A tremendous amount of relief filled Artemis as the drug began to tingle under his skin and a tension in his shoulders he hadn’t even noticed till now, melted away.
Subliminally, Artemis had classified certain classes as ‘safe’.
Safe meant nothing was expected of him during class when his mind was fractured, safe meant the teacher wouldn’t notice anything when he was high and ask ‘is anything wrong?’. Safe meant James wouldn’t be there.
Small details that, before, he hadn’t paid any mind to, were now unavoidable.
He liked English language class. While he shared English literature with Kieran, in English language he was alone. James wasn’t leering at him, Kieran wasn’t asking any questions and the teacher would never ask, ‘where is your work?’.
The tables in the classroom were arranged in rows and he was sat in an empty one in the back. Mrs Cleese rarely marked work or had a lesson plan, she spent most of the hour reading through texts with them and explaining as she went. Artemis was fairly sure that at least half of the class would fail when it came to exams but that wasn’t his problem. In the meantime he would enjoy the freedom her class afforded him.
He hadn’t slept at all that night, and it was warm in the English classrooms. Soon his head came to rest on his desk, his eyes drooping, the droning rhythm of the lecture lulled him into unconsciousness.
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Silence could be deafening. It could be the loudest thing in the room, and that was what awoke Artemis from his nap, his eyes snapping open.
Remotely, he heard Mrs Cleese ask, “Barnaby, tell me, what was a method that Shakespeare used to foreshadow the appearance of the witches?”
Someone answered, “The storm kind of foreshadowed that something was going to happen.” the student continued but Artemis couldn’t decipher the words, thoughts still heavy with sleep.
Blinking, he lifted his head from the desk just as Mrs Cleese locked eyes with him, “And what is the proper word for that? Artemis.”
“Uh,” He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to remember what the question had been, “Pathetic fallacy.” Mrs Cleese moved on, quizzing the class on the passage.
He had of course read Macbeth, but he was exhausted and rendered unable to study by both his panic attacks and the subsequent need to be… addled.
He had thought that appearances would be hard to maintain but he soon realised only a handful of staff actually paid attention to their students. He would fall asleep in class numerous times a day, had never submitted homework, and would spend lessons staring down at his desk with empty eyes. Wasn’t it obvious that something was wrong? That he couldn’t do this, that he was barely holding on. He supposed not.
‘Of course not you idiot, you haven’t told them.’ The voice piped up.
Artemis rolled his eyes; he was arguing with himself now. How juvenile.
It was odd, he had always felt surveilled at school, watched. And that had been comforting for some reason. It was an irritating system to circumvent, true, but also a safety net. Now those safety nets had dissolved at his touch, showing themselves to be the mirages that they were, he felt untethered. Strange.
He had rarely needed to study before, his natural wit and interests carrying him, but as of late his concentration had lapsed, his thoughts choked in a fog of… of- what was that word?
It was hard to find the words these days, they would flit away at his approach, dissolve as he reached for them. It was if the words were only there when he looked at them form the corner of his eye.
Like those fours, whispering on the wind. He tapped five times on the desk to counter the thought.
The fog was worse when he hadn’t slept, when he took Xanax, when he didn’t take Xanax, when he had to tolerate more social interaction than usual, and when his mind inevitably returned to that night.
If Mrs Cleese had noticed, she never said anything nor did any of his other teachers. He felt a sudden rush of anger, helplessness, his throat clogging as he fought the onslaught of tears that threatened to fall. He was drowning and no-one could even be bothered to pay attention. He spent the next ten minutes before the bell rang just breathing and trying to calm himself and detach himself from his body and slip into a numb feeling that wrapped around him. He couldn’t cry here – not here.
‘Not anywhere’, a voice said. ‘Pull yourself together.’
That was concerning, the voice was becoming more consistent and distinct; almost like it was developing a personality. He should really call Doctor Argon. But he wouldn’t.
‘You’re disassociating again. You know, it won’t go away if you just ignore it. But that’s how you deal with most of your problems isn’t it?’
He sighed, not rising to the bate.
‘Don’t ignore me. How does that ever work out for the people around you? But you don’t care about that, do you? Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.’
He stopped. That was the first time the voice had referred to the two of them as ‘we’. His condition was deteriorating, probably due to the toxic combination of trauma, drug use, lack of sleep and the withdrawals that dragged on from nights to mornings.
Artemis was left feeling drained and empty just from the spike of emotion, it was exhausting, how erratic and extreme his moods had become. It seemed that he yoyoed between feeling thankful that the changes in his demeanour had not been picked up and feeling resentful and angry that he was being pushed to his limits on a daily basis by crowded corridors and constant exhaustion both mental and physical among other things.
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It was a strange sort of paralysis that snared him; telling anyone seemed a daunting task but living like this for much longer seemed unthinkable. So, he did nothing and allowed his fear to choose for him.
A desolate feeling had been settling into his bones for some time now, bit by bit, circling like a vulture. But now it descended, and he was unable to fight it. no-one would notice, and he would not tell them, nothing would get better.
But that was what he wanted wasn’t it? That was why he never asked for help.
‘Was it?’
He wanted it to stop, but he couldn’t tell anyone, (anyone that cared, anyway) he just couldn’t.
He buried the thought. He was being dramatic. His mother had always told him he had a certain flare for it. It had sounded harmless, affectionate even, coming from her but it always left him feeling cold inside and unable to voice quite why.
Lugging his bag over his shoulder, Artemis rose with the rest of the class and walked through the halls and across the courtyard in a disaffected bubble. Fours couldn’t reach him here, and fives weren’t so friendly.
It was halfway through his history class (another safe place), that he allowed himself surface from the apathetic trance he had retreated into, lulled by the familiar structure of the lesson. Mr Alans would introduce the topic and allow them a break every two minutes or so to make notes and complete sheets they had been given.
Copying the information was repetitive and soothing in a way his other classes failed to be. It was his teacher as well, he was kind, though slightly demanding. In the warm classroom it felt like a haven. Because for three hours a week, he could feel safe, genuinely safe.
The class had settled into a comfortable silence as they scribbled in their books in a rare demonstration of respect. Mr Alans was one of the only teachers who could command the attention of an entire class.
Mr Alans hunkered down next to Artemis, his voice low but not unkind, “The homework this week, is there a reason you didn’t hand it in?”
‘Because you were high. As usual.’
Artemis looked at the table, “I wasn’t able to do it.” He was saying that a lot more these days.
Mr Alans looked like he wanted to say more but he settled on, “Okay, try not to let it happen again.”
He was too close. Mr Alans was too close, and he felt trapped. And for a second he was back in that bedroom with James looming over him. Mr Alan didn’t even look that much like James, but he was a man and he was too close, and apparently that was all that mattered to Artemis’s scattered psyche. That night was infecting his safe spaces and he didn’t know how to stop it.
The moment passed, but Artemis’s hands still shook.
Mr Alans had already stood and continued the lesson – oblivious.
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Kieran was quiet at lunch. It took Artemis ten minutes to realise that.
“Hi.” Artemis ventured, pulling himself out of his pit of self-pity.
Kieran looked up from his meal like he had been caught in a lie, “Hi.”
A pause. “You aren’t usually quiet for this long. Something’s wrong.”
A guarded expression flickered onto Kieran’s face, “Ironic, coming from you.”
Artemis tilted his head, “True enough, however that does not negate the fact that you are acting odd.”
Kieran crumpled, “I’m not good at this whole silent brooding thing.” Something changed in his face, “My da’ wants me to stay with him and his girlfriend over the half term.”
“And that is bad?” Artemis queried.
Kieran’s eyes became suspiciously wet, and he blinked rapidly as he covered his eyes with one hand, “Sorry, I’m not crying, my god damn eyes took this moment to water. For fucks sake.” He said, mortified.
Artemis smiled at his antics.
Kieran wiped his eyes with his sleeve, “So embarrassing. My da’ is fine, I guess. I just feel like his girlfriend doesn’t like me. I think she finds me… inconvenient or something. Da’ won’t listen to me. Probably because if he broke up with Angie no-one else would date him. He’s let himself go since Ma’ kicked him out. He wasn’t much better before to be honest, I have nothing against smoking weed but it’d be nice if he was sober once in a while. Y’know what, that’s not even the problom, he’s just a self absorbed mess that can’t function on his own without a girlfriend to mother him.”
Artemis nodded slowly, slightly lost, “… I am sorry Kieran. You shouldn’t have to tolerate that.”
“Aww, you’re trying to be supportive, you really know how to make a guy feel special.” Kieran simpered.
“If you weren’t upset right now, my response to that would be scathing.” Artemis deadpanned.
“Oh, I’m sure, under normal circumstances you wouldn’t let anyone mistake you for, dare I say it… nice.” Kieran mocked.
Artemis huffed a laugh, then took a moment to realise that the all-consuming hopelessness from only minutes ago had receded into a tightness in his throat. He had spent the first half of lunch deciding how much to eat. Ten forkfuls. Two fives is ten.
They both looked up when Jess made her way over and hovered by the table, “Is it cool is I sit here?”
Kieran gestured to the seat next to him with a flourish, “Take a seat madam.”
Artemis sighed, “You remind me of Orion sometimes, in the worst way possible.”
Jess sat, watching the interaction.
“Orion?” Kieran asked.
“I told you about him. The guy I met over the summer.”
Kieran squinted, “Who?”
He sighed, “I’ll tell you later.”
Kieran shrugged, nonplussed, “Cryptic as usual.” He looked across the table, “How are we all?” he said in a way that suggested he was referencing some obscure part of pop-culture.
Jess’ eyes lit up, “Are you quoting St Trinians right now?”
Kieran grinned, practically vibrating with excitement “Of course, it literally was my childhood.”
For a minute, they traded nonsensical sentences that broke off into exclamations of “Oh my god”, “It was so good” and, incoherent screeching.
It was Artemis’ turn to observe, bemused, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a ghost of a smile. When the squealing had ceased, Jess and Kieran were red faced, with matching loopy grins.
It was then that they seemed to remember Artemis’s presence, and both scrambled to explain at once; “It’s this movie about a girl’s school-”
“-they distill their own vodka, and someone died, but that was only once-”
“-a heist-“
“Stephan Fry gets high during school challenge-”
“-kind of chaos, all the teachers are weird-”
“-twelve-year-old explosive experts-”
“-gave all the school inspectors PTSD.”
“The second one was definitely better-”
“Jess is obviously wrong, the first one was a master-”
“David Tennant is all the reason I need!”
Artemis nodded, not sure how to react.
Jess and Kieran shared a look, and Artemis briefly wondered if they had developed some kind of telepathic abilities. Leaning over conspiratorially, Jess asked, “We’re making him watch it, right?”
Kieran’s expression could only be described as maniacal, “Oh, absolutely.”
“Both of them?”
“What do think I am? A philistine? He will watch both and he will like it.”
Artemis looked from one to the other, “I feel strangely… attacked.”
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Artemis sat on the low comfortable chairs in the library feeling surprisingly okay. Kieran was draped across his lap and for some reason that didn’t bother Artemis. The voice hadn’t resumed its morbid commentary and he found himself laughing along with Jess and Kieran as they continued their enthusiastic exchange.
The library was a generous word for what this was. There were books packed into shelves that reached the ceiling but rather than chairs and desks, bean bags were scattered about the floor and low comfortable chairs were placed in a crude semicircle.
The room was curiously empty, usually the centre of socialisation for the more bookish of the boys, well and the faction that spent their time raving about anime, fantasy books, and for some reason Pedro Pascal, as of late. Teenage boys were odd.
The morning’s episode was worrying. He had gone from being relatively stable a week ago to… well that. He wasn’t oblivious, he knew how bad that was. It wouldn’t be long before Butler did too.
And he should be happy right now. He was with a friend, something he was in chronic short supply of and yet...
All he could say was that he wasn’t actively in pain. It would start to show soon.