A/N: Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I know I've been so long in posting anything, but I started school and I was just trying to adjust and all. I've finally gotten somewhat settled, so I should be posting a bit more regularly again. Sorry!
Jim groggily blinked against the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window. He rolled over and slid out of bed, dressing sluggishly in his uniform and packing up his school bag. School had been going for a week and a half now, and Jim had already fallen into his routine: wake up, eat breakfast if it's safe, school, lunch, school, home, get hit, homework, sleep. In that order.
Mostly all of his classes were boring, save for Physics and English. Physics wasn't boring because it provided a slight challenge for him, and English wasn't boring because Mr. Moran somehow managed to make it interesting, despite Jim's idiot classmates. The books were good and the things Mr. Moran talked about actually made Jim think. Plus, Mr. Moran was big on creative writing, and Jim had an entire spiral notebook full of his writings that he always carried with him; everything from poems to short stories to mind ramblings that he was sure would get somewhere eventually, but he hadn't figured out how just yet.
Jim slipped out of his room and tip-toed in his socks to the stairs, hoping that his father was sleeping off a hangover or already drunk. But then as he took his first step down the stairs, his dad emerged from his bedroom, shuffling down the hallway.
"Trying to run away from me, Jimmy?" his dad slurred, grinning and coming up behind Jim. He grabbed the teen by his collar and Jim stiffened.
"No sir," Jim said, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping his back to his father. "Just going to school."
His dad grew immediately angry, pulling the teenager up and pushing him against the wall. The older man drew back his fit to hit his son, but was so intoxicated that his fist collided with the wall rather than the teenager's face. Grumbling with anger and frustration and shaking his hand, his dad opted instead to throw Jim down the stairs. Jim curled into a ball, holding his ribs and his bleeding mouth until his dad shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen, stepping over his bleeding child. Jim waited until he heard his father moving around plates and chairs to get up and run out the door to school.
When he made it to school, his lip was still bleeding and class had already started, but his ribs no longer ached. He quietly slipped into English class, avoiding Mr. Moran's look and getting out his things. He smiled when the teacher – who often paced around the classroom during lectures – dropped a box of Kleenex on Jim's desk and kept walking, having seen the blood dripping down Jim's chin from his lips.
Class went on normally, with many eye rolls from Jim at idiotic comments by his classmates, and exasperated sighs from his teacher at the same comments on occasion. When the bell rang, Jim stood and got up, packing quickly and hoping to leave without getting Mr. Moran's attention. But as he got to the door he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to see his teacher raising an eyebrow at him.
"How's the lip?" he asked, motioning to the bad cut on Jim's no longer bleeding lip.
Jim shrugged, running his tongue over it to try and get off the dried blood. "Fine. Why?"
"Because it was bleeding, Jim," his teacher said. Jim had expected him to laugh, but Mr. Moran just looked genuinely concerned. "What happened? Did you get in a fight or something?"
Jim just shrugged again, knowing full well that he couldn't – nor did he want to – get into the discussion of how his father beat him. Because if he did then his Dad would be sent to jail and Jim would be put into foster care, and then gone were his dreams of Oxford. So he kept his mouth shut about that and instead said, "Fell down the stairs." Which was partially true.
Mr. Moran narrowed his eyes and looked at him carefully, then sighed. "Fine, you don't want to talk about it, I get it," he said, turning around and going back to his desk. "But when you do feel like it, I'm here, okay?" He scribbled something down on a piece of notebook paper and then walked back to Jim, handing it to the Irish teen.
"Your phone number?" Jim said, raising an eyebrow at his teacher.
Now it was Mr. Moran's turn to shrug. "I probably shouldn't, but it's not like I'm saying you should come over for dinner. It's just if you have an emergency or something, okay?"
Jim nodded, suppressing a slight smile and putting the slip of paper in his pocket. "Thanks. But I'm late for physics," he said, turning and leaving.
Jim was walking home next to the river, headphones in and whistling to himself. He was distracted and unfocussed, feeling oddly happy for the first time in a while. But that meant that he didn't notice Carl Powers come up behind him and yank his bag off his shoulders.
"Oi!" he shouted, pulling out his headphones and reaching for his bag. Carl laughed and pulled it just out of his reach, his long arms and broad shoulders making it impossible that Jim would ever get it. So Jim just stood there while Carl opened it and looked at the contents.
"Hmm.. Physics, Latin, no.. Oh! I know! English," he said, grinning and taking out Jim's copy of the Great Gatsby. Jim clenched his jaw and took a step forward, but by the time he made a grab for it Carl had thrown the book into the river.
Furious, Jim lunged at Carl and gave him a well-placed knee to the groin. That left Carl on the floor, moaning in pain. Jim grabbed his bag back and started running towards his house. He followed the bend of the river and saw his book on the pebbled shoreline. He bent down to grab it and flipped through the pages, only to find it completely destroyed. Sighing, he kept it in his hand as he walked the rest of the way home.
