(Mentions of past sexual assault, racism and homophobia)
James' P.O.V
I've spent years with just Mum.
I've joined and left school after school without making friends.
And now there's someone else.
When I was young, back when dad was still alive and we still had money, I went to a nice enough school. I'd get the occasional kid calling me a piece of poo. I never let that get in my head, because it was a childish joke based on the colour of my skin. But mostly, I enjoyed my time there.
Of course, I could never fit in exactly.
When I was five, I was told I had an immune deficiency. A girl at school came in coughing and sneezing one day. She asked the teachers if she could go home, but they told her it was just a cold and it wouldn't kill anybody.
Famous last words.
It was like that little comment was taunting death, saying "Not so big and tough are you? Come on, show us what you've got."
Because I caught the cold. And I almost died.
The doctors looked into it; the strange case of the boy who had to wear an oxygen mask to survive a common cold.
They discovered that my body couldn't make its own cells; the ones that help people fight against illnesses. And Mum cried. I'd never seen her cry before.
I went back to school. I'd never seen my teacher look so guilty.
But things were never normal again after that.
I had to sit at my own desk, away from all the other children. That desk had to be wiped down with antibacterials between every lesson, even though I was the only one who sat at it. I was given my own private set of pencils and crayons. I had to eat my lunch in a completely separate room from everyone else, because "there are so many germs around when kids are eating."
It was like I'd be cast out, banished.
I think they went over-the-top to protect me.
They sacrificed my social life for my health. I guess it was a fair trade.
I never had a chance at making friends, because I wasn't allowed to mingle with my classmates.
But I never really minded. Because I had Mum and Dad, and they were the best friends I could have wished for. They were my biggest supporters, and were there for every trip into hospital, every new dose of medication, every time I passed out.
They were always holding my hand.
Just like I held Thomas' hand before he left.
In my mind, holding someone's hand is the greatest demonstration of love you can give.
And after the way he opened his heart to me, I needed to show I'd heard and I cared.
Because I know from experience, how badly opening yourself up to people can go.
Start of year 7. I was on some stronger medication which seemed to be working. This meant I was finally allowed to share desks and sit near the other kids. It also meant they were allowed near me at break.
Since I'd never really talked with many people before, I didn't know how to act when I was suddenly thrown headfirst into this world full of loud children.
I'd never seen people making out under the stairs. Never heard the chorus of people egging on others as they fought. Never smelt the weed they all smoked under the bridge outside the school gate.
It was the strangest thing.
And I made a mistake.
I was searching for someone to be my friend. I was willing to do whatever it took.
I knew that I was gay. I also knew that the people who came out as gay at school got attention. Lots of it.
Unfortunately, I didn't know what kind of attention they received.
One day, I stood in front of the class, my heart racing, my throat and eyes dry. I swallowed hard and forced the words out of my mouth:
"I'm gay." I croaked out.
A silence fell on the room and all I could hear was my heartbeat for a minute, before the laughter started. It filled my ears, echoing around me. I could hear the taunting comments and cruel jokes.
A few kids at the back of the room met me with their heavy eyes and slumped shoulders, mentally wishing me good luck, before they rose and promptly walked out the door.
It turned out that being openly gay at my school was the worst possible thing to be.
And after that day, I was tumbling head first through all 9 levels of hell.
The boys had this hilarious little joke. They decided to go full-on Hitler on me and stick a gay flag on my backpack. I soon realised that a few other children were targeted; the ones who made the same mistake.
I gave up on throwing the paper flags in the bin after a couple of weeks. By then the harm was done; everyone at school knew what I was and avoided me.
See, the flag system worked in a brutally effective way. It told all the straights who to steer clear of, who to make sure they never started conversation with, who to be certain didn't have any friends.
I told Mum. Eventually. She wanted to talk to the head teacher. I begged her not to; it would only make my punishments worse if they knew I snitched.
So, Thomas is something new. Something different. A potential for something I've never experienced.
But I'm still scared. What if he sees something he doesn't like in me? What if he doesn't want to know me? What if he's going to hurt me like...
Like her.
Like Libby.
He can't come back tomorrow. He can't come near me again. He can't touch me. I won't let his words fool me.
I know what he's hiding, what they all hide.
All people are rotten inside. Libby was, the landlord was, and Thomas is.
People only care about themselves. They are willing to exploit a young, defenceless, damaged boy to make themselves laugh. They are willing to put a knife through his skin and put his body in theirs', just because they're hungry for entertainment.
They're prepared to ruin his whole life, because he can never bring himself to trust anyone again.
People are snakes. They are dragons that hide away in dark caves, until they spot their prey. And as soon as they're finished tormenting him, they fly back to the nest, leaving him with a part of his mind missing, to live out his life with half a soul.
They never look back with regret. And they never see justice.
I bet Libby's still out there today, trying her tricks on some other unfortunate child. I feel my heart break at the thought of someone else's sobs filling that alleyway, someone else's blood covering that pavement, someone else's life being sucked away by that monster.
And I think of Thomas, the boy with the perfect life and perfect family. I bet he's never been abused like me. I bet he has people queuing up on his doorstep to be his friend.
I bet he's happy.
He smiled as though it wasn't something that took all his strength, like it was easy. He spoke in a light, carefree voice, as if his throat wasn't constricting at the very thought of saying something.
But there was something in the smile that wasn't right. He smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. Even as he grinned, his eyes remained the same; dark, dull, empty.
And I saw myself reflected in them. I saw my own pain in his eyes. My own fears and worries. My own problems.
I can't stop myself from wondering what he didn't tell me, the other side of the story. The part of the story that his eyes told me, and the lies that his mouth masked it with.
Maybe not all people are evil. Maybe Thomas isn't. Maybe he's just been hurt.
Like I have.
"Hey James." Mum sits next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
"Hi." I mutter.
We sit in silence for a second, before she breaks it again.
"So, what did you think of Thomas earlier?" She asks.
She sounds nonchalant, but I know that inside is a part of her that is yearning for me to find someone else I trust and love. I know she'd do anything just to see me happy again.
And I know she saw me hold Thomas' hand.
She's my mother. She knows that I only hold hands with the people I care about most. While Thomas may not have seen the significance of the moment, I know she certainly did.
And now I've got her hopes up. She's fantasising.
She believes that my hidden scars might finally be starting to heal.
"He was okay." I say quietly, shrugging.
I don't tell her that I'm just waiting for him to pounce on me, like Libby did. That I'm convinced he's going to sink his claws into me and tear me apart.
"Why didn't you say anything to him?"
She asks it so quietly, I almost miss it.
I look at her in disbelief. Surely she knows more than anyone why I didn't.
She shakes her head, "Don't get mad at me James. I just wish you would actually make an effort, that's all. After all I've done for you."
"After all you've done for me?" I ask, "You left me alone to get attacked!"
I see her choke on tears, "Don't you dare! You don't know anything!"
I feel anger bubbling, "I know that you weren't there when I needed you the most."
"James please - I - you..." She looks down at the floor, tears falling freely, "I've never stopped blaming myself. I've had to live with the guilt, knowing I didn't do enough for you. And I - I..."
She trails off to a whisper and just starts sobbing.
Guilt hits me immediately. That's my mother. I don't want to hurt her. She has done everything for me.
She was the one who cheered and told me I could do it when I was learning how to walk. She was the one who hugged me when my first pet died. She was my friend when I was isolated at school.
She was the one who acted brave for me at Dad's funeral. She was the one who wanted to tell a teacher about the bullying I faced.
She held me when we were evicted. She whispered into my hair that everything would be okay. She gave all the food to me when we were homeless.
She saved me from Libby. She saved my life.
She is my everything, my biggest supporter, my best friend.
I hug her tightly, "I'm sorry Mum." I whisper.
We sit in a tight embrace. I can feel her breathing against me. Her arms are warm against my skin, and my tears are salty on my tongue.
I wish I could tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me.
But when we pull away and she smiles gratefully, I'm sure she's read my thoughts.
"I love you too." She says, "And I always will. Now and forever."
I wipe away tears and smile weakly, hugging her again.
...
Mum sleeps so peacefully that I can't help but envy her. She looks the most peaceful she has since we lost our house.
I wish I could just slip away from consciousness. I wish I could shut my eyes and forget about the terrifying reality of the life I'm living.
But my mind's too active. It's wandering; reliving my meeting with Thomas, taking me back to the day Dad died, reminding me that I don't belong in this place.
I can't sleep here. I'm in someone else's bed. It isn't right. My bed is just a mouldy mattress on the floor, with cockroaches scuttling beside it. This bed is comfortable and soft and far too big to be mine.
I toss and turn for about ten minutes before I decide that sleeping just isn't an option tonight. I glance over at Mum again, seeing the faint smile on her lips.
I can't imagine how exhausted she must be. A whole year of barely sleeping, protecting me, and she's never once complained.
I can't wake her. She deserves this rest more than anyone else.
So, I sit here. I sit with hundreds of thoughts and memories dancing through my head, with my eyelids droopy and heavy, with a fear in my heart.
Because Thomas is coming back tomorrow. And I have questions.
Tomorrow I will speak, I know it. Tomorrow I will ask Thomas for the truth, the truth disguised behind his fake smiles.
Because I am only too familiar with the forced grin of a liar. Because he has secrets, just as I do. Secrets that are so upsetting that there is no other option but to lie.
Thomas is a liar. And I want to know why he hides himself.
Just as he must want to know why I hide myself.
And tomorrow, all will be revealed.