sport event against an officially twinned school, which every local students considered as rival. The floor was perhaps not a model of cleanliness, but it wasn't black with soot and ashes either! You could actually find sometimes a juice box abandoned, a chewed straw still stuck in the metal circle opening, surrounded by the fool-proof indication "straw here". Occasionally, there were also scattered sheets of paper, after one of the "big boys" had overthrown the binder, books or pads of paper of a "smaller one". Just for fun. 'No hard feelings, heh? We're not bullies. We're just playing with you'. Very often, the sheets lying on the ground were his own, while thick laughers were rising in the background from his class "comrades".
A secondary school like so many in West Virginia. Schools which had so many common points about learning life in society… with loudmouths and discreet ones… with popular kids and outcast ones… with hitters and submissive ones.
As more and more recurrent these past weeks, the traditional hustle - "Hey! Watch where you're walking, ginger! » - had ended in books and sheets scattered on the floor, shouts and taunts loudly shared as Bastian (as his teachers and "comrades" were calling him) Heath (as his parents and too rare friends were calling him) Miller would systematically curl up into a ball against a wall, offering no resistance, and wishing for just one thing: that his tormentors got bored and moved onto someone else, leaving him the possibility to gather his things and sort out his damaged courses sheets.
Sometimes, when he was alone in the dark, he would let his imagination run free, inventing some super powers which would allow him to resist his executioners, to show them, to get revenge. So they would leave him alone.
So they would leave him alone.
That was what he was repeating silently in a loop, while still curled up almost in a fetal position on the floor. It had started with the usual routine: the hustle, the provocation, another stampede – more violent – a kick in his books, his books flying in the air, mocking hoots and guffaws. Darkness as he had closed his eyes, his face against the floor. Scornful cries growing louder, with some panic tunes inside (perhaps a teacher alerted by all that noise and coming to his rescue?); cries turning into screams. A deafening noise. A feeling of warmth. The silence.
The Silence.
Heath blinked in order to make sure of what he was looking at, and moved aside a ginger lock from his face. Light ash fell from his hair. He involuntarily ran a hand in his mop and shook it vigorously to bring down the remaining ashes. He rose on his feet, mechanically dusting his clothes while keeping an eye on the empty and charred corridor in front of him. A glance at his clothes and skin told him he wasn't burnt.
Just ashes.
He frowned, noting a detail. The hallway in front of him had traces of fire as far as thirty feet away of him. But beyond that distance, gradually, the corridor was returning to its old Pineville high-school look. A glance around didn't help him discover what could have been the origin of the fire that had ravaged the aisle he was now standing in, but he decided not to dwell there too long. He was alone in the middle of a ravaged area. If any supervisor or teacher ever walked in, he would look like the prime suspect; and none would listen to his explanations as how they had been others with him. Others who had most likely provoked the fire – just "for fun". Others who had disappeared, leaving him alone amongst the ashes.
Alone amongst the ashes.
From his gray coat pocket, he took a blue cap with a yellow WV logo from the Mountaineers basket-ball team, and slightly clenched it in his right hand, as if to reassure himself. As he was reaching the "normal" zone of the corridors, his ears perceived a voice. A woman's voice. Adult. A teacher. Someone who could help him. Heath saw some trait of light on the floor, coming from a door ajar on the left side, and the voice seemed to come from the classroom behind that door.
It wasn't an authoritative teacher-like voice. Not even a calm and controlled one. That person was speaking alone, probably on the phone, and it looked like she was trying to keep her voice low, but loud enough to be heard by her interlocutor. Heath perceived some anxious tunes in her voice and he felt some acid bubble forming in his stomach. He couldn't make out the words of the teacher, but he walked to the classroom where she was, slightly cracking the door open.
As he had expected, the woman was one of his Science teachers. Miss Mandy Longford. Her blond hair was held back in a bun and seemed a bit messy, but there was no ash covering it. Her hand was holding the grey plastic phone receiver a little bit too strongly, her skin was pale and her features were tense. But she was a teacher who usually was quite nice to him. So Heath felt naturally reassured and took a step forward.
At that moment, Ms Longford's gaze fell upon him. Heath saw her eyes widening and a mask of fear appearing on her face. Immediately, peaks of panic appeared in her voice and she held out her hand in his direction. Heath thought she wanted to motion him inside, to tell him to take shelter here, waiting with her for help to arrive, whatever had happened in the corridor… But she grabbed the handle and slammed the door abruptly, leaving Heath alone and puzzled in the dark hallway.
What he now could hear from her voice was muffled by the thickness of the door, yet - as panic had probably made her oblivious about keeping her voice low - he distinctly heard: "Hurry, please…!"
Heath couldn't understand what was happening, but his instinct kicked in again. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave. Quickly. Take some distance, and evaluate the best moment when to come back, when everything would be calm again.
When everything would be calm again.
He pulled his Mountaineers cap low on his head, hiding partly his fiery hair, and quickened his pace towards the exit of the school. Yet, he slowed down just as he was reaching the glassy doors, watching a police car parked a few meters ahead of him. After a moment of unease, he decided to try a quiet exit. The police officer in the car couldn't be there for him. No…
Why would he be there for him?
He had done nothing else but wait for his bullies to be done with him and leave him alone. They were the ones who had attacked him. They were probably the ones who had damaged the corridor. Himself was just a victim.
He was just a victim.
He was just a 13 year old boy, a little bit small for his age and with a rather frail stature. And he was a ginger. All the wrong cards in his hand. The ideal victim. The policeman who had just left his car didn't pay any attention to him; his focus was entirely on the teacher he could see running towards him from the other side of the glassy doors. He walked in her direction while behind him, Heath was quickening his pace towards the row of bikes parked on the pavement.
The teacher almost threw herself into the policeman's arms. The latter noted a state of shock close to hysteria, and regretted he had left the station without a colleague. His usual team partner was stuck in bed with some kind of a flue. But this was Wyoming County, not crazy New York City! He could deal with a call alone! The worst he could expect on a working day like today was eventually a hunter shooting himself in the foot while trying to clean his gun…
He resumed his attention on the teacher. Her speech seemed at first senseless. But when Mandy Longford regained some composure, she managed to tell him that there had been a fire inside the school. A strange fire. And the responsible one…
She held a finger towards the row of bikes. But Heath was no longer there.
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To Be Continued
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Meanwhile, go and read « What The Bigger Picture is For ». You won't regret it, I promise… ;-)