AN: (Warning) There is a bit of somewhat crude humour in part of this chapter. I don't think it will offend anyone, but you know, better safe than sorry.

I missed the subway again. My parents were not happy.

But three weeks have passed and that issue is no longer my biggest folly. I've been ratted out; the school called my parents about the low marks I've been getting. The office even sent a fax.

I come home, thinking of nothing but locking myself in my room (again), and my parents have this slow, 'how dare you?' smile about them. Shuddering, I follow my father as his lips lower themselves into a glower and his eyes darken considerably. He is furious. Not even Mum will stand up for me now. I'm not a favourite at this particular moment. I'm just in big, big trouble.

"This! This! This!" is the first thing out of my father's mouth. He sputters and speaks through his teeth, waving a fax under my nose.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?" demands my mother. Her arms are folded across her chest. Her eyes are cold as ice.

I. Am. So. Done. For.

At first I don't know what they are talking about, but then I catch a glimpse of the print on the fax. I wince. It's all about my marks. I bet there are some mentions of how many classes I've missed, too.

I don't answer. After all, the right to remain silent is just about all I've got going for me at the moment. But my parents do not seem to see it that way. They think I'm being stubborn and sullen.

"Edmund Justaciturn," says my father tersely, "we're waiting."

No.

"How could you have failed science?" Mum asks with a confused shake of her head. "You did so well last year."

Miss Jadis failed me. I guess not showing up to her class and not doing my homework didn't make me disappear from her memory. Darn. Part of me was sort of hoping that if she never saw me again, she might start to doubt I was anything but a figment of her imagination. Figures the White Witch wouldn't forget.

"Speak up," my father tells me.

In my head, I think-secretly-that my silence isn't as freeing as it ought to be. I don't think it becomes me at all. But there's no way out. Can't they see it? I'm gone. I'm barely a shadow of who I used to be. Ever since the world ended…

"For the love of God, Edmund, say something." My mother is losing her patience for this. Like it's a game I'm playing. Some silly child's trick.

If she could see into my mind, I wonder, get a peek into all the fragments and broken thoughts, would she understand? Probably not. Even if I could tell them how I was feeling; how ever since…well, they'll never understand. And even if they could, my jaw hurts. It's like having rusty hinges; I cannot make the them open up.

"Dash it, Edmund!" My father pounds his fist down on the nearby coffee table.

"You'll break it," Mum whispers to him under her breath. I am not supposed to hear her say that; this is one of those 'the punishment is coming from both of us' things. But I hear it clear as day anyway, and I'm certain they know it, so that doesn't matter.

If they knew about my basement room, I think they'd be even more furious. Just a place to waste time, I'm sure they would tell me. They would be dead wrong, though. It's become so much more than that. It's the one thing that still feels unended. I can't explain it. I can't explain much of anything these days. All the same, I know I mustn't lead them on about it. It'll have to be my own little secret. At least until the end of the year.

As they drone on and on about how they expect a great deal more effort from me, pretending to be sympathetic by turn, I tune them out. I think about the walls in that room. Along-side that Jack Lewis poster, I've got three pictures hanging up there now. The stone faun one, the one with Peter saving Susan from a wolf (even the faces are finished by now), and the one I didn't believe I would ever finish. Never-mind, like. The one of the castle. The towers finally don't look stupid or overly perfected. There's nothing idealistic about it. Well, except maybe for the sea-gulls I put in to add to the fact that it was by the sea-shore. I'd thought for sure Mr. Pevensie was not going to be pleased with that. Oddly enough, he didn't mind. He actually said it worked very well.

I recall Caspian (who still hasn't gotten much of anywhere with his family drawings) turning around and sort of giving me a semi-dirty look when Peter commended on my castle. Lasaraleen didn't care that he didn't like her most recent piece of work-she's still in love with him.

Thinking about Art class makes me want to laugh-maybe just a little bit. A small half-suppressed smile creeps up onto my face. I have forgotten I am standing in front of my mad-as-anything parents.

"You think this is funny?" shouts my father, ripping the fax into three neat pieces in front of me and dropping them into the dustbin.

I don't reply.

Instead I watch the three messily-torn pieces of paper falling. I wait until they touch the empty silver-coloured metal-bottom before swallowing hard. Perhaps I should say something now.

"Honey," my mother says in a low voice, clicking her tongue, "don't just keep yelling at him."

I grimace. Often, that's what she says right before they start yelling at each other. I wonder if that makes it my fault. It shouldn't, but sometimes I think it does.

Say something. Say something. Say something.

I can't. I'm tired. It hurts.

"Tomorrow, young man, you will ask this Miss Jadis and this Mr. Kirke-" my father begins, his tone surprisingly level.

"Professor," I murmur.

"What?"

Was that me? Was that my voice? That's what I just spoke up about?

"It's Professor Kirke, actually," I say, my voice so low I am sure they can only just barely hear it.

Their brows crinkle.

"I know, it's confusing." My shoulders shrug upwards, then slump back down.

Poor Professor Kirke. I guess I can't blame him for not passing me, considering I only show up to his class when I feel in the mood for it. As opposed to every day like I am supposed to. Miss Jadis, well, she's a witch. I don't feel sorry for her. But him? Why not?

At least my marks aren't quite as low in his class as they could be. When I actually do make an appearance and park my tush at my desk for forty-five minutes, I usually can follow what's going on. Only I don't care enough about it to raise my hand. (What if he called on me? Then I'd have to speak up. And why would I want that?)

"Professor, then." My father is still going strong, undeterred. "You will ask him-and Miss Jadis-if you can do some extra-credit work to raise your marks."

I nod. It's so much easier than arguing. I think the fire in their eyes is slowly curling up into smoke. For once, the result may be pretend-peaceful if nothing else. Calmness.

A heavy sigh, followed by a quick pat on the check from Mum. "Good boy."

Then I am upstairs again. Extra-credit work, I think. Ugh. This isn't going to be much fun.

I decide to at least give myself one more night off. I don't do any homework. Rather, I sneak down into the kitchen for a snack. Yes, strange though it sounds, I almost feel like I could eat something. Not taste it properly, exactly, but perhaps I might keep something down. I might even feel better afterwards. Since the world ended, this has become such a foreign concept to me.

But my stomach growls, and I obey it this time.

I open the fridge.

A block of cheese, a bowl of week-old pasta, a dish made with eggs (doesn't actually look safe to eat), four loaves of bread, a plastic-bag of grapes, and an apple in the way back that is so old mold is starting to grow on it. The mold is pale greenish-gray. If you look at it a certain way under the fridge's light, it almost looks like a dull shade of silver.

I take out the grapes. The bag its in is from some health-food store called 'the Land of Youth'.

How cheesy, I think, rolling my eyes.

Hmm, cheesy? Maybe I'll have some cheese, too.

Attempting to cut a few slices of cheese, I accidentally slice open my left index finger. A neat, clean line all the way down. It bleeds all over the counter. The blood is so red, so heavy, so dark. I wait for it to clot. When it doesn't seem to be doing so, I wrap it in a dishtowel and go looking for my parents.

Me: "Um,"

They look very hard at me. "What?"

I peel back the towel and show them.

Father curses.

Mother goes for her purse and mobile.

They drive me to the hospital. I need stitches.

After my finger is all closed up with little black Xs and placed in a splint, my parents are busy talking to the doctor and the nurse about something. I'm not sure what. I am not paying attention.

I stand up and peek into an empty room. The white bed there is all made up. It looks so clean, so innocent. I almost wish I was hurt badly enough to spend the night. It might be easier to sleep here than at home. Probably it wouldn't be as easy as my basement room, though.

My parents are still busy talking. They haven't noticed I've wandered off. I think of actually climbing into one of the beds. Maybe no one would figure out I didn't actually belong. Just maybe, if I was to be really, really quiet, I might escape notice. The nurses might let me rest for a little while, not noticing the extra company present.

No, I think, the hospital beds are for physically sick people. Not people facing the world alone after everything stopped.

After a quick trip to the vending machine, where I use a pound I find in my pocket to buy a candy-bar that tastes faintly like dirt sticking to the roof of my mouth, I wander back over to my parents. They are ready to go now.

We don't talk on the way back.

Home is quiet. And I go to sleep.

The next day, my first class is Art, so I don't have to worry about strolling up to the White Witch and asking for extra credit work right off the bat. I'm not anxious about Professor Kirke. I don't expect him to give me that hard of a time about it. At worst, I might get a lecture about attendance. No biggie. The White Witch, on the other hand, is likely to do something that will publicly embarrass me. And I'll have to put up with it, or bye-bye any chance of raising those marks and getting my parents off my back.

I hate my life.

Well, not the Art part of it. Or when I'm in my basement room. The rest of it is pretty rummy, though.

Anyway, Mr. Pevensie limps into the classroom and announces that we are not going to have sketching pads today. We are moving onto something different.

"When are we going to draw naked people?" asks some moron. Worst part: I think he is dead serious.

Peter leans on his crutch, checks his ready laughter, and says, "I don't think the school board would allow that. Any other questions before I explain what we're doing?"

"Forget the school board!" someone jeers.

"Well," Peter jokes, "even if we did forget that, we wouldn't have a model, and I doubt anyone wants to see me without clothes on."

"I do," Lasaraleen puts in, resting her chin in the open palms of her hands.

I wish Peter was my age and not the teacher. That way I could make fun of him for going red when she said that. I do feel sorry for him, however, don't think I don't have sympathy.

"Moving on," Peter is back in firm-voice, 'Mr. Pevensie' mode.

"Heck," cries some kid I haven't noticed before, "I'll do it!"

"Do what?" Mr. Pevensie says the wrong thing. He should nip this in the bud before it's too late.

The boy stands up on the table and pulls his uniform slacks (and pants) down. "Everybody, start drawing! You're welcome!"

It's too late.

Caspian is laughing so hard I think he is going to pass out.

Some of the other students are clapping.

Lasaraleen sighs, "I love this class."

"Enough!" Peter sounds like he might be holding back a laugh, but his tone is still unwaveringly firm.

He wobbles over to the table the half-naked student is standing on. "Show's over, pull up your pants."

The boy does so.

"And get down," he adds, rolling his eyes. "This isn't the closing scene of the Dead Poets Society, you don't have to stand on your desk."

The boy takes his seat.

"Now no more about naked people unless you all want to get sent to the headmaster's office," says Mr. Pevensie, back in control.

He tells us that we are going to be starting on making models of things instead of sketching them. We can go back to sketching later in the term if we like, but for right now, that is what we are going to be working on.

Noticing my finger, "Mr. Justaciturn, what happened?"

I shrug.

"Not your drawing hand?"

I shake my head no. He is making this easy for me. I wonder if that is on purpose or not.

"Good, then I'll give you a choice."

He says that if I feel up to it, I can work on a model of something with clay or whatever, but if not, I am free to do some more drawings in light of my injury.

I listen as he talks about how inspiration can come from just about anything. He says it's not as different from drawing as one might suppose. With great effort (because of his hurt leg) he takes off one of his shoes and places it on his desk. It is black, lace-up, and made of leather.

A few foreheads crinkle. They don't get it. It's just a shoe, isn't it?

"Does this inspire you?" Peter says it in a way that strongly suggests the question is strictly rhetorical.

Still, a few hands come up anyway, thinking he wants answers.

He ignores them and goes on with his speech. We are all supposed to look deep into ourselves. Deep into any object from our past, present, or (if we're daring) future.

I'm not sure why, but I think about the laurel-ring I gave Lucy. I remember it on her finger when…after…at the morgue. I shake the last bit away. I force myself to see only the ring. Not her finger, not her, just the ring.

I could make something like that, I think.

A model of a laurel-ring? Too small. Not really fantasy, either. What about a crown? A garland-crown in laurel shapes. Silver-coloured.

It takes a little bit of rummaging through odds and ends Peter is letting us pick from, but finally I find some flexible shinny-gray wire, some plastic leaf-shapes, and a roll of tin-foil.

I set to work.

The bell rings for the end of class; and all I have accomplished is bending the wire into a circlet and wrapping some tinfoil around one side of it. Not much. Still, this is only the start. If it fails, I'll just draw something instead. Mr. Pevensie's (perhaps unwittingly) given me a get out of jail free card with this one. Or else, my hurt finger has.

When I come across Professor Kirke in the hallway, I stammer out what I hope means I want to raise my marks. My words don't come easily. Thankfully he's in no great hurry. He waits until I am done. Then a nod. Then, "Yes, I think I can manage something for you."

Good, I think, all done. Like ripping off a band-aid. One good yank and it's over.

Now for the Witch.

How to ask her for extra credit work when I can't even imagine myself forming the words? Her stare will freeze me right up. And I know I won't ask what I promised my parents I would.

As I am gathering up my nerve, I see something that freezes me up far more quickly than the dread of asking the White Witch for a favor of sorts does.

A new boy is here, in school. And I know him. His face, even though he's not hanging from a hook, is familiar to me. I hate him. That ass! The dark-faced boy from the party in Bristol last year. God, I hate him. What is he doing here?

From listening to other people's conversations instead of going to talk to Miss Jadis like I am supposed to be doing, I gather some information about him. His name is Rabadash, he's a transfer student, and he is Lasaraleen's second cousin a couple of times removed.

Why here? Why here of all places? As if things aren't bad enough already? As if my life isn't already over? Does he have to come here? It's like sending a scavenger to sift through the ashes of my lost world and make sure not even a grain of sand's worth of it remains.

Maybe I am being unreasonable. The school doesn't know what he tried to do. And he's older; this must be his last year before he tries for a university in all likelihood. One year. I only have to make it through the rest of the year with this monster, and then he's gone. We might not even see each other much. He might not remember me. Or else, if he does, he might not recognize me as the person who punched in him the face and left him hanging on a coat-hook. But his simply being here sends shivers crawling up and down my spine.

Still forgetting what I am supposed to be doing, I go down to my basement room and pull out a sketch pad.

I may be working on that model of the laurel-crown in Art, but I can still draw during my free time. Even if, technically, it's stolen time.

My new drawing is of myself. Me tied to a tree with a gag over my mouth and a knife pressed to my throat. The imagery is clear as crystal. My lips are paralyzed, I can't speak up.

When I get home, I go up to my bedroom and find a long piece of dark brown-nearly black-cloth, and stand in front of the mirror. I open my lips and force the gag in, tying it around to the other side. To see what it would really look like, I suppose.

I stare. I squint. Like I've never seen myself before. It does look different, to be honest. I can't put my finger on it.

But, for once, I think, I look almost exactly how I feel most of the time now-a-days.

My bedroom door opens. My father is standing there.

Of course he didn't think of knocking first.

I stare at him. I know I am still wearing the gag, and I wonder how on earth I am going to explain it.

"I don't have time for this," he moans shortly, before I can think of what to say. "I'm not going to bother asking what you're doing."

Instinctively, my fingers stray to the front of the gag. I don't pull it out right away though. I just remain silent.

"Did you ask your teachers about the extra credit work?"

I nod. It's not a complete lie. After all, I did ask one of them.

"And?"

I shrug.

"Well?"

I motion over at my desk. Some work is spread out there; but I haven't started it.

"Shouldn't you be working instead of fooling around?"

I lower my eyes and nod.

"Good, get to it then," he says. "Your mother and I are going out. Do your homework and try not to do anything stupid, okay?"

I blink.

"We'll be back by nine."

And he's gone.

I look back in the mirror one last time before I take off the gag. I don't like what I see. It's the truth, the pure, untarnished, non-withheld truth. But I don't like it. Not one bit.

AN: This is the part where you tell me what you thought of the chapter! So please review.