Hope you guys had a great Thanksgiving if you celebrate.

I was worried about keeping a section in because of a racial slur from a referenced book that was or was not officially banned in the early 2000s (Google's a hit or miss when it comes to that info,) but I like pushing boundaries XD.

With that being said, the hard R is in this chapter. Why? Because I got the idea from this short film I found on YouTube called JIM by Chris Black. It's an interesting watch about implicit racism in schools with some comedy to buffer the heavy subject matter.

Also lots of derogatory language and descriptions of distress in this chap, so TW if that does bother you.

Grey walls were black in the windowless room with no way of knowing whether the sun had risen. From the shivering chill that curled the eleven-year-old girl in a ball sheeted by a black-wool blanket that she'd wished for the night prior, either the heat was off or the sun was not high enough for natural heat. Black heavy-duty nylon was her mattress on a single military cot squeezed between the thrifted washer and dryer set, resting her head on a single couch cushion. Her raven with unusual dark-blue feathers slept caged in black wrought-iron on the small ebonized white oak counter to the left of the dryer, the top of its feathers hatted with a gold crown.

She stirred lightly from the heavy pull of the wooden sliding door, using her wool blanket to shield her closed eyes from the sudden seep of light behind a boy with skin nearly as pale grey as the walls. Already dressed for the day in a black jean jacket with a blue bolt printed in the center of his grey tee and silver chains dangling from his dark denim, his black chucks snuck towards the lump beneath the black wool.

Dark-blue eyes of the raven blinked to the twelve-year-old as he forcefully yanked the blanket away in a swoosh, revealing the curled girl wearing just a large black shirt riddled with holes, the hairs of her black pony sprouted in messy spikes. Ivory arms and legs riddled with bluish-red bruises.

"Wake up, loser!" Francis teased, showing crooked teeth in his taunting sneer.

In a grumpy growl, Molly sprung up in her cot, the small bags beneath yale-blue eyes wide in wrath glaring straight through Francis's smug smirk. "Fuck you, dipshit!"

Not fond of the sass, Francis snatched Molly into a headlock. Restraining her with a firm arm around her neck as her short nails clawed to be released. "You gotta foul mouth for a little girl!"

"Not as foul as that breath, butter teeth!" Molly gritted through her weakening airway.

"FRANCIS, where the fuck is my beer!"

Rolling his eyes at the baritone yelling from the kitchen, Francis shoves Molly backwards onto her cot. She coughed from regained airflow as Francis ignored the dark-blue raven's peeved stare on his way out the bedroom converted out of a laundry room. When the sliding door was pulled back in a slammed shut, the dark-blue raven transformed into her natural form of indigo curls with elfin ears and a green short-sleeved turtleneck with black pants. Swizzle used her wand to turn on the rustic floor lamp on the other side of the wall next to the vintage sink to give the room some light, and Molly coughed again, scooting herself off the single cot.

"…I wished I was dressed."

With a wave of her magical wand, Swizzle changed Molly out of her black tee to her black long sleeve beneath a grey sweater with a stitched skull and raisin denim jeans. After a mumbled 'thanks,' Molly didn't bother grabbing her backpack (with no plan on attending the shithole known as school.) Instead, she went to her backpack to retrieve her star-shaped transporter to shove in her back pocket, waiting for Swizzle to become her dark-blue earring before she exited her room, sliding the wooden door open.

Spilled bourbon and other grime littered the ones pure-white wood of the kitchen counters. Dishes and utensils caked in food attracted gnats and flies in the sink. Francis opened the rusting fridge filled with packs of Corona, Budweiser, Jack Daniels, and Seagrams, picking out a fresh can of Budweiser. Bringing the can over to the man with black spikey hair similar to his son's. Slouched casually in his chair at the kitchen table where bits of ash missed the tray in front of him, smoke blew past the lips of a five o'clock shadow. Skull and crossbones tattooed his left bicep as bulked as his pecks, amply toned aside from the beer belly hanging from his white wife-beater tucked inside denim jeans where a silver chain hung from its loops.

Popping the lid of the Budweiser can, Francis then held it in front of his father who snatched it from his fingers, his other hand tapping excess ash from the cigarette before bringing it to his mouth for another drag. After exhaling the smoke, Frank then pressed the cold can to his lips, ingesting the flavorless malt of fermented yeast and carbonated water in thirsty gulps that made his son cringe in distaste.

Setting the can on the table, Frank met the muted glare of his girlfriend's daughter as she stood from the sliding door to the makeshift bedroom, giving a gradual curl in inebriated lips still reeling from last night's overindulgence. The way those feldgrau eyes preyed upon her crawled uneasy ants under the eleven-year-old's skin, but her stoic expression and firm stance would never dare give him that satisfaction.

"Go wake Marissa up." Frank slurred in his low baritone, crinkling the can in his palm. "I'm hungry."

Molly's response? A snarky scoff. "You got hands and feet that work just fine. Fix ya own food."

Those bold words gritted Francis's jaw, eyeing Molly cagily. Though their parents had been dating for months, Molly and her mom had just moved into their apartment all of a couple weeks ago. She must not have gotten the memo that no one mouths off to Frank Abrahams and walks away with their life.

Then again, what memo was there for her to get if Frank never seemed enraged by her backtalk? Only Molly's backtalk made him chuckle ominously from his throat, crawling more gnawing ants under her skin as her fists balled to stay grounded.

"Or maybe I should jus' make you fix it." Frank scoffed back, pausing to take another puff of his cigarette now half disintegrated. "After all…" He inhaled its smoke before he blew it through his arrogant tone "…bitches should know their way around a stove."

Molly shook her head, crossing agitated arms across her chest "…what does ma see in you…"

In response to Molly's mutter, Frank scooted in his chair for the pleasantly unpleasant view of his free hand grabbing the front of his jeans, his grin just as crude as his gesture "What had her screamin' my name last night."

It was Molly's turn to cringe, sneering a growl as she stomped out of the kitchen past that annoyingly creepy chuckle of his. When he settled down, he looked over to his son's scrunched nose, Frank's grin fading into a disgusted glare. "…the fuck you lookin' at."

Without a word, Francis turned to walk away, not wanting any smoke this early right before school.

Sprawled on her stomach atop an aged king mattress beneath jumbled sheets, her jet-black hair combed over sunken eyes in a tangled swoop. Her pink bra and the sheet covering her giving the slightest decency to her nudity. Snores sawed in the drool strung from slack lips, a lanky arm dangling off the mattress edge where the tips of lifeless fingers hung above the empty Seagrams bottle that'd fallen to the scuffed carpet in her drunken slumber.

Before Molly could open the door Frank's bedroom, the door accidently clanked against an empty Jack Daniel's bottle, pushing the door further to see multiple bottles and cans that littered the carpet. "I wish all the bottles and cans were gone…" she muttered another wish for her Swizzle earring to grant, sighing as bottles and cans disappeared in dark-blue clouds. She can always say she cleaned up their mess since they never bother to do it.

Freely walking along the carpet to Marissa's side of the bed, Molly shook her mother's shoulder of the dangling arm. Marissa jerked a loud snort before the vodka and bourbon laced in her breaths went rhythmically soft, and Molly rolled her eyes as she shook Marissa more aggressively. "Frank wants breakfast."

"Staaaahp…" her mother gave a groggy grunt, a lackadaisical hand shooing her daughter away. "…givin' me a migraine…"

"Well, you wouldn't have one if you didn't drink your liver to death all the time."

"Stahp yellin'!" Marissa swatted at Molly who, of course, was speaking with her inside voice. She rolled over to face away from Molly's aggravated groan and continued to swat Molly away as Molly shook her with more force.

"MARISSA!" came Frank's bellow from down the hall in the kitchen. Having not moved an inch from his precious morning beer and cigarette. "Get up and fix me sum' ta eat! I'm starvin'!"

"UGH!" was Marissa's groan, chucking the sheets off as she pushed through the jackhammer in her skull. Sitting up to then stumble on her feet, bumping into the nightstand. Instincts led Molly to try and assist, only for her efforts to be rejected in a harsh shove staggering her backwards.

Yale-blue deepened their scowl as her mom's unsteady feet drag herself out of the bedroom.

Purple eyes fluttered to a haze of white, and the back of his auburn hair rubbed against something plasticky supporting his head. Awakening to parts unknown.

"Welcome back, Dwight." a soft, feminine voice faded in and out of the swooshing between his ears, his brain wading aimlessly beneath a mental stream. "How're you feeling?"

When a pair of black rims broke through the blur, the white haze solidified into clear outlines of fiberglass tile shadowed by dimmed fluorescents. His adjusting eyes noticed ginger waves hanging gently over the shoulder of her turquoise scrubs, 'Judith Blakeslee, RN' written on a name tag across the right of her upper chest. Her hazel eyes smiled down to him, so gentle and warm. Her feathered fingers felt like numbed prickles brushing against his arm.

"Can you tell me what day it is?" the nurse informally known by students as Nurse Judy tested the 6th grader's level of awareness, continuing her gentle strokes along his arm.

"…mmm…" Palming his head in his stupor, Dwight sorted through his daze just to remember how to mouth words "…Thursday…"

"What's today's date?"

"…the 12th."

"Very good." her praise sounded clearer, drawing him closer to the surface. "Do you know where you are?"

Tilting his head to the right in subsiding wooziness, a wall of painted beige greeted him, 'School Nurse' adorned in bold Arial Black across. That was when his fog realized that he must be laying on one of the medical beds of the nurse's office. "…your office…"

"That's right. Do you remember why?"

After a pause, confusion shook in his head. Of course, deductive reasoning would conclude why.

"You had a seizure on your way to class, and you missed first through third, unfortunately." Her words felt like a ribbon of soft silk. "But your teachers are aware, and you're gonna be just fine."

Dwight closed his eyes, heavy in his sigh. He could remember walking off the bus with Gary and entering the school. Then, there was this motion-blur on his way to his locker, and as worry sunk in his heart, he just knew it was gonna be another big one. Big enough to take him out almost half the day.

When he attempted to sit up on his own, Nurse Judy assisted him straightaway. "I called your dads while you were sleeping, and they told me that if you were conscious enough, you could let me know if I need to call them back for one of them to come get you or if you're confident that you can ride the rest of the day out."

It didn't take long for Dwight to weigh his options, willing the shaky index finger and thumb on his left hand to extend. Giving his dark-teal chain on his pants the signal for the automatic wish of returning him to a normal state of mind. Irving waived his wand out of Nurse Judy's sight, and in a magical flash, his mind was clear and thoughts coherent.

Granted more energy than he'd awaken with, Dwight gave a small smile to the nurse. "I think I'll stay."

"Are you sure? Your seizure was pretty intense…" Nurse Judy cautioned with a faltering smile. Fortunately, his seizure did not reach the intensity of needing rescue with Ativan, but she was still a bit shocked to see Dwight in better spirits so quickly. His speedy recovery had fascinated her since his first seizure on the first day of the semester, because in her years of middle school nursing, no student who'd suffered a tonic-clonic ever sprung back like a spring chicken.

"I'm sure." he assured, his grin growing more forced. If his seizure was as intense as Nurse Judy says, then that meant everyone in the entire school was watching. Big seizures always garnered unwanted mass attention…

Nurse and student heard the ring of the school bell through the closed office door, signaling the end of third period and the transition into fourth. Sitting up further to plant his feet to the ground, Dwight scanned the office for the backpack that Nurse Judy stood to retrieve from beside her desk. She kneeled to him with his backpack in hand, hinting her serious behind kind hazel orbs. "If you start to feel bad again outside of another seizure, don't hesitate to come back."

"I won't." Dwight took his backpack, offering a grin of gratitude. He stood from the medical bed, and with the hand cuffed with his medical alert bracelet, he reciprocated Nurse Judy's friendly wave on his way out into the hustle and bustle of students either lollygagging or rushing to their next class within the allotted five-minute span.

His attempts to blend into the crowd were not entirely successful. Groups of students stuck out their tongues and jerked their heads and arms before erupting in snickers as the past. Other students teased his 'exorcism,' taunting that he'd been possessed by the devil again. One student purposefully knocked him with all his force into a nearby locker with the sick intent of rattling his brain enough to trigger another seizure, and the student's friends joined him in the laughter that deflated any semblance of self-worth.

"Don't let 'em get to you, Wighty." his Irving chain coaxed as Dwight held his head, shaking off the vertigo. "They mock what they don't understand."

Wrapping arms around himself, Dwight folded his lips. While he always tried not to let these regular occurrences weigh him down, his spirits still plummeted. To Dwight, seizures at school easily compared to being awake in a horrible nightmare.

Eventually reaching his destination of fourth period English, Dwight entered the classroom with other students gradually filling the seats. Spotting the top of black hair gelled in its signature Greaser style resting over folded forearms on a desk near the back of the classroom. Dwight made his way to the empty desk beside the fellow 6th grader, tapping his shoulder for the student to lift his head as solemn blue acknowledged him.

"Hey, you…" Gary sounded as dreary as his faint smile "…feelin' better?"

In his feeble nod, Dwight sat in the empty seat, setting his backpack beside the desk. "…how bad was it?"

"Well, let's see..." Gary straightened himself, using his palm to rub his eye. "…drool, gargling, muscles hard as rocks, thrashing limbs. Lack of answer when I called your name…"

In a somber groan, Dwight cocked his head back in his chair "…so, pretty awful..."

"Eh. Not the worst." Gary assured his friend. "Only lasted about a minute. Nurse Judy helped me take you to her office afterwards."

Dwight turned to face Gary, his frown drifting "…I'm sorry."

"Stop." Gary's stare grew solid. "It's never your fault."

"I know, but…"

"Hey." An earnest hand reached for Dwight's knee. "Never apologize. Okay?"

Dwight tried to hold Gary's gaze, but bruised spirits made it difficult. Still, he knew he shouldn't have to apologize for what he can't control. Maybe, one day, he'll believe himself when he meekly murmurs "…okay."

"We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees, backwards towards the end of the widow's garden. Stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads." One 4th grader named Mitzie Mulligan theatrically read aloud as the rest of her class followed along in Chapter two of their aged novels. Ginger hair tied in high pigtails and dark-blue eyes interpreting the dialect of 1884. "When we was passing by the kitchen, I fell over a root and made a noise. We crouched down and laid still-"

"Excellent." The 4th grade teacher, Ms. Becky praised Mitzie. Following along in her own novel in a leisure patrol around the classroom. An instructor in her early 30s, the length of her blond hair was tied in a sleek bun, crystal-blue eyes rimmed in purple specs that matched the purple button up tucked into the slender of her grey pencil skirt.

She adjusted her glasses, scanning students dressed in black ties tied around the white collar of cotton button downs under gold sweater vests or cardigans with either black-pleated skirts or black slacks, Ms. Becky spotted the cocoa puff in a sea of white milk. Taking a couple of steps towards the little girl's desk to then pause as she set a hand to the girl's hunched shoulder. "Hazel, continue where Mitzie left off. And speak loudly so everyone can hear."

A pang gnawed in Hazel's stomach. Her veins iced when coy brown eyes saw some of her classmate's anticipating glances. Clearing the lump in her throat, Hazel willed the voice to speak "…Miss Watson's big…" she stalled, the pang in her stomach gnawing the most painful knot "…b-big nigger…named Jim-"

"Thanks, Hazel." Ms. Becky drably interrupted, her tone perking up when she acknowledged the original reader. "Mitzie, continue where Hazel stopped."

"Jim was setting in the kitchen door." Mitzie continued as normal. "We could see him pretty clearly, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute. Listening. Then he says…" Mitzie purposely paused, leaning over her desk towards Hazel sitting beside her as she spoke in a fake urban accent "…'Who dah!?'"

Hazel felt herself shrink under the giggles and snickers that followed, shrinking in her seat as she held onto her red ring in her need of comfort. At nine years old, Hazel had never seen another student that looked like her. In their one hundred years of educating Kindergarten through twelfth grade, Brightburg Enrichment Academy never had students of color enrolled.

Not only had Brightburg always been a predominately Caucasian town, but the costly tuition also often deterred the small percentage of POC families that could primarily afford the free education of public schooling for their children.

That, and the assessment just to get accepted singled out 'the brightest of the bright.'

Adversely, it was a fight for Hazel to get accepted. Eventually proven false, administrators constantly accused Hazel's parents of paying for higher test scores…cuz, for some reason, it was impossible to simply believe that Hazel's intelligence was by her own merit.

Her family lived in Dimmsdale Acres, the affluent outskirts of Dimmsdale, but Marcus Wells believed that his children deserved the best education schooling can offer. Then again, that sentiment extended mostly to his biological children. His wife, Angela, insisted Hazel be enrolled for her academic benefit as well. He eventually agreed, just to avoid a detour in their commute.

"Settle down." Ms. Becky regained control of her class. She then returned to patrolling around the class, turning the page in her novel. "Now, how about we skip to page six down to the next to last paragraph." Scanning the class, she pointed to the other redhead of the class with similar dark-blue eyes to Mitzie in front of him. "Marty, begin."

As Marty began his reading, Hazel continued to brush the red ring on her finger. Students often read above grade level, an esteemed standard of an Enrichment Academy. However, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was not a novel in the normal elementary curriculum. Hazel knew this for a fact because Ms. Becky had been both Anthony and Hillary's previous 4th grade teacher, and neither one of them had ever read a Mark Twain novel in their life.

Just thinking about it made it hard to know which was worse; the racial slurs up and down the pages, or the fact that this specific teacher chose this specific year to introduce this specific book into the curriculum.

"Jim was monstrous proud about it." Marty read with less enthusiasm than his sister. "And he got so he wouldn't hardly notice-"

"Hazel?" Ms. Becky called, making Hazel clench her troubled jaw. Having read ahead, Hazel dreaded speaking the cutting words that came next.

"…the other niggers…"

When Hazel didn't continue, Ms. Becky's stoic expression looked up from her novel "…I didn't say 'stop,' Hazel."

Hazel flinched, biting down on her lip to stop it from trembling. Unable to mask the tremble in her little voice "…n-niggers…would come miles-"

"Stop." Ms. Becky closed her book, returning to her desk. "Alright, I think that's enough Huckleberry Finn for today."

Yeah, ya got cha point across…

"Class, please take out your composition notebooks for the writing assignment written on the board." Taking her seat, Ms. Becky aimed stern eyes to the little girl holding herself together by the seams. "Hazel, I need to speak with you in private."

Hazel winched tentatively, 'ooohs' simmering from the class. She couldn't think of anything that she'd done wrong, but when did Ms. Becky ever need a reason to call on her? Especially when said chat was hardly 'private' because Ms. Becky doesn't bother to either take Hazel out the classroom or wait for the other students to leave.

Leaving the safety of her desk, Hazel fiddled her fingers in the steps towards Ms. Becky's unfaltering gaze. Hearing low snickers from Mitzie giggling with her brother, numbing her legs into jello. An accelerated pace thumped between her ears, clamming her palms. Reaching the front of the desk where Ms. Becky started with the unexpected gleam in her curled lips.

"I must say, your reading is excellent for your age." came her backhanded compliment. "I would've never thought that you read as well as you do."

Nyekundu half rolled her red eyes.

"With that said," Ms. Becky's politeness left as quick as it came, drawing back a draw in her desk. Taking out two graded tests and holding them in front of Hazel. "We need to discuss your recent reading comprehension test."

Hazel moved her hands to wad the hem of her pleated skirt.

"Do you know why you have the exact same answers that resulted in the exact same grade as Mitzie Mulligan?"

Hazel squeezed anxious wrinkles into her skirt. She and Nyekundu studied hard for that test, and her eyes were on her own test the whole time. The only explanation Hazel could give to her teacher was "…I-I didn't cheat."

"I never said you did." Ms. Becky spoke sharply. "But, since you brought it up, cheating will not get you a passing grade in my class."

The only reason Ms. Becky had never had a reason to accuse Hazel of cheating before was because her tests were normally freehand responses. This time, the test was multiple choice… "M-Ms. Becky, I didn't-"

"Cheat off another student, and I'll have no choice but to give you detention." Ms. Becky didn't feel the need to hear whatever excuse Hazel had stored, her crystal eyes as cold as her warning. "Understand?"

More 'ooohs' simmered, and when her gap bit her lip again, a drop of iron pricked through the skin "…yes ma'am…"

"Excellent." Ms. Becky discarded the tests back with the stack of others, waving Hazel off. "Go work on your assignment."

Willing her black boots to move, Hazel let go of her skirt to brush her Nyekundu ring in shamed steps. Seeing the haughty stares of Mitzie and Marty fixed on her as she returned to the desk next to them. Purposefully looking at Hazel at the same time, Mitzie whispered something in Marty's ear. Something that made him give Hazel a cunning smirk as Mitzie couldn't contain her crafty giggle.

Puncturing another sharp stab to Hazel's spirit.

She could feel her bottom limp start to tremble, glossing her eyes the longer she stared. Burying brimmed pain into crossed arms over the composition notebook that was not opened for the remainder of class.

Two peas traveled in their own pod through the crowd of students gathering towards the single destination of the cafeteria. Two separate lines formed for either the meal with pizza slightly above edible or the popular juicy chicken tender sandwich meal.

Gary slowed in his steps when they were about to pass the boy's bathroom door to their left, Dwight soon doing the same. "I gotta hit the john." he aloofly gestured to the door.

"I can go in with you." Dwight offered. He wasn't in the mood to make himself a walking target again.

"Nah, I'll be quick." Gary waved off, already weaving through other students across the hall. "Save me a seat, will ya?"

Watching Gary leave, Dwight sensed something off with his sole school friend. When they rode the bus that morning, darkness dulled his blue orbs. But, as he often did, Gary had denied that anything was wrong.

[Cousin, do you listen?!] Sophia's distress echoed loud and clear. [I said don't go in the bathroom!]

"Precisely why I suddenly gotta pee." Gary chose to dismiss his late cousin's warning. School was a battlefield, threats around every corner. His daily 8th grade tormentors seemed unusually tame, which could only mean one thing.

They're equipping the weapon of ambush, and Gary had prepared himself to charge into war.

Pushing the door open, another boy sped out of Gary's way. Meeting the brown glare of the tormenting ringleader. Black and kinky curls shaved on the sides, a gold chain hung around the neck of his oversized purple tee under his Dimmsdale Ballhogs jersey that could've been mistaken for a dress from its length. White and purple Air Jordans poked from baggy jeans in a subtle sag, standing with his chest puffed.

"You really be testin' me, faggot." he spat, his homies Bradley and Frankie backing him up. Bradley's cornrows were parted in swirly designs, laid with a red headband that matched his large tee over the loose-fitted legs of his black jeans. Frankie's skin was lighter than the other boys due to the half of Caucasian DNA in his blood with his curly fro hatted with a backwards Dimmsdale Pirates baseball cap, wearing a large gold polo and baggy khakis.

"You really be unoriginal, LeRoi." Gary retorted with a light taunt of LeRoi's improper grammar.

Snarling, LeRoi took a few steps forward, cueing Frankie and Bradley into their positions.

As Bradley moved to block the nearest stall to them, Gary creased his brow as Frankie fixed a resentful glare on him, moving to monitor the bathroom door for unwelcomed trespassers. LeRoi stopped a foot away from the boy two grades under him, lips folded as his nostrils flared in angered breaths.

"You ratted me out to Lewis!"

"What if I did?" Gary challenged. Glancing briefly at the crack of knuckles from Bradley leaned against the stall.

Suffering a whole semester of harassment, Gary's grandparents (along with his godfather Alondro) had suggested that he report LeRoi and his minions to Principal Lewis. Like most other schools, Dimmsdale Middle School had a horrible bullying epidemic. And, like most other schools, administration did the bare minimum to stop it, even when harassment bordered assault. Because of this, Gary saw no point in reporting anything. Nevertheless, his grandparents had the impression that, if Gary added on to the numerous complaints they were certain the school had stacked, administration would stop twiddling their thumbs and start doing something about it.

Yesterday before the start of school, he'd taken himself straight to the Principal's office. Missing twenty minutes of first period to speak directly to Lewis. In between Principal Lewis chomping on his morning donut and slurping his coffee, Gary couldn't tell if he was taken seriously. At least the ball was no longer in his court. Besides, reporting was just half the battle.

Or so they say.

"You think you so tough…" LeRoi inched forward once more with defensive fists dropped, scowling straight through Gary's cool and collected facade "…when you ain't nothin' butta lil' bitch." The emphasis of that last word sprayed in between Gary's eyes, making Gary flutter as he reached a forearm to swipe it away without breaking firm eye contact.

"Only weak punks like you snitch."

"They also pick on kids that're smaller than them to make themselves feel tough." Gary countered.

"Si. Antagonize him." he heard his yellow belt buckle mutter sarcastically. "Because that is how one deescalates…"

The door was about to open for a boy with a legitimately full bladder, only for Frankie to deny him entry by shoving the door in his face, telling him to go find another bathroom.

"We gotta week of ISS cuzza you!" LeRoi growled in his face.

"Oh, is that all?" Gary's expectations didn't expect any punishment at all, let alone anything more severe than in-school suspension. "Well, sorry not sorry-"

A swift claw yanked the smaller boy and slammed the side of his head onto the edge of the nearest sink. Stars blurred Gary's vision, collapsing in a heap on the cold tile. Unable to gather his bearings before he found that he couldn't move. Pinning knees straddled his hips, a string of unforgiving fists raining down as he raised hands in helpless defense.

"You think it's funny!?" LeRoi barked, striking with vengeful might. "Faggot ass bitch!"

Bradley joined in on the wailing punches, aiming for Gary's chest while LeRoi targeted his head. As Gary did his best to buffer their hits, brown eyes flickered between flashes of such wrath in his elm scowl. Ebony fists flickered between ivory in repeated adult punches. Short, kinky curls flickered between long strands of wild brunette that whipped with each brutal force of his attacks. Pubescent growls flickered between the ire roadring deep from his throat at the toddler's anguished screech for his tiny little life.

"That cord around your neck should've been tighter!"

THWACK!

"My wife shoulda never lost her life just to bring the likes of you into this world!"

THWACK!

"She should be alive. Not you!"

THWACK!

A switch in his brain flipped.

And all control was lost.

Piercing grunts roared through Gary's clenched teeth, aimless arms swinging and frantic legs kicking.

"Now you wanna fight back, FREAK!" LeRoi egged the irate boy, he and Bradley defending themselves with thrashing swings of their own.

Furious rage clamped his eyes and thrashed flailing limbs to where the back of his head slammed repeatedly into tile. The only thing that managed to stop his merciless attackers from striking another punch. Bradley and LeRoi exchanged baffled brows as Gary's growl began to gargle into an anguished screech. Pounding the back of his head in such ferocity that they thought the lil' weirdo was gonna knock himself out.

"Guys!" Frankie yelled from the door, struggling to defend Principal Lewis from entering the bathroom "5-0!"

"Shit!" LeRoi dragged Bradley by his shirt away from the thrashing boy, tripping over their feet. Scurrying in a dash towards the door where Frankie gave up his fight before bursting through the door with his friends just as Principal Lewis commanded them to get back here.

Gary could not hear Sophia's crying pleas. He could not hear Alondro consoling him to come back.

The only thing Gary could hear was the rancorous ringing of disgrace instilled by his father.