Chapter 14: Light

A/N: Hello, people! I honestly think I get some of my best writing on this story done in the mornings...well, anyway. Enjoy! Is this any good? I really don't know...please review! Thank you for all the reviews last time!

It took me awhile to unstick myself from the locker doors, but when I did, I realized the bell had already rung – twice. Not a good sign. I scrambled to my next class, and slid into my usual seat in art just as the late bell rang.

Ms. Delaney gave me a playfully annoyed look. "Cutting it a little fine, aren't we, Hiccup?" she teased.

I blushed, reminding myself that she did this to every student who showed up late. "Sorry, Ms. Delaney. It won't happen again."

She sent me a smile before returning her attention to the whole class, and I stared down at the sheets of Xs I'd collected from the floor of the classroom, replaying the scene from English class in my head. The way Snotlout had dangled the sheets out of my reach and laughed, like he'd thought it was funny, like he'd thought it was a game…

"Now, I want you all to listen up, because we are going to be starting a prompt project!" Ms. Delaney grinned at us, giving us the jazz hands as she spoke. "In short, I'll give you a single word that will spark your creativity. You will attempt to draw it as best you can. I have a list of great ones right here…hold on, let me see if I can find it…" For a teacher, Ms. Delaney was disorganized as the day is long.

She shifted several papers around, pulling a piece of bright pink and purple stationery up off her desk. When she set it back down, I saw she had doodled hearts and books all over the page. "Here it is, class!" she grinned. "Never fear, I always find what I need in the end! Right, so, I'll be randomly picking a prompt and you will attempt to draw it in the time we have left!"

I felt myself beginning to relax a bit as she talked, the scene from English class fading into the background of my mind. Like I said, art class made me feel like I had breathing room. Nothing else did in this way. I opened my sketchbook, burying my Xs beneath the thick, shiny white pages. I picked up my pencil, twirling it between my fingers, waiting to hear the prompt.

"Alright, the prompt is light," she informed us, setting her page back down and smiling at us. The bracelets on her wrists clinked and clanked whenever she moved her hands. "Anyone? Does that spark creativity with any of you?"

If it had been darkness, I would have drawn my house. But seeing as my house was nowhere near light, I couldn't run to that for defense. So I ran back through my mind, trying to pick my favorite memories. Trying to separate the darkness from the light.

I stared down at my pencil as I thought, and pretty soon my pencil was going along the page, scribbling around the edges, hopefully bringing life to the white page. What I'd said about art class earlier was perfectly true: I had breathing room here, time and space didn't matter. And I surprised myself by forgetting to make sure the drawing looked perfect, forgetting to add Xs because of what had happened in English class. The light swirls and strokes of my pencil brought me to another time and place, one where I could maybe, one day, be happy. Maybe one day, in this little alternate universe, I wouldn't be a mistake, and I would be happy. I wouldn't have to add Xs, or starve myself as a form of punishment. In this world, Mom had stayed alive, and Dad had never hit me. They both loved me still. The false reality came to life under my pencil and every stroke felt like a huge check mark, a huge weight off my shoulders. When I realized this, I stopped drawing in the center of the page, choosing to line the drawing with little check marks instead. When I was finished, the bell wasn't yet ringing.

Ms. Delaney began walking around the room, randomly asking to see other people's drawings. I pretended I still wasn't finished with mine. Maybe that would make her keep her distance.

Of course, it never works out that way for me, and all too soon, she was standing beside my desk, asking to see what I had so far.

I slid my arm off my sketchbook reluctantly, letting her have a look. She stared down at it, her eyes going instantly to the first frame, the frame of a woman and a little boy. The woman was holding the little boy's hand, and music notes swirled around them as she sang him to sleep. I felt sure it was a beautiful lullaby. One I would now never know.

Then her eyes swept over the second frame, the frame of my father in the backyard that night, waiting for me to try to throw a punch. Waiting for me to learn to defend myself. And I remembered that I'd given a sort of nervous laugh, and told him that I was not going to punch him. No, I wasn't even going to try.

Dad had smiled slightly down at me, and explained to me that I wouldn't hurt him. He'd showed me that I wasn't yet strong enough to hurt him. And I'd told him that I wouldn't be this way forever.

"One day, I'll be big and strong like you!" I beamed up at him, sure that he was going to laugh and smile and agree with me, just like always. Because for some reason I didn't understand at that age, my dad always laughed and smiled and agreed. Very agreeable. Never angry. Never outraged. Not until this night, not until the principal let off those kids with just a warning. The evidence of the anger had been written all over his face, but he had simply smiled at me that night and it had faded. Everything had gone away. I had chosen to believe that he wasn't angry anymore.

But this time, Dad didn't smile or laugh. In fact, his smile faded, and the lines around his eyes grew deeper than ever. "Yes," he agreed quietly, "yes, you will."

I had the feeling that I'd said something wrong, something to make him sad, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

Ms. Delaney was smiling a bit at the picture of us in our backyard, my father grinning down at me as he explained that I couldn't hurt him with my fists. So why could he hurt me?

I shook my head to clear it. I was in school. School and my home life normally stayed far away from each other. Two spheres that were simply not allowed to touch. I was sure a colossal explosion would follow.

She turned her attention to the third frame: my father cleaning my palm, barely even looking at me, but paying attention to me and caring about me nonetheless. Finally, for once, remembering that he had a son, remembering that I needed him, too. And then all that was forgotten within two seconds, because of three words that I would sooner cut out my tongue than ever utter again.

I closed my eyes as I thought of it. Why did all my happy memories, why did all the light have to mix so easily with the darkness? One shining moment of golden color before the night reclaimed it, contaminating it. If my father had not hit me for saying I love you, then that memory would have been nothing but light. But darkness was always waiting on the edges to creep in, to steal away everything you have. I didn't want to stand by and let it, but I knew by now I had no choice. I simply watched it overtake everything about me, sometimes without even noticing and other times with perfect understanding as to what was going on.

Ms. Delaney turned her attention to the fourth frame, and I can't tell if she was confused or not by the outline of the boy, his silhouette composed of check marks. All check marks, like he didn't know how to make an X. Like he was perfect and happy and full of light. Not stupid and sad and gnawed on by darkness.

She didn't ask about it, though. She simply slid the paper back towards me and said, "Good job! There's a lot going on in the scene. It's really powerful." And she let me take the drawing back. I guess some people would say that it's a good sign that she didn't give me a criticism, but I don't think Ms. Delaney has ever given even the worst artist in her class a single word of negativity.

In fact, speaking as the worst artist in her class, I'm sure she hasn't.

I glanced back down at the drawing, remembering the happy boy with the smile, his outline full of check marks.

And then, as I shifted the sketchbook so I could reach the places I needed better, a couple Xs fluttered in the breeze, one of them dropping to the floor.

For a second, I glanced up, terrified, remembering the scene in English class, but everybody else was so focused on their work that they didn't even notice me. I picked up the sheet quickly, and then stared miserably down at mistake after mistake, hating myself for the way hot tears stung my eyes. I didn't want to cry anywhere, least of all in school, but it was getting harder and harder to push the tears back every time I did.

I pulled the newest sheet closer to me and began filling it up with my mistakes.