When Albaer awoke, he found the sisters had finished some time during the night and gone to sleep beside one another, a little closer than they previously did, and Albaer felt a twinge of guilt run through him as he took care to go about his morning routine without awakening them. ‘I was probably a little hard on them, especially Lialah, maybe it was justified, but still, it was just an accident. She had no idea she would run into Lisa and she still knows nothing about human culture.’

He crept to his mother’s room and cracked the door open, there she was, still asleep in her bed. ‘She works so damn hard… she’ll be up and gone soon though, really soon. I should get a move on.’

Albaer closed the door quietly and rushed to the kitchen, he poured two cups of milk, then two bowls of cereal and added two spoons. For good measure he added two cups of juice and set all of those things on a plastic tray which he carried into his bedroom.

He scribbled out a quick note [Mother sleeps, leaves for work in a few hours, stay quiet and in here, enjoy your breakfast, I’m sorry if I was a little mean last night. ~Albaer]. He then set the note and the food on the desk with his computer, then snatched his backpack and headed out of the apartment.

His trek to school was an uneventful thing, it took very little time, and when he arrived, others were still streaming over the open ground to the front door.

Albaer didn’t particularly mind when he was shoved a bit, at least in the sense that it was expected and he was used to it. As usual among the sea of bodies walking in through the glass doors of the school, he took ‘his place’ along the far wall. He was not the only one to do that, larger students, athletes, and popular students got the middle, the rest went around them, and the lowest on the social totem pole took the wall and kept their heads down.

His first class of the day, the predictable things happened. A tack was on his seat. He saw it, and the usual options passed through his mind. ‘Demand to know who did it… get laughed at. Knock it out of the way, and probably get publicly shoved or something afterward for ruining their joke. Tell a teacher, and watch them do nothing. Or…’

He clenched his jaw, and chose the least evil. He sat down on it, it pierced the fabric of his pants and stabbed at his flesh.

It was a small tack, nothing serious, and only drew a drop of blood, he winced, and behind him he could feel the stares of others waiting for him to react. But he pretended to not even notice it, not even feel the pain.

But he did feel it. The physical was there, the presence of the piercing metal was something he knew how to ignore by now, but more than that was the absolute anguish and humiliation of not being able to do anything about it. Victimhood was the other way to spell despair.

Their eyes and the disappointment from the sniggering assholes who waited for him to wince, that was the only tool he had with him to fight back. He used it.

Albaer gave them nothing. But their prank worked, and that was good enough at least. ‘I probably won’t get shoved when I leave at least.’ It was a passing thought and for a while at least nobody seemed to pay any attention. At the head of the class sat an old man with a balding head and wisps of white hair still clinging to his scalp for dear life. He wore cheap tan khaki pants and equally cheap black shoes, with an equally simple button white shirt, suit jacket to match the pants, and a bright red tie that hung down the middle, the only real color he had, like a bit of rebellion against his bland existence.

If it was a rebellion, his voice didn’t join the fight, he droned on and on in a constant monotone that held neither emotion nor care for anything he was teaching. As history teachers went, he was the ideal man to keep anybody from ever giving a damn about the subject.

He did little more than read names, dates, and places from the book, and Albaer knew exactly why, too. The old man was actually the physical education teacher, a coach for their basketball team, and so all he really cared about was basketball. The school had a great team, and as such he had a great reputation as a coach. As a teacher? Albaer didn’t care if the old man was there or not, because even if the teacher was physically present, mentally he wasn’t.

The students at least paid enough attention that they were essentially just writing down test answers so that they could pass, a few of them were players. Unlike any other students, they wore jackets.

Another thing Albaer thought was just, dumb. ‘Wearing a jacket in the summer so everybody knows you put a ball through a hole really well is just… crazy. On the other hand they’re not likely to ever kill hundreds of people or ruin a town either, so… there is that.’ Again Albaer cursed his father and tried to focus on the material.

He stopped listening to the indifferent teacher and focused on reading the book instead, which went quite well until the bell rang.

Albaer waited, the athletes got up first and headed out, and the rest of the class a moment after so nobody would get in their way. They walked out chatting, most of the students were already talking about anything but class.

Their voices buzzed about this or that thing that Albaer didn’t really care about. He plucked the tack out of the seat of his pants without wincing, and moved on when he could.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

His next class took him to English. His teacher was Mrs. Simons, an older middle aged woman, overweight but not obese, with chubby cheeks and a cheerful disposition. She talked excitedly about her subject, which today covered the writings of Edgar Allan Poe; she was one of the few teachers Albaer enjoyed.

She barely noticed the students, or so it seemed, her nose buried in a book which she held in one hand close to her face while the other gestured about with wild abandon as she read off a nineteenth century poem. It was easy to enjoy her passion, and as Albaer enjoyed reading, it was ‘her’ he looked forward to.

Her class was another matter. Her oblivious nature meant she didn’t see anything when the boy behind Albaer put his hand up behind Albaer’s ear, drew back the forefinger to the thumb, and then ‘flicked’ Albaer’s earlobe.

Albaer didn’t wince, the sound of the flicking of his ear was a little ‘thump’ or ‘thwipp’ noise that only he could hear, and he was the only one who could feel the sting.

He shifted a little and tried to ignore it.

Another flick to his ear.

The pain individually was minimal, less than the bite of an ant, but it kept going. “Do you mind?” Albaer said in a hushed tone.

“No.” The answer came from a shabbily dressed and half shaved boy in a green and black shirt. He giggled, revealing yellowed teeth, and when Albaer turned back, another flick hit his ear.

“Stop it.” Albaer said and tried to inch away.

People were starting to notice.

“Nah.” The boy replied, giggled, and did it again. Albaer knew nothing about the boy other than his name, George.

It was the twelfth flick that really started to hurt, it was the same pain as always, but the humiliation was worse, and Albaer squeezed his eyes tight shut. ‘Just don’t fight, just don’t hit anyone, be a good boy and I’ll be happy.’ The words of his mother echoed in his ears and bound his entire body like the chains of the accused to a torture rack.

Nowhere to go.

Nothing he could say.

And bound by the words of the woman who raised him, nothing he could do.

Nothing but endure.

“Come on man, knock it off.”

An unexpected and familiar voice pierced Albaer’s ears. Deeper than George’s, it came from somebody bigger too. Strangely enough, it sounded empathetic.

“Mind your business, Trevor. I’m just joking around, what’s it matter?” George did stop and looked over to the seat two across from him, eyes left Albaer and turned to Trevor instead.

“Just don’t.” Trevor said, and he turned his fixed gaze on George, the two traded a stare so hard that the girl between them leaned back as far as she could in her cheap wooden seat to not catch the unspoken fire between them.

George, as it turned out, blinked first. He looked away, “Whatever, man, whatever.” He said with a sullen look of regret at the back of Albaer’s head. He sat back in his chair, well away from reach of Albaer, and the tension melted.

Eyes left Albaer, and the pain in his ear began to fade away.

Class, as it turned out, was uneventful the rest of the time, his oblivious teacher took up assignments at the end, told them the one for the following day, and just like that, the bell gave off its steady five second ringing noise.

Albaer slowly rose to his feet when Trevor approached, Albaer reflexively stepped away to leave, when the young man spoke. “Hey, Alby… Albaer, I mean.” Trevor said, and Albaer stopped his withdrawal and looked up.

“You… Are you okay?” Trevor asked, suddenly unable to meet his former target eye to eye.

“You mean after what happened at Lisa’s…? Or just now? The answer is yes either way… so is that all or are we done here?” Albaer asked and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Trevor snapped and shifted on his feet uncomfortably, his hands were shaking, and he looked down at the carpet between them. “I’m sorry.”

“Fine, whatever. I don’t care.” Albaer quipped.

Trevor reached up and touched the spot on his cheek where he recalled the talon slicing open flesh, the promise of torment, his sweat, his fear, the texture of the mark chilled his blood even at that moment. “Just… yeah, just one question, I swear.”

“Yeah… what, I’ve got another class to get to and it’s on the other end of the school. You know it takes me a while to get there.” Albaer remarked, and Trevor knew exactly what he meant. Being repeatedly body checked into the wall would slow anybody down.

“Sorry, yeah, yeah man uh, did you… a few days ago, have a nightmare, or like, a strange dream?” Trevor asked the question, his eyes finally found those of Albaer, and to his surprise, the slightly smaller young man stopped.

“Actually, yeah.” Albaer said as he recalled Raziel’s guidance. “I can’t recall the details, but there was kind of a demoness involved, I think…” He scratched his head, “Dreams are really strange, fuzzy sometimes, hard to remember, but that’s the one that comes to mind. Why?”

Trevor’s eyes welled up as if he were about to start bawling, his hands trembled as if he’d been stuck outside in a terrible blizzard, “N-N-No reason. No reason it’s just uh… listen, thanks… thanks a lot… I mean that.” Trevor then slowly stuck out his trembling hand.

Albaer dropped the hand that was scratching his hair and slowly put his hand down to take that of Trevor. ‘He’s sweating, damn his palms are so… just so damn sweaty… What did Raziel ‘do’ to this guy?’ He wondered, but then out loud Albaer said, “Um… I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I guess you’re welcome.” They shook hands briefly, Trevor’s grip was weak, limp, like a dead fish flopping over.

Albaer released the hold, wiped the sweat off of his palm by rubbing it against his pants, “I gotta go, have a good one… I guess.” Albaer said with haste and rushed out of the class just as people began to filter in, unaware that Trevor was watching him go with what amounted to hero worship.