"Hey, Fang - take a break, alright? You've been grading for hours. At least go out for a smoke, you look like you need it."
The chair skidded across the floor as he stood abruptly, robotically. His mug of black coffee flicked back and forth; rivulets streaked the porcelain mug and droplets stained the corners of exams that he'd yet to grade. They were the ones that sat neatly in a pile away from the ink ridden copies that laid haphazardly on the opposite side of his desk.
The other teachers thought he didn't notice their eyes pressing into his shoulder blades as he strode to the courtyard, but he did. He just ignored it, like he did most things that weren't fascinating or interesting to him. Because although Fang Walker was a good man - and an even better teacher - he was human.
And he was bored.
Fang's fingers fumbled with the new carton of cigarettes that lay in his numb hands, chilled from the biting England air. It was winter, which meant lazy snowflakes and snowboarding for students and the lucky teachers that taught drawing or orchestra in the Alps. Fang wasn't as fortunate, and bags were beginning to settle under his eyes from reading essay after essay, thesis statement after thesis statement. He'd been challenging his students, he'd thought, but he was just digging his own grave, writing an inscription on his tombstone that said, sloppily:
Here lies the unfortunate and idiotic English teacher, Nicholas "Fang" Walker.
When the top of the carton finally opened, it was tattered and ripped with impatience. Fang flipped two of the cigarettes upside-down for good luck, and slid one out from the corner. His fingers were blindingly cold and red by the time he stashed the carton in his coat and gripped his Zippo - the metal seemed to be even colder than his hands - lighting the end of the cigarette quickly before taking a long, exhausted drag.
"Hey, mate," Fang heard someone call from across the courtyard, which was just a wasteland at that point, buried with snow. He nodded his head but didn't look to see who it was, because he already knew. It was the only other teacher that would talk to him, Iggy. "Are you nodding? Because I can't see you nodding."
"Hey." That was the curt reply that Fang came up with, and he chuckled to himself. He didn't know why Iggy taught when he was blind, but cooking was his absolute favourite thing in the world, and he could hear the students talking when they shouldn't or the chomping as they ate the ingredients, so Fang couldn't complain about his capability.
"They think you're a fucking joke. You know that, right?" Iggy said, extending his palm to Fang, who dug into his coat to retrieve a cigarette and his Zippo. Iggy's hands were warm as he placed the items on his palm, watching his spidery fingers encase the two, holding them for a moment before deciding they were good enough.
Fang took another drag. "Yeah, well, you're not much better, Cigs," he said, nudging him in the ribs. Iggy must have smoked a pack a day, giving him the nickname "Cigs" from all his coworkers, even though Fang wasn't any better. He shook out some of the ash piling on the edge of his cigarette, letting out another stream of smoke.
"At least they don't call me a fucking wanker behind my back."
Fang's eyes were beginning to sting from the incessant white bleeding on the earth. "You'd think they'd have better things to call an English teacher?" When Iggy chuckled, Fang's dull eyes sparked for a moment; he liked the way people thought he was funny, especially his coworkers.
"How's grading?" Iggy tried to change the topic.
"Fucking horrible." Fang ran a hand through his tousled hair. It was somewhat damp from the flakes of snow melting on him. "Do you have Maximum Ride?"
"Yeah, her cooking is ghastly." Iggy's face was pensive. "I think she burned cereal the other day."
"Well, she's not so bad of a writer, but she's bullshitting the absolute fuck out of the essay she had to write." Fang started to laugh for a moment before he caught himself. "It was about transcendentalism, and she's talking about bodies of water, like that's related to Walden Pond at all."
Iggy let out a wheezy laugh, the kind of laugh that a smoker choked out between constricted lungs. He waved Fang away when he sensed his concerned look. "She still shagging with that wanker, Dylan?"
Fang frowned. "Nah, she's been over him for a while. Mostly fights, though."
"She still winning?"
"Every time." Fang said it like it was something to be proud of, not something a teacher should chastise.
Most of the teachers talked about students when they were at the secondary school, but the student talked about the most was Maximum Ride, a rebellious and witty girl that spent Friday nights getting into four or five fights, and the weekdays somehow passing her classes, when she was already on thin ice. Beautiful, she'd make teachers quit or get fired - they'd all go for her. Naturally, one to talk about, she was dangerous and that was interesting.
"You better be careful," Iggy warned, but his tone was light. "She could make a move and get you sacked next."
"Oh, piss off," Fang sighed, "I'm twenty-three years old, it's not like I'm attracted to someone that's only fucking sixteen."
"Just a warning."
Fang crushed the cigarette butt underneath the soles of his Vans, standing up straighter. Iggy passed him his Zippo. "Watch yourself, you're a handsome twat. Maybe she likes tossers like you and Dylan."
"That's a great compliment from someone that's blind."
Fang and Iggy laughed. For teachers, they sure sounded like teenagers.
The heat of the school was amazing against Fang's frigid skin as he waltzed back into the staff office, smelling of tobacco and winter. There were scattered looks as he dropped into his chair, placing his Zippo on one of the stacks of papers he'd yet to file. His fingers were still somewhat numb as he grabbed another essay to grade, noticing the coffee stains.
"Bollocks," Fang whispered to himself, rubbing his growing migraine with chapped fingers. The brown colour seeped into the six pages of the student's essay, mingling with the ink. He'd have to ask the student for another copy.
Once again, Fang stood from his chair, but instead of running straight out of the office, he asked quite loudly, "Which class does," he looked at the name on the papers, "Monique Wilson have right now?" He remembered her, a mocha skinned girl with hair that curled in massive ringlets. She was well off as well, if he could recall, and it her nickname of "motor mouth" was extremely accurate, based off the length of her essay.
"Room 204, with Olivier," someone mused. Fang grabbed his bag and the thick essay, let out a small thanks with a curt wave, and went off to Olivier's room with distaste. He taught psychology and thought he could analyze students easily because of it, albeit he was the biggest wanker Fang knew.
When he reached the room, he knocked once on the doorframe before entering. Olivier was in the middle of lecture, yet he had the sense to continue his teaching of the prefrontal cortex while Fang went to find Monique. It wasn't hard, as she was sitting in the corner of the room farthest from him, and her caramel locks stood out from the lack of colour the students had in their hair.
"Monique, I'm sorry, I must've spilt coffee on your essay," he said quietly. She gave him a look of bewilderment, her thoughts displayed on her expression - why is Mr. Walker talking to me? The Mr. Walker! "Might you have a copy?"
It was true that he was popular with the students, but she seemed genuinely surprised, yet trying to look disinterested, because Fang could feel the pressing and jealous glares on the back of his neck as well.
She dug into the recesses of her pink handbag, the rhinestones reflecting off the ceiling light of the classroom and displaying shimmering squares on the wall of the room. Finally, she pulled out a memory stick in the shape of a giraffe. "Just make sure you give George back," she said, putting it in his hand.
Fang blinked. "Right."
She gave him a smile and turned back to face Olivier, who was giving Fang a glare. He had easily distracted half of his students; most of the girls had turned to watch him leave. "Pardon me for the intrusion," Fang said politely, but Olivier's glare just hardened.
It was hard not to laugh at him.
On the way back to the staff office, Fang swore he could hear an incessant banging, but he wasn't quite sure whether or not it was his head pounding or something he should worry about. When voices came from the same sound of banging, distressed voices, Fang knew that he needed to find out what it was. He put George the giraffe into his pocket and went to the source, the chemistry lab.
By the time he entered, the place was trashed. Chemicals leaked onto the floor from dripping tables, beakers were smashed, and papers lay on the floor in a blurred streak, some painted with colourful chemicals. When he looked up, he saw four people huddling in the corner of the room, picking on one person that he couldn't make out.
Fang walked quietly in the room, avoiding the pieces of glass that would give him away, and began locking the windows to the room, blocking all the doors but the one he had come from. The students hadn't noticed him, but he winced and sped up when he heard the sound of skin hitting skin, the muffled cry of the victim. When he returned to the sole exit out, he cleared his throat thickly. Five heads whipped towards Fang's. Immediately, they tried to exit through the windows, only to find them locked.
"Satisfied?" Fang asked, crossing his arms. "The only way out is here. You have five seconds each to tell me your names before I expel you." There was a chorus of names rushed at the same time. "Separately, you twats!"
"Samuel Richards."
"Dylan Wilcox."
"Conall McCay."
"Duncan Clayworth."
The last one was a croak in the corner of the room. "Maximum Ride."
Fang's eyes widened, just for a moment, surprised that four boys would gang on just one person. He recognized most of them - he had taught them one year or another, and now they were just people that would flit about the school.
"All of you are staying after school to clean this mess, and I expect you all to reimburse Ms. Boyes for the damage of her chemistry equipment. Dismissed." Fang stepped to the side as the boys ran out of the room.
Fang rushed to the corner of the chemistry room, glass crunching under his Vans as he rushed to Max's side. It was a horrendous sight. Blood dripped from her forehead and ran down her face, collecting in a pool on her collarbone. She was naked, her blouse ripped and hanging on her waist. Her knickers hung on her ankles, and bruises layered over her fair skin in a film of blue, black, and yellow. Blood splattered on her stomach and arms and seemed to be gushing out of every orifice on her face, her nose dripping and her lip split. One of her eyes was swollen shut.
Fang swallowed thickly, pulling her knickers back onto her body, taking her pulse. It was there, but faint. "Did they...?" He asked, unable to say the rest.
Max chuckled. "Yeah, I guess they did." Her voice was distant, miles away, but it shattered his insides with a disgraceful and loud crack.
"I'm going to dial 999, okay?" He said, but he had already gripped his mobile with one hand and was holding hers with the other. It was limp. While he stated the emergency, he took off his blazer and wrapped her body in it, carefully cradling her head and covering her upper half with it. He hung up and stood, letting go of her hand, until she gripped it with a strong force he didn't anticipate.
"Don't leave," she croaked.
"I won't."
Max was extremely light in his arms, her bones seemed almost hollow. He ran quickly, but not so fast as to jostle her. "It hurts," she whispered, so quietly that he could barely hear it.
"It won't be much longer," Fang said, looking into her eyes. They were duller than his.
"Promise?"
"I promise," he said, but noticed how her eyes kept closing. "Max, I need you to stay awake."
"Why?"
"Because you could have a concussion, okay?"
"Fine," she still had the strength to say it stubbornly.
When Fang got back to the staff office, he needed to find Iggy. No other strange looks that his coworkers had given him could compare to the one that he gave him now, holding a seemingly lifeless Maximum Ride, the most talked about student in the school. The only one without the reaction was Iggy, who couldn't see the sight.
"Mate!" Fang cried out. "I need your help, Cigs!"
Knowing that Fang was the only one that would call Iggy "Cigs," he stood up and asked, "Are you the smell of blood?"
"No, it's Max."
"Max?"
"Maximum Ride, you twat!"
"Oh," he said, subdued for a moment, until he could grasp the situation. "The Queen's tits!" He shouted, aghast.
There was nothing else to be said. Iggy took Max in his arms while Fang messily grabbed his bag and his keys, spilling his coffee in the process. He asked another teacher, Marissa, if he could check him and Iggy out. She nodded as Max was put back into Fang's arms and Iggy started to call Max's mum. Max's sister, Ella, was paged to come to the main office.
The ambulance lights were bright, and the migraine that had been growing was pounding, hitting Fang's head and causing black spots to dance over his eyes. Students crowded over to the windows, wondering what was happening, while teachers futilely tried to usher them back to their seats. Some closed the blinds, some whispered, wondering what the two hottest teachers in the school were doing with a student they couldn't recognize.
Fang put Max on the awaiting stretcher gently, looking around for Ella and her mum, but the two hadn't arrived by the time she was to be taken into the ambulance. A paramedic tapped Fang's shoulder. "She wants you to come with her," he said, and Fang blinked.
"Of course."
He held her hand the entire way.
Okay, I need to STOP making so many stories just to make new ones, so I'm starting an updating schedule, if you will. This will be easier for me, and I'll start it this next week. Sorry for the usage of English slang... I think it suits the story and honestly, I talk like that all the time, so it's easier than being polite.
-SOCIALLYOBSCENE