However, the trials of the day were not over-the playground test awaited him.
Kevin found an elevated concrete platform in the corner of the yard to sit, where he pushed sticks into the ground until they split. A break from lessons? What a pointless concept, he thought. We're not doing anything challenging enough to break FROM, Unless teachers count drawing and stories are particularly taxing. A shadow formed across his face mid-thought. His nemesis's from the table dwarfed him. He looked up into those scornful faces, a small crowd gathering.
"Why do you wear those stupid glasses?" Kelly screeched, pointing inches from the lens.
"My Dad says glasses are for faggots," Matty calmly stated. "You're a faggot." Such innocence in these words-the ugly word drilled into him for many years, but ignorance behind the meaning-only that it was negative.
Kevin ALMOST reached for the arm of his glasses, but thought better for it. His beclawed twitch was however, visable.
"And what's with this..Charlie Brown sweater?" Matty asked, inducing a whoop of delight and a 'Charlie Brown' chant from somewhere behind him. Matty made the mistake of gripping the soft woolen material between pudgy fingers and was reprimanded-The recipants reactions were cat-like…A sharp pain went through Matty's finger. Pulling away, an angry gash bled, deep into his knuckle, deep enough to almost see bone.
Kevin calmly lifted a fingertip into his mouth and sucked the dark liquid away, expressionless. Kelly shrieked and moved to push a palm into Kevin's stomach, but the move was intercepted-Kevin calmly took the arm and threw her, threw her onto her back. Shocked as she was, she did not cry, but gasped. Matty was howling, blood trickling to the playground floor. The crowd scattered as the large form of Joy cut into the scene.
"Oh my GOD!" She wailed, scooping up the casualties. Matty was straight to the school nurse, Kelly dusted down but sent to recover. Stooping to Kevin's height, She put out a large hand to grab the scruff of his jumper-another sharp reprimand-The child's fingernails dug harshly into Joy's exposed wrist. She yelped, squeezing the wound, but began to steer him with her portly knees.
Much yelling. NO, Kevin did NOT understand not to hurt fellow students, let ALONE teachers. Well, he DID, but authoritarianism simply went over his head. NO, Kevin did not understand that this was very, very serious. Well, again, he DID, but what were they gonna do-tell his Mom? And NO, Kevin did NOT know that you shouldn't drink…bodily fluids of anyone, because they can sometimes carry nasty disease. Sent to contemplate (which he did not), Kevin seized a red crayon. It was a gorgeous colour, reminiscent of something…the corners of his mouth twitched at the memory, but it did not meet his eyes. It secretly made Joy shudder, though.
Karen bustled quickly through the corridors to the shrill ting of the bell. Crowds of knee-high hooligans ran joyously past, to the distant square of sunshine. She wore a smile, not inappropriately, she thought. After all, this could do the kid some good. New friends, adaption and all that. Turning the corner and seeing Joys head in her hands prompted otherwise.
The heater was on in her powder-blue Ford, but she was chilled. The tiny form in the red leather seat, his feet not touching the floor, had created a wound-for a change not emotional-that needed stitches. STITCHES! He'd also flung a small girl several feet, demonstrating strength beyond his years. Karen wondered if he could crush her skull.
"I just don't know why you drew swastikas, honey. I mean, where did you even SEE that image?" A naive question, she knew. Judging by all the late-night cable and relaxed attitude of the carers.
The form looked up at her, just long enough for a ray of sunshine to glint on his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. The smile was there, though. Karen gave the eighth involuntary shudder of that day.
'Rejected by his mother' Kevin had once remembered reading in his file. He knew mom was a well-known designer, but the Home tried to keep that sort of imagery away from him-blocked tv adverts, blocked shopping channels, magazine adverts snipped, computer sites and ads blocked. He still knew, though.
He rejected all other knitwear except his moms. When his choice was commented on, it was shut out with a bitten hand or a scratched forearm. Kevins choice was Kevins. Maybe it was the soft material. Or maybe his way-the only way-of being close to mom. Not that lack of parentals messed with his head or anything, but it was just fucked up…That a mother could create something this soft, but be so harsh. The material was lazily caressed by his youthful, clawed hand. Then he shook his head, and the weakness of his thoughts left him. The television played a blissful sound of cracking necks, but there were bars on his windows and straps on his bed. He did not haunt himself.