Pen Name: dilly
Website: http://www.prefectsbathroom.com
Rating: PG-13
Primary pairing: None
Summary: Tom is punished for what he did to Geoffery.
They didn't notice the sores until he passed out during breakfast two weeks after the first one had appeared.
It had been on his arm. He woke up and found it one morning. Wondered where it had come from. It didn't hurt, so he ignored it. The second one was on his belly, the third on his thigh, the fourth on his shoulder. When the fifth appeared on his neck, he began to wear his ragged little scarf whenever he was around anyone.
He knew why it was happening. It was his punishment. For getting angry. For throwing Geoffery Klein across the room with his thoughts. (It must have been his thoughts, what else could it have been?) He was trying not to get angry anymore. But after they'd found out what had happened (A tragic accident, a mystery. How could a scrawny thing like that hurl a big, healthy boy into a cabinet and kill him?) they'd treated him differently. Peered at him in the hallways with this slowly swelling trepidation that made him shiver as he struggled to hold down the emotion welling up inside of him. He'd never wanted to hurt anyone. Their looks handed him a life sentence at the age of ten. Their looks bore holes into his skin so solid and so real that they left marks.
When the sixth sore appeared on his hand, he had to wear gloves. Gloves and a scarf in August. It didn't help the boiling in his stomach. The rage that made his skin hot and pink. Sometimes it would show on his face turning his pale cheeks red and they'd sink away. Like children prodding a cobra with a stick and crying when it reared it's head and flared itself in warning.
He stared into his porridge biting his lip. There was a hunger in him that the gray, lumpy concoction couldn't fill. Something without definition that gnawed on his insides. The hunger made his anger worse. Made his skin so flushed with it that he felt dizzy.
"Murder anyone today, Riddle?"
Tom's eyes slowly rose to meet those of the round-faced girl that had plopped in the seat across from him. No. Don't get angry. He scratched at the sore on his hand through the glove. If he ignored it, it would go away. The porridge was much more pleasant to look at anyway.
"Riddle, Riddle, Riddle. You know eventually they're gonna come and get you and take you away."
He could see the girl's skinny, dark-haired friend over his eyelashes. She was giving him the other look, the frightened one, and she was gripping at the girls arm, whispering something urgent that he couldn't quite hear.
"Murderers don't just get awa--"
His porridge flew at her eyes. The ceramic bowl shattered, bloodying her face. And everyone was watching. Staring. Boring more sores into his skin. He scrambled off of the bench, but his foot caught and he fell backwards onto his head. He was dizzy but he clawed his way up to his feet. The sores were burning now. Burning from the eyes that were approaching him now. Accusing eyes. Whispering a low, nervous hiss throughout the room. He was faintly aware of the round-faced girl's sputtering and crying, but it was drowned out by the whispers. The whispers swirling around him. He was so dizzy. There was something on his shoulder. He looked. A hand clasped tight to him. He looked up into the woman's (frightened) face and his knees gave out from under him.
There was no thud as he hit the ground. Only a darkness that caught him like warm arms. Caring arms. So much better than eyes. And he dreamt of arms, but awoke, as always, to eyes. Six eyes. Attached to the faces that were attached to the people who were standing over him. Their sheer sterility told him immediately where he was. The infirmary. A new building compared to the rest of the orphanage. It smelled like ether and ammonia. They were speaking over him in hushed whispers. He caught pieces of it, but they sounded far away, like there was cotton stuffed into his ears. Possessed. Demonic. Attacks. Violent. Sores.
They had found the sores.
He struggled to move, to hide the sores from their burrowing eyes. Why couldn't he move? Leather straps. There were leather straps across his chest and legs.
Treatment. Metrazol. Shock.
There was a hand. An arm. For a moment he felt relief, but no, the hand had something in it. Something it was sticking sideways in his mouth. He tried to spit out but the hands held it down. More hands came, tying something tight on his arm. There was a pinprick and the pressure was released. The hands were faces again. A powerful wave of nausea hit him and he tried to speak, but it only came out a muffled sound. One of the women leaned over his face and her lips curled into a grotesque expression and her eyes flickered from blue to blood red. A forked tongue slid out from between her teeth and a whispering sound escaped. A whispering that turned to a screaming. She grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him, screaming words over and over that he didn't understand until finally, she shook him into unconsciousness.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! This really wasn't supposed to have a TBC tacked to the end of it, but it seems that that is what is going to happen. The next part should be a bit longer than the first two.