Well, here it is, the awaited chapter two! Sorry for not having this chapter up sooner; I've just dreaded starting this chapter. I can't tell you how may times I've edited this and I'm still not to happy with it. Oh well! Anyways, I wanted to say thank you to the people that reviewed and favorited this; it made my day to see people enjoy it. Meh, enough dilly-dally, let us end this author's note!
Disclaimer: Homestuck and it's characters belong to Hussie
The cricket has no idea that it is being stalked.
It continues to mind it's own business, heedless of it's destroyer hiding behind a branch. The orange predator shifts ever so slightly, standing out like a beacon.
You can't see how the cricket can't not see the bright orange salamander that is practically right in front of it. Are bugs really that blind? Apparently so because the cricket doesn't even seem to notice-even as Casey chomps down on the unsuspecting bug.
"John, you're going miss the bus if you don't hurry!"
Well damn; there goes the wish of your Dad forgetting about school. It would have been really nice if he forgot and you could stay home. Really nice actually; hanging at home with only Casey and video games-no one to bother you. Maybe if you put on a disguise he wouldn't recognize you and you could stay home!
Yeah, that's a-horrible idea. Dad would never fall for it, he would recognize you in an instant. Sighing ever so slightly you grab your totally awesome green slime backpack, wave goodbye to Casey, and take a quick glance at yourself in a mirror. You're dressed casually, if not a little on the warm side, but you get cold easily anyways so it's no big deal. The important thing is that none of your bruises are visible, hidden under a blue hoodie and a pair of jeans, except for the two on your face. Your face…now that is another story completely.
To put it simply, it looks like crap. Black hair is sprung up in every direction and no matter how long you take to fix it, it remains stubborn. The two bruises, one on your cheek while the other rests on your jaw, stand out against your pale complexion and your eyes look dull and lifeless-even to you. A set of dark circles under your eyes completes the look. Yeah…you look awful.
Grimacing, you approach the stairs and begin the descent. Every step down causes your backpack to thump painfully against a bruise. The aching pain is still present; the bruises littering your torso screech with every movement and you can barely lift your arms above your head. The only good thing is that it doesn't hurt as much as yesterday, that hurt much worse.
You walk down the last few agonizing steps and glance around. The living room is empty, unless you count those creepy harlequins. Which you don't. Where's Da-is that the smell of baked goods? Oh no, you do not need this right now.
"Good morning, John."
"Good morning, Dad."
"So, how are you this morning?" Dad asks from his place at the kitchen doorway. His eyes are focused on you, despite the fact that he is icing a cupcake-a chocolate one to be exact.
"…okay. Why?" you ask warily. Images of yesterday flash in your mind and you inwardly flinch. You know where this is going.
"John," he says in a tone of voice you know all to well, "you came home late yesterday covered in bruises and scratches. Do you honestly think I'm going to ignore that and believe you when you say you're okay?"
You remain silent, fixing your blue eyes on a harlequin. Why are they all in weird poses? Who in their right mind would pose a figurine in such a creepy pose like this? No one wants to see a clown with it's arms all strung out like spaghetti noodles.
"John, look at me."
You swallow as you flick your eyes to Dad. It breaks your heart. Dark circles are under his eyes like he didn't sleep last night(he probably didn't) and it's obvious he hasn't shaved. But what really crushes you is Dad's expression. Concern, worry, and sadness are strewn across his features in a mess of fatherly love. It makes you feel guilty that you are the one who did this to him. You made him lose sleep and created that expression on his face.
"I'm sorry."
"John, don't apologize; you have nothing to be sorry for."
Oh but you do, you have everything to apologize for. Swallowing a second time, you find your voice. "I'm going to be late, I have to go."
You turn to leave, holding back the tears that keep threatening to spill over. Is it just you or are your bruises hurting even worse now? Never mind that, just focus on getting to the door and away from this suffocating room. Almost there…almost there…and-
"John, here."
You turn and are greeted with a chocolate cupcake being pressed into your palms.
"You need to eat something for the day."
"Thanks, Dad."
There is someone at your locker.
He looks about your age, but is the complete opposite of you. No dorky glasses, no buckteeth, no slime backpack, no messy, black hair, no dorky face; instead a pair of triangular shades, straight teeth, a black backpack, styled, white blonde hair, and a blank expression. His whole persona screams anti-dork.
And this guy is standing in front of your locker.
Your stomach is doing flip flops with each step; god why did you eat that cupcake? Maybe he won't notice you and completely ignore your presence. That would work, you could deal with being ignored. You'd prefer it if everyone would just ignore you. Oh crap, that guy is looking right over here. Or is he? It's hard to tell with those glasses…wait, yeah he's looking at you.
Panic pools and manifests itself deep in your belly. What does this guy want? Lunch money? Homework? Play beat up the dork? Your hands tremor slightly; you hope this guy isn't here to beat you up. That would really suck considering all the circumstances.
Your at your locker now and the guy still hasn't said anything; he hasn't even moved. Your body tenses in anticipation as you meet his gaze. He's here to beat you up, it's so obvious. Why else would a cool kid like him hang around here? His mouth opens and you flinch. Here it comes…
"You John Egbert?"
"Huh?" The sound escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Did he just ask…your name? That was not what you were expecting.
"I said, 'are you John Egbert?'" He asks again. His face is still as blank as ever, but you can here a slight undertone of agitation in his Texan accent. Great, you just met someone and have already given them a reason to dislike you.
"Y-Yes, that's me," you say, offering a slight smile. That smile dies as soon as it appears on your face, however, at his unmoving expression.
"Dave Strider," he speaks, giving a slight nod, "apparently we're locker partners."
You swallow the lump in your throat. He must be new and he does not seem very happy to be partnered with you. "Well, uh, that's cool. Here, I'll make room for your stuff."
You open the locker and are immediately embarrassed. Green Slime stickers are plastered all on the back of the locker along with the occasional picture of Nic Cage. A bright sticker of a cupcake with a huge X across it even more noticeable from it's place on the door. Face red, you shove your school supplies over, stacking them neatly in one corner.
"You can put your stuff here. If you need more room just tell me."
Dave doesn't respond, instead a slight smirk stretches across his face as he observes your colorful locker. "Nic Cage. Really?"
Your eyes widen slightly. Nic Cage is only the best actor ever. How dare this new kid insult one of the greatest actors of all time! "Of course," you exclaim, "he's, like, the best actor ever! How can you not like Nic Cage?"
You regret this outburst instantly when Dave quirks an eyebrow at you. "Chill, man. If it makes you feel any better, I'll leave you and your silly man-crush alone."
You face turns beet red. Man-crush? But…there is no way that you are a homosexual. Not that you have anything against homosexuals, there are actually a few in your grade. You are just not one of them.
Dave brushes past you, dropping a notebook in the locker along with a few pencils he pulled from his backpack. He turns to leave, his voice sounding through the crowd of students. "Later, Egderp."
You wince at the name. You've heard worse, but the fact that this guy just met you and is already insulting you hurts just a little. Okay, it hurts a lot. Your one chance to make a friend and you blew it.
The nickname still wavering in your head, you close you locker and walk to your first period class, alone.
Beaver.
The whole in your chest grows with each passing second as you gaze at the note.
You'd think you would have gotten used to it by now. The insults, the notes, the billions of school supplies stolen, all of it. But each word, each pencil snatched from your grasp, no matter how many times it happened, had the same ability to make you feel like what you really are. A loser, a derp. God, giving in and telling Dad has never been this appealing. The temptation to go home and spill everything to him, the notes, words, the recent shove down a flight of stairs, all of it, right there in your grasp.
"What's that? A love note?"
Tearing from your thoughts, you spin around and are greeting with the sight of your locker partner.
"No," you say quickly, ripping the note from the locker door and shoving it in you hoodie pocket. "It's nothing."
"Whatever," Dave says with a shrug. His voice is curt, each word hitting you like a bullet to the chest. "You mind movin' over so I can get my stuff?"
"Uh, yeah, sure. I've got to catch my bus anyway," you say, adding a hollow laugh at the end. Wasn't laughter said to be the best remedy for sadness? Those researchers have never experienced sadness. That laugh did squat; if anything it made it worse.
Silence, Dave doesn't reply back, instead he gives a slight nod of his head. He reaches down into the locker and gathers up various books for homework. He doesn't even glance at you, not like you would be able to tell. The only indication that let you know he heard you was the head nod other than that, nothing.
Were you really this unlikable?
Time to return home, to your room, to the one place where you can forget this. Swallowing for what feels like the hundredth time today, you turn on your heel and simply leave.