Number 21 - AU (Patch's POV)

A Gross Misunderstanding

My father always had a knack of getting in trouble; I would guess it ran in our veins.

Poor sod died before he reached fifty. Shame, really – the ugly bastard owed a bunch of thugs money. No can do. Not like I'm the type to get a job.

Dude dies, and the funeral costs are extortionate. It was like he was playing with us, even then. Dancing around us with his fiddle and all that jazz.

Mummy falls into debt, we're in a smaller house and then we're moving house again because loan sharks are bloody sneaky. Seriously, the bastards were at our house more than we were, and even took upon waiting for us in our neighbours (traitors') homes.

So I'm at a new school with a pair of black Primark trainers (y'no, the rotten flats that split in two days) and a faded blue blazer (ugly yellow logo) from the used section and a schoolbag that's been running for four years solid – yeah, it was more sentimental than fashionable with the amount of paperclips that were holding the broken zips closed (maybe it could pass for hip?)

Dressing like a homeless kid in a bunch of unironed clothes (we never found the iron? Maybe a loan shark stole it? WTF would they want with a fucking duct taped iron though?) really screamed 'bully me' – and I guess kids are just good at worshipping the divine call. First day in and the vultures are sussing me out (yeah, I'm chilling in no man's land like a fucking unaware stupid-arse corpse) and I guess seeing a guy dressed worse than the kids post-war really is irresistably bullyable, even if they are over 6ft and have a penchant for glaring holes into anything and everything (that's totally not my fault though, I mean I call it as daydreaming, you call it glar(gaz)ing).

So yeah, this is how the second day went:

"Yo, new kid! Catch this unscrewed bottle of very corrosive hydrochloric acid that I'm about to slide along the table!" (Excuse my paraphrasing, but as if I'm gonna go ahead and remember exactly what that dick said word-for-word. Pur-lease).

Me, a very syllabic speaker, watched the disaster unfold. I did make a sincere attempt to grab at the bottle – don't get me wrong – but at that moment in time I was, I dunno, doing the fucking work rather than fucking around? Pouring some goddamn sulphuric acid into a fucking measuring cylinder (both bloody hands full) and somehow trying to accio a bloody third arm to grab the HCl before it hit its trajectory.

Upon failure of my attempt, I was rushed to the nurse and stripped down faster than a sex worker. Uniform fucking gone. Bought another one with my bus fare (yippee, one and a half hour walks home in Primark shoes for like three weeks – a blistery delight. Better than sex).

My third day wasn't much better. So I was walking to school (had to wake up at six fifty, leave at seven to arrive to school at eight thirty – I love my life indeedy) and like in the last ten minutes(ish?) of my journey, some dickwads end up jogging to catch up with me.

Lil' old unsuspecting me – jamming to The Neighbourhood when some arses start tugging at my bag.

Course the little bitch falls apart faster than Marlin did then he lost Dory. Pens, books, paper – they all jovially high-five the tarmac. My peers take the opportunity to crush some of the paper that flew in their direction, stamp them with muddy footprints (bloody hell, my Primark shoes are better than that fashion disaster) – and they laugh.

I stand there for a moment, contemplating. Not really all that angry. I realise that they were purposefully targeting me (hope in mankind and logic dictated that yesterday had the possibility of being a humble mistake), and I watch them grin up at me.

I could get angry. I could punch them so hard that they're spitting out blood onto my textbooks rather than saliva. I could knock them out. And to be honest, these bitches would look better knocked out. And I would much prefer to be reading out of books that were stained with the blood of thine (mine?) enemies. Could probably ace all of my exams with the mere reassurance of my masculinity.

Calculating the variables is difficult. You need to know how far to push without getting in trouble – how much you can punch before the beating is too obvious, the pain you can cause before they go crying to mummy. But the bottom line is solid. These dicks need a lesson that can't be taught at school.

So I'm standing there, they're still giddy and high-fiving each other. Seemed like dropping some textbooks turned them on a million miles more than Playboy ever could.

I arrive to school about ten minutes late, and yes – the blood of thine enemies is on mine textbooks (mainly the mechanics one, which is a shame because I hardly revised maths and where would I get the satisfaction if I never saw the textbook?)

Walking into school with your shirt untucked and bloody isn't exactly the look I was attempting to recreate, but beggars can't be choosers and I was just glad that most laundry detergents were strong enough to wash out blood nowadays.

So a little later in the third day and I'm still looking fucking ugly and my eye feels how I would imagine how a uterus on its period would feel (some bastard nailed me harder than your mum) and yeah, I was simmering with anger. The fucking textbook had stained my paper so I'd be writing on their blood for weeks.

Sounded sinister.

I think I would prefer writing in their blood. At least it had a function that way. Clearly it was wasted in the bodies of five humans.

After day three the bastards pretty much stay clear of me – I assume losing some teeth has that effect on someone. And I'm just the lonely kid who everyone pities for clearly being very poor.

I did consider trying to make some friends, but they're just a waste of time. I still had my mates back from my old school and they were serving me well as is. I didn't have the effort to do out of my way to meet someone new.

So it's day ten and I'm roaming the school halls before lunch, considering whether or not I had the effort to grab a Big Mac or if I wanted some straights for later – when I hear like a weird squelching from the boy's toilets. There's no one else really around, and I'm pretty curious.

Turns out it was actually the squelching of some chubby kid getting beaten up. Poor sod. His body was practically engulfing the sound of the hits. And I'm standing at the doorway and watching it happen.

I was 100% cool with just watching this kid get what was being dished out – c'mon, everyone's been bullied once and in all honesty sometimes it really helped toughen you up – and was just about to leave when he stares me in the eye.

Oh fuck.

Not gonna go ahead and say that I'm a huge fan of those underdog stories, but the dude was looking so damn pathetic. Kinda reminded me of how my mum looked at Dad's funeral (yeah, the look annoyed me then too).

So I let the door close and somehow the apes hear it shut (even though they didn't hear it open – one of the many wonders of the universe) and one of them turns towards me before dropping the kid on the floor.

The kid grabs his bag and huddles in the corner (pathetic), and now I have the attention of the same bitches who were fucking with me last week.

Yeah, I did make a little inventory of their bruises – yellow and pretty like sunflowers – and stare them off.

One kid muscles his way past me and the rest soon follow. I'm pretty proud that my stare was enough to get them to piss off, but then again I guess they didn't want to mess with the ugly homeless guy who could whip their arses.

Gonna tell the truth: I would not get in a fight for that kid. He was a stranger and I didn't fucking know him – what did you expect? At least I've got a sense of self-preservation, dudes.

So the kid huddles in the corner and is sniffling like he's got pneumonia or something, and I walk up to the sink and wash my hands. I think I decided on roll ups for lunch. Much cheaper. Plus I needed something to take the edge off my headache.

"Thanks," the kid practically squeaks. I throw the used paper towels in the bin and make my way to the door - his comment goes unawknowledged.

I'm up to day twelve and I've started counting down to when I can leave rather than how long I've stayed when someone taps my shoulder.

I pull out a headphone and the other comes out too (annoying, I know). There's a pretty girl in front of me – regulation knee-length skirt, pearl-white button up shirt, perfect sized tits and hair that would be great to tug on. Lips that would be great to bite into.

She's actually biting her lip when she asks, "Is your name Patch?" And before I can answer, "I just came here to say thank you for getting those guys off my brother's back. They-they wouldn't leave him alone, so thank you."

I was pretty confused. "Your brother?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "Yay high, he's in Year Ten…brown hair and glasses."

I recalled the chubby guy from the loos and nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you," she repeated.

"Okay."

We were silent for a moment and I was just reaching for my headphones again when her words stopped me. "So, um – like, I always see you around, but you never hang out with anyone."

I shrugged because tbh I never do hang out with people. I'm not the type to easily make friends and I was doing well with the people from my old school. We would meet up on weekends and stuff. I was too lazy to try to socialise.

"Well, if you ever want to hang out, um…I'm usually doing stuff around the school, but-uh, we could always, like, hang out?"

Bloody hell, I couldn't stop my grin if I tried. "You sure you want to…what was the phrase you used…hang out?"

Her face flushed. "Oh, stop it," she sniffed, eyes settling on the floor, but there was a small smile on her smooth lips.

Fuck me.

That was legit the only thing I could think. Fucking her would be 10/10. Make my day entirely. When was the last time I got some, anyways?

I think that was when I decided that I was going to get her.

…

So it was day thirteen (I'm still counting, sue me) and I had a strategy on how to get a leg up.

Her brother.

That fat little fuck would get me right to her. I make sure he's not bullied, he tells her – it's a win/win. Girls loved the protection stance, especially if it was mixed (not stirred) with the threat of danger.

Course I wasn't going to become his bitch. I'd help him out once or twice more, make the red-head swoon, then I'd be one happy fellow.

Fucking hell she was cute.

…

Day fourteen and I finally know that girl's name. Nora Gray. Bit mundane – not like her name matters when I'm fucking her. And let's face it, it's not like Patch is doing any better in that department. Not one word of a lie, my mum named me after her dog that had died just before I was born. Bloody fuck when she tells people that I just want to slap my head into a fucking cricket bat and forget all about it.

…

Still day fourteen (just a little later) and I'm wandering the corridors just as the lunch break begins, listening out for any children getting terrorised. I missed the sweet sound of their screams.

Jks. I just don't give a fuck. If it doesn't affect me, I don't care. Punch as many Year Eights in the face as you want. Character building helps to build character.

Corridors are clear and which means my lungs aren't because I'm outside in 0.5 secs with a Camel pressed between my lips and a buzz beginning in my brain.

…

Still day fourteen and I'm trying to figure out my infatuation with Nora.

She was pretty but I was in it for the sex – looks mattered but I wasn't all that focused on them. I just wanted a good lay. A warm body. Most of my girls wanted the same.

Would Nora want to have sex if I propositioned her?

I looked down at my clothes and shook my head. Nobody would want to fuck the poor boy, Patch.

…

Evening of day fourteen and I'm at home watching some fucking reality TV show, smoking through the last of my pack of fags and flicking through the village magazine. Mum walks by and snatches the fag out of my mouth, smoking it while sliding into her heels (and yeah, they were sharp enough to to be used more for protection purposes than for fashion – but maybe that was the fucking point).

"You going out for dinner?" I ask, pulling out the last cig and lighting it.

She nods and grabs a jacket.

"Hot date?"

Her cig is discarded in the ceramic plate I was using as an ashtray. She takes a moment to exhale the fumes – she looks like she's enjoying it – before she whispers, "Is it too early?"

"Mum, it's like seven o'clock. Not too early for dinner."

She takes a seat on the arm of my chair. "Too early to see other men."

I flick the page of the magazine, switching from one important article about the Christmas lights to another important article about Spanish slugs. All I'm thinking about is that she's loyal to a dead man who dried us out until we were worse off than a sultana.

"Mum, Dad was a selfish dick and he deserved to die. Go get laid or something."

Mum squeezes my shoulder as if she's pressing some of the pain out of me. "You miss him too, don't you?" she whispers. "Every time you watch me walk through the door, you get disappointed when your father isn't there with me, right?"

"Dad was a dick."

Mum presses her fingers underneath my chin. "Doesn't stop us from loving him, sweetheart." She holds me closer. "Doesn't stop us from loving him."

We hold each other for a long time, cigs in ashtray. I watch the flare dwindle out. Mum stands up and says she's gonna cancel her date, but I tell her to fuck off and get out of the house.

"Always so affectionate," she snorts (irony because she actually does sound affectionate).

She leaves and all I can think about is that that was the first time I had properly spoken to my mother and that maybe I did miss Dad, even if he was a dickhead.

My eyes were too blurry to read the magazine anymore – which was fucking annoying because the next article was something important about the Church or something.

…

Day sixteen and I save the kid's arse. Yeah them little bitches were pissy af and I'm pretty sure they're gonna smack me one if I get in the way again. #PrayforPatch

The kid was crouched in the corner of the same loos, snivelling. "Kid," I said.

It looked up.

"Get your arse up. Go do some homework or whatever the fuck you kids do."

It looked confused. Standing up, it went to leave.

"At least wash that shit off your face first," I said with a snort. The kid was fucking hopeless.

If anything, he looked more upset from when he began. He rinsed his face off and went for the door.

"Thanks," he said when he got there.

"This happen a lot?"

He looked confused.

"I mean you getting the everliving shit getting beaten out of you. Don't even know why you turn up to school, dude."

Turning back to face me, he sniffed again. He was rubbing his face and making it all red and blotchy. Fucking gross.

"Sometimes. And I like school."

Of course he did. Little fucking nerd.

I couldn't help but look at him properly. His glasses framed were fucking branded, his shoes were too and his rucksack wasn't as sentimental to him as mine clearly was to me.

Fucking little bitch was rich. Should have hired a bodyguard or something.

Needless to say I'm hardly gonna go bag myself a rich girl.

…

Day sixteen's a Friday which is fucking great because damn do I need some weed. I'm sitting in a circle with some of my mates from my old school and we're passing around the blunt like it's a lolly and pretty much just pissing around. Haven't had weed in so long and I'm practically gone after the first few puffs but tbh the shit Rixon scored was the strong stuff too, so it was hardly like I was gonna take this one easy.

Don't exactly know what happened but I'm snogging Dabria and yeah we have a history but I guess I'm too much of a slut to pass by free sex (high sex is the best as well) and lets be fair it's hardly like Nora's gonna like me back, I don't have to be smart to know that rich girls don't go for the dirt-poor smokers who have an affinity for getting high.

I may have kinda promised myself that Nora would be the next one I'd be fucking, but if that's the case then I'd never get laid ever again and I'm pretty sure I would die from inactivity or something.

I just love girls too much.

…

Back at school on the Monday and I meet Nora's brother's eye but I block the bitch, I mean juct because I helped him out once or twice doesn't mean we're BFFs or something. Clingy bitch.

Anyway I've given up on getting Nora now; it's hardly like my dick can tell the difference pussy-to-pussy. I'm a realistic kind of guy and I don't do shit unless I can get something out of it so there's no point in me helping out the little kid cous it's clear that nobody wants to be near the lonely poor guy who started in the middle of the year, let alone fuck him.

So I'm in the middle of Maths and she's sitting at the front of the class, I'm at the back, and when the teacher leaves she comes up to my desk and sits on the edge of it as if it's normal and I'm playing the blocking game again because I know that just seeing her will make me crazy and I've already layed off the pretty, rich girls.

"Patch?"

I looked up at her and hot damn is it difficult to keep my promise to myself, especially if the pretty girls' skirts ride up when they're sitting on desks so you can see more of their killer fucking legs.

It's a marvel to say that yes, I did actually manage to tear myself away from her legs and look up at her face.

"Thanks again."

I nodded and made a show of turning around to face the textbook again; maybe Nora was my weakness but I made a promise to myself and in all fairness the sex with Dabria was pretty great, great enough to consider ditching my infatuation with the red-head forever.

She poked my shoulder. "You should talk more, you know. You're clearly a nice guy."

Nice? She confused my actions for being nice? Well, that was the whole fucking point. Maybe she thought I wasn't talking because I was shy or something?

I smirked. "If you knew one thing about me, you would know that I'm not nice."

"All I know about you is that you've helped my brother out twice and that means less bruises, which is great for me because he complains about them all day." She was kinda sarcastic but you could tell she was worried about the chubby kid.

I leant towards her. "Wanna know why I helped him out?"

"Sure."

I tipped my head to the side and rubbed my jaw – fucking hell would I really tell her? In all honesty, how else would I get her off my back? She was pretty and all but I wasn't gonna waste my time. Plenty of girls to fuck and a pussy is a pussy.

"How else would I get with you?"

Nora's lips imitated the shape you would make when blowing bubbles in chewing gum. "W-well, if you wanted to get with me…" she tugged at her cuffs nervously and yeah it was pretty fucking cute, "Here's my number. We should go out on a date sometime." She picked my pen out of my fingers and wrote something on the side of my notes.

It occurred to me that I had a crush on the one girl who had grossly misunderstood the term 'get with.'

A/N I think I've fallen in love with Patch's POV. Sue me.

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