Approximately five years ago.

  His footsteps squeaked and echoed in the empty halls. The air was musty. Hot. But it wasn’t enough to warm his wet socks and to chase away the cold seeping into his fingers.

  The new foster home had been further than he expected, as for this new guardian, she said walking would be good for him.

  Ethan didn’t need to dwell on that. After four different foster homes, he began to recognize the pattern. Foster parents didn’t like spending money. Not all, of course. The first one had been generous and to be fair to them, Michael and his wife had really tried to bond, but at that point, Ethan had not been ready, to say the least.

  He didn’t even know if ever would or if he deserved it. He had killed his own father, and no matter what the therapist would say, no matter how ‘none of it was his fault’, his hands had done the deed, so could he really blame any foster parent for not wanting to invest time in him? After all, who’d want a murderer under their own roof. Not even his mother could look at him at this point. Not that he’d gone to visit the ward recently.

  Ethan shook his head, his breath had slowed. He was fine like this. He’d survive. Two years and nine months, and he’d be eighteen. He could then get a job and get his own place then.

  Then what?

  The silence of the hall and the muted voice coming through the door were his only answer. Ethan stood in front of the classroom door. It was supposed to be history, this morning. He could hear the nosy voice of the teacher. Ethan didn’t remember his name. The year had just started.

  Ethan looked down at his wet shoes and his throat tightened.

  I should have worn my black socks, he thought. Then he paused. No, he couldn’t have. He’d lost them in the last move.

  I’m running out of socks, and these ones stink… I should be careful later. Tighten the laces real hard so they don’t come off. Then I’ll wash them when I get home. Hopefully they’ll dry up by the morning.

  Ethan felt embarrassed, but then, the emotion, like many others, was smothered away by the ever present fog of… what? Apathy? Numbness?

  He felt that was accurate. In a way.

  Ethan considered heading to the former foster home and picking his second pair, but the house was a bit far, and when he’d mentioned having forgotten a couple of personal items to his case worker—including the socks—the man had blinked at him and just moved on to another subject.

  Ethan looked down at the white bit of polyester peeking out of the hole near his small toe. He didn’t need to give those clowns more ammo.

  I should have accepted the transfer.

  He looked at the wooden door, then down the hall. What if he left? What if he just went… out?

  Ethan let the thought float for a moment in his mind, then recalled there was a gym later, so he gripped the door handle and twisted. There was a hubbub of chatter as the teacher went around picking up homework for an instant before it died out, and a twenty-something pair of eyes swiveled toward him. Taking him in. Judging him.

  What if I had just let him stab me as well?

  For a second, Ethan imagined that could be preferable, but he quickly snapped out of the thought and saw the eyes once more. He felt them push him toward the exit, but he stood his ground, and a moment later, the teacher spoke up. “Fischer, right? You’re late. What is it this time? Missed the bus again?”

  Ethan didn’t respond. He just stood in the doorway, and let the snickers of his classmates wash over him, but he was soon let in, so for now, he tuned out everything, and tried to care about the lessons.

  ***

  The class went by as usual, somehow quickly enough he couldn’t recall much of it aside from the couple of tidbits he wrote down, and fast enough that it was already lunch time.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The teacher gave some more homework and nearly sprinted out of the classroom, disappearing in the midst of the chatting students, and Ethan briskly picked up his stuff and began zipping-up his bag as he walked but alas, he’d taken too long.

  The door swung shut in his face, and two unpleasant faces leered at him as they positioned themselves between him and the exit.

  “Look who’s here, Zach. The freak. Didn’t we tell him something last week?”

  The shorter of the two, a pale redhead named Damian, asked, turning up to the said Zach who leaned back against the door and grinned, showing his crooked teeth. The teenager wore his hat to the side and even Ethan with his stunted fashion sense knew that looked weird.

  “We told him to bring ten dollars every Monday. I don’t have ten dollars. Do you have ten doll—”

  The door opened, and the teacher came rushing back. The man was surprised for a second, then he frowned. “What are you three doing here? Get out. Out! All of you.”

  The history teacher had been running, but Ethan took the chance and slipped out, throat dry. He didn’t want to get in trouble, so he’d just been dodging the bullies and stonewalling them, but it wasn’t doing him much good and sooner or later, things were going to escalate.

  Already, his desk and lock had been messed with, and he’d had to clean the latter a few times already.

  Should have just moved to another high-school when the counselor offered.

  Ethan swallowed as he weaved within the crowd toward the gymnasium. He was skipping lunch today, no matter how unhappy his stomach was going to be. It wasn’t as if he was hungry, either.

  Already, the anxiety and frustration from the two clowns had faded, and at the moment, he was just looking forward to some exercise. Arriving at the gymnasium, he found only a couple of students eating lunch in the stands, and a few paces away, the new gym teacher, a cranky old man by the name of Luther who was always busy fixing or cleaning something or another. This time, Ethan found the man writing stuff up on a white-board paper, stared at his scribbles for a few moments, then tore the page out and mumbled something at it before he threw it in the trash bin and started over.

  Ethan found himself a seat away from the two girls eating, and ignored their stare and the whispering that followed. Instead, he leaned over and tightened his shoe-laces. He hoped there’d be wrestling this year.

  ***

  With the gym class over, Ethan found himself in the locker room and there was no amount of stink or sweat that could tamp down the heat spreading through his chest. In the end, they’d done some wrestling, and Ethan had done well. He won a few rounds, lost some others, but that didn’t matter.

  Putting his back into the spars and every ounce of force he could muster did miracles for his mind. Gone was the fog that ate through his emotions. He felt alive. And now, he felt angry. Because the two clowns had found him again, and they were going on once more about their ‘ten dollars’ shtick.

  Ethan had considered trying to slip away or call for help, but all that would do was attract more spectators.

  Zach shoved him, and Ethan’s bare shoulder slammed into the cold metal, bringing him back to the present moment and out of his musings.

  “Where’s my ten dollars, freak?”

  Damian wasn’t laughing this time. Well, he sort-of was, but there was too much rage boiling through his features for his expression to be called a ‘smile’. Probably because of how handedly Ethan had beaten him barely twenty minutes ago.

  Ethan could still hear the redhead’s back slamming against the cushioned floor.

  Now, how could he get away from here? Ethan paused. Actually, why should he?

  He stared up at the leering face ahead of him. At the beady, rat-like eyes. And the crooked teeth of the young man, and next thing he knew, there was a loud, blissful crack of hand meeting an unsuspecting cheek, and a sharp, burning pain against his palm.

  The locker room went quiet, while buzz filled his ears. There was a lull, then a dam broke. A fire was lit.

  Ethan exploded forward and shoved his fist deep into Zach’s gut, and it was like a life was breathed into his chest again and as he rained punches and kicks into the teen in front of him, he realized he was smiling.

  Was that all it took to feel alive? Because this… this he could do. He could spare the effort to pay some bullies back. So what if people thought he was yet another bully? So what?

  It wasn’t as if his friends wanted to talk to him anyway. It wasn’t going to fix anything. It wasn’t going to bring his father to life or fix whatever happened to the man’s mind.

  Ethan tasted blood and lost himself in the action, and for the first time in close to a year, he felt alive.

  ***

  Ethan stood next to the case worker in front of yet another door, with his duffel bag of belongings and a backpack over his shoulder.

  “Talk to your therapist and counselor, and if it all goes well, you’ll be back to a foster home in time. With your own room and everything. If that’s what you want. For now, you’ll need to spend a few weeks here. At the least,” the man next to him said. Then the man coughed, and added, voice low. “Don’t do... what you’ve done in your school. Keep a low profile, okay? Pick your battles and all that.”

  Ethan gave the man a sidelong glance, and couldn’t help the frown on his face. The man had never seemed like he cared about Ethan’s wellbeing. As if he was just moving a plant from a window to the next. So what’s with the mood shift?

  Ethan grit his teeth.

  Doesn’t matter. If anyone starts shit, I’ll put them in their places.

  He was done with bullies. He was done with being walked on and talked about behind his back.

  Two years and a half. Then I’m free of all of this shit.

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