Chapter One-Hundred and Twenty-Three
Toby watched as John leaned over his notebook, noticing how he seemed to have gone into his own world he could hear a tune rumbling in his throat. "You're still gonna sing?" He asked, seeing how John jumped as if he'd forgotten he was there.
"I can't stop. No matter how beaten up my voice gets, I will always sing." He smiled, tapping out a beat with his pen. "It's like I can get a high off of the music, and I can fly on the notes." He shook his head, slipping his fingers into the wristband of his watch.
Toby nodded, noticing how John wiggled in his chair like he wanted to move around. "What exactly made you want to do drugs?" He asked, watching John's body freeze. "It's just… your life seems so perfect… you've got your girl, a huge family… what happened?"
John heaved a breath, shaking his head as he fought the memories flooding into his mind. "My folks were fucked up…" He breathed a laugh, meeting Toby eyes as he continued. "My old man beat my mom every day until she got pregnant, after that he threatened to kill her before she could give birth to me… when I turned six, he started beating me. He whipped me with a bike chain, broke almost every bone in my body, and choked me until I lost consciousness."
Toby's jaw went slack, noticing the scarring around John's neck for the first time. "Woah…"
"That's why I'm in foster care. My girlfriend took me to the hospital after he broke my ribs and they punctured my left lung." He pulled the hem of his shirt up, showing the twin scars from his surgeries. "After I got out of the hospital, I started my recovery… flunked the first night. Smoked half a pack of Marlboro Reds with a stitched-up lung, and hardly three hours out of the hospital." He wrapped a hand around his stomach as it gave him a pain, able to feel his fear knotting in his gut. "Excuse me." He pushed out of his chair, limping to the bathroom as his body told him it was going to empty itself.
He pushed the door open, walking into one of the stalls as his body began to heave. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, the choked sounds of his sick faintly reaching the ears of Principal Anderson whose office was only on the other side of the hall from the restroom.
Principal Anderson slowly stood from his desk, stepping toward the restroom to see if John needed help. He knew the kid rarely ate, and that he was far too thin for his own good, as well as the fact that he often got sick from over stimulation. "Johnathan?" He asked as he listened to John's last few wretches. "You alright?"
John spit the last of the vomit into the toilet, leaning back on the stall door as he struggled to regain his breath. "Fine." He croaked, wiping a tear from his face. "I'm fine." He glanced at his watch, seeing that it was only noon. "Would I be a baby if I said I wanted my Mom?" He asked, opening the door to see the older man before him.
Principal Anderson shook his head, handing the kid a paper towel to clean his face up. "Not at all." He smiled as John whipped his chin, noticing that his beard was well kept and groomed. "My son is twenty-one, and he still crawls into bed with my wife and I when he has nightmares."
John's eyes lifted to look at the man before him, confusion in those eyes. "Nightmares?"
He nodded, smiling as John let him touch his shoulder. "He was a foster child too. His father abandoned him when he was two, and his mother killed herself in front of him."
John swallowed, his body reaching fatigue as the adrenaline from his sick spell faded. "I want my Mom." He sighed, letting the Principal lead him back to the library.
He let the kid lean on him, guiding him to one of the sofa's in the back of the library to let him nap. "Rest. You need that strength."