The boy slid down his chair, his backside gave a slight 'thud' on the dusty wooden floor. As he began to stand, he brushed off loose dust and imaginary lint from his navy blue uniform – his dull, haunted, deep emerald eyes took in his surroundings; his claustrophobic room had a dark, unwelcoming, hostile ambience filling every square millimetre of the area. His tall boy leant at an angle on his right, his full length mirror was to his left, and his bed – well more of a cot in his opinion – was behind him, the stiff, wooden chair next to its side. He stared unblinkingly at the oak door right in front of him.
Many would usually associate a door as a metaphor for freedom, escape, the barrier between confinement and the sweet smelling, fragrant roses that grow and grace the land beyond. Those people would be wrong in this situation.
There isn't a way out when you attend Caleb's Academy for Gentlemen – not for him anyway. "Where Boys Become Men," the academy motto perturbed the young gentleman quite a bit, he was frightened as to how the academy would change him into a man. He winced as the voice of an adolescent boy that could be heard outside the door – the broken voice gave an obvious sign of a boy who was in the middle of puberty. How pleasant. The windowless room echoed with silence compared to the deafening noise of the hall and the boisterous voice.
He turned his back on Hell and peered at himself in the reflection of his mirror. His lanky form was athletically built. He raised his thick sweater, tie and white pressed shirt to reveal his abdomen that held a muscular, refined six-pack. As he traced his muscles with his index finger, he noted his legs, arms and whole body could improve, he knew that he could do better, work harder and be fitter than he already was. His bronze tinted hair fell into his eyes, he assessed the features upon his face; the sharp angle of his high cheek bones, his strong, set jaw – of course he didn't see any of this, he never did.
He looked at his numbingly hurt hands, the constant writing, the playing of his guitars, his base and his piano, how he seemed to put every one of his emotions into each note. He grew accustomed to the pain; he accepted it, for it was always a constant reminder that he wasn't a hollow being. He often wondered where his sanity had gone and always answered himself with, "I never really had it in the first place." His emotionless – and yet so emotional – eyes wondered to his indigo school bag. Straight A's in every class and he didn't seem to try, he didn't see a point as to why he should. He only ever enjoyed literature, music class and foreign language. He loved to read and write, write novels, write music lyrics, compose and play his compositions on his prized instruments. He loved the mystical sense of different tongues from different and foreign lands. Besides his chosen three, everything else seemed irrelevant.
Putting his attire in its previous position, he laid his hand on the cool, golden metallic doorknob. He turned it with careful speed; scared it would fall and break, resulting in him being trapped in his prison forever. The door opened an inch; he peered outside, opened it further and stepped out.
Paper-planes flying, balls of all different colours, shapes and sizes being tossed, loud chatter everywhere – no peace and quiet anywhere. He clung to the corridor wall like a sailor connected to his ship by a lifeline on dangerous seas. He wasn't scared, he was beyond that. He couldn't remember a time when his whole being wasn't frightened beyond measure at this prestigious school, he never seemed to feel comfortable or safe; he would just lose himself. He lost himself in his books, his music, his thoughts, his imagination… anything, anything to forget his flaws, anything to escape. He was a lost soul. How cliché.
The pushing and shoving began.
The boisterous voice and its owner have found their next target.
The hushed, young gentleman looked up into the sneering face of the boy who was pinning him to the bleach white, sterile wall. Silence was everywhere. Noise was nowhere to be found. There was no intake of breath, no birds calling, not even a heart beat and he was sure everyone's heart were jumping out of their chests. The bronze tinted haired boy thought that even a pin would not dare to drop. He also thought that maybe the silence was so thick a lion's tremendous roar or an elephant's earth shattering boom couldn't be heard. Of course he couldn't test out his theory.
The unruly lad lifted his clenched right fist from the others' throat, the fist in preparation for the right hook that was to come. Flying fists, kicks, head butts, grabbing and throwing from random strangers usually followed – today was no exception. Once the right hook landed, all the physical torture would begin. No words spoken; no sound. Sheer silence.
No one bothered to step in.
They watched as the young boy – for he didn't appear to be an adolescent anymore – crawl into his room, his sweater covered in his own blood, clothing ripped, bruises swelling, his hair clinging to his pale face. He wasn't crying. He would never shed tears, it would only encourage them, show that he was weak; he didn't want them to believe they were winning, but he knew they were and always will.
He stretched himself down on his cot-like bed and waited to step into the dark. It never came. He stood after he realised it wouldn't fall upon him and took his slightly used towel from its place, he decided to refresh himself. He ignored the ache on every fibre of his being, physical, emotional and mental. He ignored the twitches, the limp, the way his left arm couldn't bend at a certain angle; he, most of all, ignored the stares and whispers behind books, files, hands, papers – all from those things that just stood back and watched. Most didn't enjoy it, some bet – but why didn't they stop and help? They were scared… and he was way beyond that.
It became a ritual. At least once a week the abuse would happen to him, not just the physical abuse from the others, but the emotional and inner abuse upon himself. He doubted himself even more and discovered new non – existent flaws. He kept thinking of stepping into his dark more and more often as time progressed, he would even dream of it some nights; it frightened him and enlightened him at the same time. He hadn't felt so positive in a long time. He liked it.
One night he awoke from a particularly good, bloody dream where he had walked into the cold embrace of something sinister. It chilled his peers to their blackened souls and they knew it was them who were at fault.
He had made his decision.
He was going to walk – no run – into the dark. His dark; his night.
His alarm clock blared with the sound of alternative rock filling up the vacant area, making the world know it was 6:30am. Like always, no light shone through the room to suggest the morning – just complete blackness and accompanied by deathly silence. He rose from his uncomfortable sleeping position and flipped the light switch, his eyes adjusting to the artificial, sudden, yellow light from above. The bronze haired youth stood still for a moment, realisation hit him like a heavy down pour of rain, hail, lightning and thunder raging with it after a ten year drought. Today was the beginning of his new end. How bliss.
He got ready for his sweet freedom, unnaturally content for someone with his personality – but, sadly, he also had to get ready for his unnecessary education. A double period of maths to start the unwelcomed day. Two hours of calculations. Joy, just pure joy, his thought rampant with sarcasm.
He stepped into the intimidating hallway and was thankful he already received his weekly beating, but still avoided them at all costs. In his haste of not wanting to be ambushed and chased, he barrelled over a girl, relatively, the same age as him. The alien girl was lost in the ever growing, ever unloving boarding school – she didn't seem to know who the elder boy was.
"I'm so sorry!" the she cried aloud, much to the other's surprise.
Someone talked to him. Someone talked to him. How… peculiar.
The peculiar one had waves of rosewood coloured hair falling from her head and wide, bright mahogany eyes that gave the illusion that her face was much more fragile than that of any others' that the boy had ever seen before.
She grabbed the fallen books that were lying scattered across the floor beneath them and handed the other – who was still in shock from being addressed – the unforgivable mathematics text books. The silent one was still unmoving and that unnerved the random other, she came up with the conclusion that the other was going to have a panic attack.
She asked with hesitation, "Are you alright?" There was no reply until a moment later when the other came out of his daze and gave a curt nod, he turned briskly away.
"Well, have a good day," the rosewood haired girl called with a lazy smile. "The weather is going to be fantastic!" she said with a daydreaming edge. Looking out the window, the rosewood youth could practically taste the fresh air and how it filled his lungs.
The other had heard, but pretended not to. Truth be told, he could imagine how great it would be too, but he was suppressing it and he didn't know why.
The youthful, bronze haired boy didn't realise at that moment how much that encounter had changed his set path and he would, most probably, never find out. His night and dark conquered his dreams, emotions, mind and soul less and less with every passing second. He didn't realise that he began to see everyone, everything, every situation in a more positive light. He didn't realise that he and the other youth, relatively the same age as he, would become closer and how he would become the one he always – subconsciously – wanted. He wanted someone to trust, to depend on in his time of need and vice versa. He needed that to live; live not just survive.
His night was fading; forgotten. Instead the growing sunlight took its place; brighter and brighter, until he succumbed into peace and happiness. True freedom.