(Pssst...gentle TW! This chapter does include some period-appropriate child abuse, if that is something particularly triggering for you, then please take care of yourself and skip this one if needed. Much love 3)
Ignatius College Prep, Chicago – Spring 1906
The classroom was hushed, save for the soft scratch of a chalk against a blackboard and the occasional ruffle of paper. The thick smell of ink and dust clung to the air, mingling with the faint hum of the outside world beyond the narrow windows. The sun, as weak as it was, crept over the sill, laying light across the floor in patches, where the worn wood gleamed slightly.
Edward sat rigidly in his seat, feet dangling just above the floor. His small hand fidgeted with the edge of his collar, tugging it more to the side than adjusting it properly. His uniform felt too tight around the neck, the wool itchy and heavy. He'd long forgotten about the inkpot in front of him—until the moment it tipped.
One moment, everything had seemed fine. The boy was only trying to reach for his paper. The next, the inkpot had rolled over with a soft clink and a violent splatter, dark splotches spreading quickly across the desk. Some of it had stained his fingers. Some of it had hit the papers, already crammed with writing.
The murmur of the other boys grew louder, a mix of giggles and scoffing whispers.
Edward froze.
He didn't mean to. He never meant to. His small hands trembled. His mind raced. He'd been careful, hadn't he? He had tried.
But no one cared about that.
The teacher's heavy footsteps approached, and Edward's stomach turned.
Mr. O'Connell's shadow loomed over him. The older man stood tall, one hand resting on the desk. His eyes narrowed to a cold, calculating squint.
"Look at this mess," Mr. O'Connell spat, his tone low but full of biting anger. "What have you done?"
Edward's eyes were wide, his hands now clenched on the edge of his desk. His mouth went dry.
"I—I didn't mean to, sir" he whispered, his voice barely audible. He wasn't sure if Mr. O'Connell even heard him.
"You didn't mean to?" Mr. O'Connell sneered, bending down so his face was level with Edward's. His breath reeked of stale tobacco. "What a pathetic excuse. This is a school, not a playroom, boy." He flicked a finger at the desk where the ink had already soaked into the paper, leaving ugly blotches. "Do you think this mess will clean itself up?"
Edward opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed hard, the tears threatening to rise, but he kept them down. He didn't want to cry. Not now, not here. He wasnt a wuss.
Mr. O'Connell stood upright again, towering over him, and his voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "We don't tolerate messes. We don't tolerate excuses."
Edward's heart pounded. His small body trembled. He wanted to apologize again, to beg, but nothing seemed right. The words lodged in his throat like a stone.
"Bend over," Mr. O'Connell snapped.
The command was like a slap to the face.
Edward froze. His legs were made of lead. He had never been punished like this. The other boys were already quiet, watching, some with wide eyes, others with the detached, bored gaze of boys who had witnessed this before.
"I said bend over, boy!" Mr. O'Connell's voice was sharp, his words cutting through the stillness like a whip.
Edward's hands clenched into fists as he slowly, slowly stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him. His stomach felt as though it had disappeared entirely. A cold sweat broke out across his neck. He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to make it worse, but the weight of Mr. O'Connell's gaze made it impossible to resist.
As he bent over the desk, his mind went blank. The smell of ink and wood crept up, nauseating and thick. The heat of the room felt too heavy. His palms pressed into the smooth surface of the desk, fingers grasping desperately for some form of control. His chest tightened.
He didn't mean to.
The first strike landed.
It was hard—harder than he had imagined. The sting made his body jerk forward, and he gasped involuntarily. The sound of the cane snapping against his backside echoed in the room. The boys behind him shifted slightly, but no one spoke. The only sound was Edward's quickened breath and Mr. O'Connell's shallow exhalations.
"There, now," the teacher muttered, "that should teach you to be more careful next time."
Edward couldn't move, couldn't speak. His body trembled from the force of the blow, his hands shaking violently against the desk. The next strike came immediately—another snap of the cane, harder than the last.
Edward's breath caught in his throat. His chest felt like it was caving in. The tears were finally falling, unbidden, hot against his flushed cheeks. His lips trembled, but he couldn't stop himself. He was just six. He hadn't meant to do it. He wasn't a bad boy.
The third strike came down, and that was when the sobs started—quiet, broken. He couldn't hold them back. His whole body jerked forward with the force of the pain and the shame.
"I didn't mean to," he gasped between sobs. The words came out broken, choked. "I didn't mean to. I didn't… I didn't want to upset anyone." His voice was small, barely a whisper now, like he was trying to say the words to himself, hoping they would make sense. But no one cared.
Mr. O'Connell was done. The last strike was final. He let the cane drop onto the desk with a loud thud, his expression one of indifference. "Maybe next time you'll think before you act."
Edward's legs felt like they could no longer hold him. His face was wet with tears. His eyes were squeezed shut as if that would make the whole thing go away. The pain burned, but the humiliation—the overwhelming sense that he had failed, that he had disappointed everyone—was worse.
The teacher didn't wait for him to stand up. He just walked away to the front of the classroom, as if nothing had happened, as if Edward's small sobs weren't breaking his heart.
Edward slowly straightened up, his small body trembling. His hands wiped frantically at his face, but the tears kept coming. He didn't know how to stop them.
The room was silent.
It felt endless. The world felt endless.
(Hi! Okay guys my reviews these days are full of bots asking for paid comic commissions, PLEASE some reviews. They genuinely make my day. And mainly to know if youre enjoying this enough for me to bother continuing!!)