Disclaimer: All characters recognized in the Faculty movie are under copyright of Robert Rodriguez and Dimension Films. Tina is actually a character in the movie, the girl who Delilah tells to print both stories in the paper. Her name is credited.

-oOo-

Chapter 7 – Unloved

The car ride home could have been the same as driving through the seventh circle of Hell for Casey. It was bad enough having his parents coming down to the hospital and giving him grief, his mother meeting Grace and his father being an asshole; but now he had to drive home with them as well.

He tried not to say much on the way back. After all, it wasn't difficult. His father kept his steely eyes fixed firmly on the road, whilst his mother kept babbling to no one in particular, gushing over how sweet that "that Grace girl" had been.

Why did she have to embarrass me like that? Casey thought wretchedly, slouching against the back seat, his eyes focused on his sneakers.

"Now, you remember what the doctor said to you, hon," perked up his mother's cheerful voice from the front, taking a break from talking about Grace. "You can't have that cast in the bath. You'll have to wrap it up in something."

Casey sighed. He usually preferred showers, but it looked like it would be too much of a risk. "Yeah."

"The nurse also gave you some painkillers for the times when it hurts the most," Lorraine continued, as if she thought that someone could be listening to her. "Don't take them every day, though, will you?"

"No, Mom," Casey murmured flatly, shaking his head and gazing out of the window.

Whoosh. Whoosh. The trees whizzed past as the car trundled along. Casey sighed and stared out at all of the clouds, slowly gathering for dusk. The dark shadows crept across his hands and along his cast, highlighting them. He thought about the day he had had, and humiliation kept sailing higher and higher with each memory.

I just wanna get home and hide in my room forever, he thought miserably. Fuck everything. I've had enough for one day.

"I've gotta stop for gas on the way home," Frank stated, in an emotionless voice.

"Okay, honey."

Casey said nothing. He simply continued to stare out of the window, wishing that the bottom of the car would open up and swallow him whole, ending this nightmare. He sighed and let the vehicle take him away.

Casey's mother immediately whirled to face him as Frank filled the car. He didn't acknowledge her; he simply stared down at his hands in his lap, trying his hardest to avoid looking at the thing on his arm.

"You're very quiet, Casey," his mother noticed, spinning in her seat and frowning.

"Sorry."

"Thinking about something?"

He sighed despairingly and closed his eyes. "Not really."

There was silence. She wants me to be thinking about her, he thought bitterly. What is her problem, anyway? Why can't she just drop it?

"Do you think Grace will be in school tomorrow?"

Casey inhaled through clenched teeth. "Mom...I don't know –"

"Perhaps the two of you could be study-buddies," she suggested cheerfully, reaching over as far as she could, rubbing his shoulder. "That would be nice, wouldn't it, sweetie?"

Every nerve in Casey's body was screaming. He let his head fall as far back as it could on the car seat. His hands were shaking with frustration. Mom...for the love of God, shut the fuck up.

"Mmm," was all he responded with. He closed his eyes gently, lying back. Perhaps if he had a little nap on the way home, it would help. It would help with the gentle throbbing in his wrist and the throbbing pain in his head from his mother. He snuggled to get comfortable and attempted to block everything else out.

The car door opened again and Frank got in. He continued to drive the rest of the way home, mumbling under his breath about how the price for gas seemed to keep increasing every time that they came here. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, concentrating.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Lorraine noticed Casey sleeping when she looked in the mirror. Chewing her lip gently, she sighed. She almost didn't want to wake him up when they got home. Peacefully lying there, with his hands rested in his lap, he seemed to look genuinely happy.

-oOo-

Casey almost didn't want to leave the car. Somehow, he knew that once they had all arrived in the house, it would be nothing but questions. Nothing but questions about his accident, the hospital, Grace...and just Casey in general. He really wanted to avoid that.

It started as soon as everyone was in the house. Casey had sneakily begun to head for the stairs, hopefully to escape, but it was futile.

"All right, Case," his father said sternly, bringing him back into the living room. "Do you want to tell us anything about what happened today?"

Casey stared. "Like what?"

His parents exchanged glances for a moment. Lorraine tucked a strand of her light hair behind her ear, biting the side of her lip like she often did – a nervous habit. "Well, honey," she began carefully. "Did you want to tell us anything that's bothering you?"

What, you mean like you?

"What do you mean?" He frowned a little, starting to wonder if this was some kind of interrogation. His elbow gave off a sudden itch at that moment and he scratched it awkwardly.

Mr Connor sighed to himself warily and stood to his feet, drawing the curtains together as if to block out any curious eyes that were wandering outside; to protect them. The blurring peach glow of the lampshades illuminated the room, casting his face in sunset.

"Son," he started slowly, staring directly into the boy's eyes. "If we find out that this is a lie –"

"What's a lie?"

"About what happened to you at school today, dear," broke in his mother, in a softer tone. It almost seemed as if she knew that Frank would say the wrong thing. He always seemed to.

Casey sighed, lowering his eyes. "Do I have to say it again, Mom?" he asked, in a tired voice. "Yes. Yes, it's the truth. I fell down the bleachers, I broke my wrist, and I went to the hospital."

Lorraine sighed. She wanted to believe him. She really did – something inside hated herself for not believing him...but this had happened before. She knew that her son had been bullied throughout school for a very long time, and despite the fact that Frank never seemed to want to talk about it with her, she was always worried whenever Casey caught the bus to school every morning; wondering if he was going to return home with fresh bruises, or cuts, or...

...broken bones.

"Okay," she said finally, after hesitating.

Casey saw the flickering glaze of insincerity in his mother's eyes and he turned away, placing his hand on the banister rail. "I'm gonna go upstairs," he said quietly, already halfway up the staircase. "I'm a little tired."

There was no reply. He heard the own clomping of his sneakers against the ground as he pulled himself onto the landing and stood in front of his bedroom door; shoulders slumping. He felt as if his whole body was being dragged down by weights. His head was spinning wildly.

"Shit," he muttered, resting his forehead against the door for a moment on the "Intruders Beware" banner stuck to the front of it. The glowing alien face stared back at him and he scowled, turning the knob and traipsing inside. His legs gave under him immediately and he collapsed onto his bed, taking care not to land on his injured arm.

The scent of un-made bed sheets and the heat of his lava lamp seemed to relax him for the moment. His head swam with everything that had happened today, and was awkwardly joined by the fact that he would have to face school again tomorrow; his body even more flawed then before.

"Fuck her," he growled bitterly, and closed his eyes, trying to think of something else.

His temples pounded together in time with the rhythmic beating of his wrist, the blood flowing viciously around the areas that hurt him the most. Typical. He groaned and sat up, snuggling himself into the pillows and gazing at all of the pictures on his wall, trying to distract himself. His sight crept along until it landed on the black and white portraits of Delilah he had taken himself; natural and posed at the same time.

He blinked, looking directly through them, admiring them. He secretly relished the way that she was applying her lipstick – so carefully – as if she were painting a work of art. At least, that was Casey's opinion anyway. A work of art...

"What a geek..."

He sighed and rolled over onto his side, trying to ignore the painful words that Delilah had said earlier that day. They just kept ringing in his head over and over again. He wished that he could take a vice to his brain and squeeze all of the humiliation out. He shivered and felt a hot burning feeling behind his eyes. No...He turned his face into his pillow, forcing the tears to stop coming. He didn't want to cry. Not because of Delilah.

He could picture her now, with her boyfriend Stan Rosado – that stupid jock head loser – walking together down the corridors together, arms linked and laughing about something. Didn't Delilah know how that he stood next to the lockers, watching Stan with envy, and wishing that he could be in his place? They just looked so happy together...so wonderfully happy...

If only someone could see me, he thought, with a roll of his eyes. I'm just invisible to them...and they looked so happy. He stared at his lava lamp again, the green liquid bubbling inside, matching how his stomach felt.

I wonder what it feels like to be that happy.

Sometimes, late at night, he would lie awake in his bed; covers wrapped around himself in his own little cocoon, as if he were attempting to transform into a better version of himself. It was at these times that he wondered why he thought about Delilah this way. After all, she treated him like shit. Why did he volunteer to take her pictures? Why did he hang them on his bedroom wall? Why did he join the school paper as the photographer, just because she was the editor?

What's wrong with me?

Even when they had been in kindergarten together, she made her own amusement by following him around at break times; teasing him and taunting him. The girls were all the same back then. They relished in punishing the boys for being born the wrong gender, and for playing in the mud. However, one advantage at that stage was the young boy had thought that girls were repulsive, and tried to stay away from her as much as he possibly could.

It still felt the same, now, Casey realised to himself. Although he didn't exactly find Delilah repulsive anymore.

I wish I did, the boy sighed, closing his eyes and feeling his chest tighten a little. Maybe then...it wouldn't hurt so much.

She even managed to strut her way into his dreams, very regularly. He would awake (sometimes in the middle of the night) with visions of her long, luscious ebony hair and her piercing dark eyes dancing in his head. She had an almost exotic quality about her, and Casey would find his cheeks burning – especially when his mother asked him questions about the amount of sheets she found him changing during the week.

During the journalist meetings that the school paper group often had together, he found himself listening to her intently, hanging onto her every word. He liked the way that her voice raised and tilted in tone when she picked the facts apart. Sometimes he would just sit there, listening. She really did have some good ideas – and, of course, she did her research.

He also remembered the time that he had actually got to sit next to her. He had done nothing but gaze at her throughout, soaking in her presence, and smelling that amazing smell of tea tree oil – the shampoo that she used. It wafted on the air when he got close enough, and invaded his brain; ceasing anything else worth thinking about in his life.

Tina, the main gossip writer for the paper, had elbowed him hard and told him to pay attention, tossing her ash brown hair behind her shoulders with a sneer. Little did she know that Casey was paying Delilah more attention than she was.

You're never going to have her, you loser, came the cruel voice again. She'd rather die than even think about dating a pathetic little kid like you.

Casey lowered his eyes. "I know."

Screw her, remember? Why even think about her when there's no chance that you'll ever have her? She's a superficial bitch, anyway. She doesn't date geeks.

He collapsed back onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow and moaning. How did things get like this? Why did his life have to turn out the way that it had? How he wished sometimes that he could just have an ideal student life, with good friends, parents that understood and where others actually noticed him. The only upside were his good grades, but for some reason this only attracted torment by others.

"They're just jealous," his mother said a million times a month.

What's there to be jealous about? he asked himself sadly, thumping his pillow.

At that moment, there was a loud knocking on his door. He lifted his eyes out of the down and rested his chin on it, listening.

"Yeah?" he said quietly.

"Casey?" came Lorraine's voice. "I'm going to make some dinner. Do you want something?"

The boy's mouth felt dry with disgust at even the thought of eating anything right now. He wouldn't be able to hold it down, he knew. His arm gave off an involuntary throb at that point, as if it were agreeing with him.

"N-no...it's okay, Mom," he replied, muffled by the bedcovers. "I'm not very hungry."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

A hesitant pause. Then: "Oh...all right, honey. If you change your mind, just say so. I'll save you something just in case."

Casey cringed at how worried that she sounded. She had been this way since they had left the hospital – unless she wasn't cooing non-stop to him about Grace. He had simply sat in the back of the car, grinding his teeth together in frustration and fighting the urge to throw something. Now...now, she was still concerned.

I just want to be left alone, he told himself, hearing his mother's footsteps descend down the stairs. All by myself. It's all that I'll ever be. By myself...for the rest of my life. At least that way, I won't get hurt.

-oOo-

Hours later, he frustratingly made a start on some of his homework, practising writing with only one good arm. Sleeping hadn't helped at all. He just couldn't find a comfortable position to lie in without his wrist screaming in pain. His eyelids drooped as he wrote clumsily, and he forced his mind to think of other things – especially not about how tomorrow was going to be at school.

If I see Grace again, it will be too soon, he thought grumpily, slamming his science book shut and plopping it on the floor; unable to concentrate any further. I might crack my skull next time I bump into her.

He looked at his alarm on the side. It read twenty-six minutes past one in the morning. Christ, Casey thought, groaning from tiredness. I really should get some sleep. So, sighing in defeat, he picked himself up and sat on the bed, starting to undress.

However, he had barely touched the bottom of his shirt before he heard his father's raised voice coming from downstairs. It sounded as if he was arguing – arguing with his mother. Casey frowned, standing up from his bed and letting his shirt drop, listening intently.

He sounds really pissed about something...

Getting to his feet, he quietly opened the door and strained to eavesdrop on what they were saying – or shouting – about. He guessed that they thought that their son might be fast asleep now, and dead to the world.

Even dead people could hear this, Casey thought, chewing on his lip. He had managed to make it to the end of the landing before he finally got within earshot:

"Why do you always have to make it so hard for me, Frank? I always try –"

"You butter him up, is what you do," he heard his father growl, in his firm, steely tone. "You're not strict enough with him –!"

"Are you saying I'm soft, now?" Lorraine asked incredulously.

"I'm just saying we need to push him in the right direction. He can't seem to do it for himself!"

"What do you mean?" His mother's voice was softer now; curious and questioning.

"All the bullying, broken bones – shutting himself away in his room for hours on end..." (Casey could almost picture him counting them off on his fingers) "It's not normal for a kid his age! He should be going out with friends, to parties – or whatever kids his age do! No wonder he's bullied all the time. He doesn't know how to be with people!"

The words stung Casey inside. He sighed and slumped against the banister pole, staring up at the ceiling and trying to push down the feeling of uselessness inside his chest. Even Dad can't stand the person I am...

"What about Grace?" Lorraine brought up, always trying to defend. "He's met that girl – isn't that something?"

Casey bashed his head against the railing. Not Grace again...fucks sake, Mom...give it a rest...

"It's hardly a budding friendship," Frank said, rolling his eyes. "Didn't you hear him in the car? It's like he doesn't want anything to do with her. Or, maybe it's because it's the other way around –"

"Frank..."

"Well, let's face it, Lorraine. Our son doesn't really have a way with the ladies, does he? Think we'll get any grandchildren?"

Casey had heard enough. He couldn't sit there listening anymore. It was just too painful to hear his parents talking about him like this. Not his parents...who were supposed to love him and support him, and accept the person inside of him. They weren't supposed to care...

They're right, though, the nasty words sounded, echoing through his ears. Who the hell would want your kids?

Casey sighed, blinking tears out of his eyes, and returned back to his bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him, so his parents wouldn't know that he had been listening to them. It closed with a tiny click, and then, for some reason, that sound caused tears to flood from the boy's eyes and down his cheeks.

He was so sick and tired of this; of not living up to his parent's expectations. He was so exhausted at hearing their complaints and dissatisfactions...why couldn't they just let him get on with his life instead of comparing him to other people?

He rested his back against the door and allowed his legs to give way, so he slid down it. I'm a waste of their space...he thought bitterly, bowing his head and holding his hair in his trembling hand. They don't want me...they hate me...they hate the person I am...

So do I.

Casey growled, almost an angry scream. He scrambled to his feet and sat himself on the bed, burying his face in the pillow and yelling into it: "Go away!"

That's your fucking answer for everything – go away! It's never gonna fucking go away!

He sighed miserably, trying to force the tears away and hide himself away from the rest of the world. His eyes hurt when he screwed them up – so much that tiny specks of blue danced in front of his nose. "I hate them," he grumbled, slamming his good fist against the mattress. "I hate both of them!"

Then do something about it!

What the fuck can I do?

Run. Away!

He opened his eyes, hearing the familiar words that had been saying the same shit to him for so long now. He rolled them around in his head, remembering his thoughts in the hospital lobby.

Running away...being free...being free from them...

In his misery, he squatted up into a sitting position and plunged through his book bag, searching for something amidst the desperation. This would show them! They'll be fucking sorry they said that about me...don't they care? Why would they say that about their own son – why?

Pain drove him to finally scramble through the side pocket of his bag, pulling out a pencil sharpener. He stared at it for a while in discovery, then kicked the bag aside and sat down on the bed, prying the screw out of the utensil. It was a little difficult with one hand, and he almost dropped it a few times – as his fingers were trembling – but he finally took it apart and held the small razorblade in his hand.

And did nothing.

He just sat there for God knows how long; just staring at it. All of his angered misery had dissolved a little, and now there was nothing else but self-pity. He felt more tears warming up but he held them back. He stared at the razor in his hand and watched how the lava-lamps golden light reflected from it in the dim.

They were right... he thought sadly, his shoulders sagging. I'm not normal. I'm not like a normal kid. I disappoint them. They're ashamed of the way I am.

He saw a tiny glimpse of his blue eyes reflecting in the metal, bouncing back at him and freezing his organs inside. He saw his own pain, there, hiding inside his mind. It was too complicated to think about, and he tried to push it away, but:

They hate me...

If they could change me, they could...

Change me into the son they never had...the son they want...

They won't even notice that I'm gone...

They'll find me here...

He tore his eyes away and stared at the window. Passing cars with glaring headlights zoomed past the closed curtain. He sighed heavily and tried to take his mind off of the fact that he had a sharp razor in his hand.

What are you waiting for? You've got it – use it!

I...I can't...

He shot a sideways glance at it, and then held it between his forefinger and thumb. He stared at it stupidly, as if he didn't know what he was supposed to do with it.

Do it.

He bit his lower lip, placing the tip of the blade against the skin of his arm. He didn't want to go straight for anything serious: after all, he was still unsure about this whole idea. But I have to take some of the pain away...he thought. I've heard of other people doing this...maybe it works...

He clenched his teeth and turned his head away. He wasn't sure how deep he was supposed to drag it. How did he know if it would be enough to help? His fingers were shaking and he had to grip the blade tighter to stop it falling. What if he didn't do it right? The tips of his fingers were turning white...

For fucks sake, you little wuss! DO IT!

He did it.