But I DIDN'T Do It!
100 Theme Challenge #53
"But I didn't do it!"
"Don't feed me that! You're the only one who could have possibly pulled this off!"
"But—!"
"No buts!"
Henry Bray was normally a patient and forgiving man. Being the headmaster of a school, it was quite necessary at times to pardon students and staff alike of their misjudgments. He believed that no-one was truly bad, truly too far gone. Joy had flared in his heart when he had found that an infamous drug dealer that had been selling to his students had been arrested and sentenced. But of course his mood had been ruined when he learned that the student who plagued his thoughts and mind had been the one to—how do the kids say it now-a-day?—"bust" the merchant, and then promptly brought into police custody.
Alex Rider.
The boy had been a model student. Always turning in homework, studying hard, honorable intentions, and exceptionally skilled at sports. That all changed when his former caregiver and uncle had died. Ian Rider.
Mr. Bray had actually met the man a few times. From what he gathered, Alex's uncle believed in safety first and keeping in top physical condition. He was hardly ever present in the boy's childhood, but when he was he taught of virtue and justice. Quite ironic spiels for a banker.
Then he was killed in a car crash.
It all went downhill from there.
Alex was gone for a few weeks after his funeral and returned seemingly beaten and battered like an old rag. Rumors circulated that he had joined a local gang and become addicted to drugs. Mr. Bray had to admit, it would explain a lot, and a few of the teachers actually took up on the gossip and treated the boy accordingly. Even he was tempted to believe them sometimes. But he refused to relieve his naïve ideal that everyone deserved second chances, that everyone had a spark of benevolence within them.
Yet, Alex skipped school again.
And again.
And again.
It became increasingly difficult to excuse the boy. Suspicious cuts and bruises made their appearance whenever he returned from yet another unexcused absence. Of course, a doctor's note was delivered to his inbox, but as he had overheard some of his students muttering:
"No-one can be that sick."
It was just so hard to believe he could be off so many times with one form of sickness or another, and the way his eyes changed over the course of the year said it all.
As a boy, Mr. Bray had laughed in the face of anyone who dared tell him he could judge experiences from a person's eyes. To him, it was fiction. Then his father had returned after years of his post of a wartime sergeant, and he had seen it. Changes made themselves evident in his eyes, an unnatural coldness, depth, and intensity. It seemed as though they had seen too much, viewed the world for what it truly was, not the utopia it was made out to be.
Mr. Bray saw those eyes on his student now. The eyes too old for such a youthful figure, glaring up at him the intensity of someone who knew what hate was and knew how to properly apply it.
It chilled him to his core and helped him to cling to those naïve values of his. Yet, despite himself, Mr. Bray crumbled to pressure. Gossip made too much sense at the moment and he still hadn't filed his taxes.
Alex now passionately gestured to the spray-paint marring the side of the building. "How could I do this! I just got back—what?—four days ago?"
Mr. Bray rubbed his face tiredly. "Alex, it's got your name written all over it."
It was quite a literal statement. The colorful paint spelled several obscene words and was signed "Alex Rider."
Alex frowned. "How does that make it mine?" When no reply was forthcoming, he turned from his position in front of the headmaster and studied him intently.
"You believe them, don't you, Mr. Bray?" It was a statement, a mere fact, and it made the man sick to his stomach. He didn't want to believe them, but the rumors had begun to make all too much sense; he just couldn't ignore them anymore.
"Alex, I—"
The boy help up a signaling hand, the headmaster stopping, startled by the sheer superior presence the boy exerted with a single gesture.
"I don't need an excuse, Mr. Bray. If I were you, I'd believe the rumors too." With a resigned look, Alex shrugged his backpack on and turned from the school.
Birds twittered cheerfully in the dying vegetation surrounding the empty school, their songs of farewell as they prepared to migrate for the winter. The students had left hours ago when a tired headmaster had requested to speak to Alex. No-one had bothered to stay.
Before the boy exited the school grounds, he turned at the gate. "Mr. Bray, I'll be here Friday to clean it up."
With that, he left.
Mr. Bray wasn't sure what to think. It hadn't been an outright confession of guilt, more like he was prepared to accept what was inevitable.
As the retreating sound of bike tires faded, he could've sworn he heard one last verbalization.
"And I'm so sorry for the science block!"
Alex Rider did not show up at school the next day.
. . . .
Authors Note: I don't know what a drabble is, but this may be one.
One-shot (maybe two-shot). Put it on your alert to see.
Poor Mr. Bray.
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