The echoes of humiliating laughter ring in his ears. Head lowered in shame, fists clenched tight, the tiny frame shudders—his food wasted, spilled over him, staining his skin and soaking into the navy-blue blazer of his uniform.
They always crave a chance to torment him. The students, their unruffled, taunting gazes overwhelm him. So he prefers the classroom—wanting to be alone. To eat his lunch in peace.
Tears threaten to burst—burning behind his eyes like a dam about to collapse. Wild, trespassing images slice through his mind, each one steeped in abasement.
"Look at me, loser!" one kid barks, roughly fisting his hair, forcing his icy gaze to meet the taunt.
"Who you glarin' at, loser?" Another knocks him off his chair.
He crashes to the cold tiles. Anger simmers in the bully's voice—he hates that he almost felt intimidated.
"You stink! You belong in the trash!" a third jeers, kicking him in the back. The frame crumples further. The kid pinches his nose in mock disgust, waving at the air.
A chorus of cruel giggles follows as they snatch his bag from the hook beneath the desk.
They unzip it. His heavy books, his stationery, all come tumbling down on him. Each hit stings—but not a sound escapes his lips. And that infuriates them more.
A photograph slips out, fluttering down onto him.
A happy family, smiling on glossy white paper. Before he can reach it, a kid snatches it up. He stares at the photo until the ringleader, Archer, beckons for it. The boy hands it over.
"It's just a stupid photo," Archer snickers. The others burst into laughter.
"Give it back to me, Archer!" The boy finally speaks up, voice sharp.
Mocking gazes immediately snap toward him.
"Or what, loser?"
Archer strolls over, smirking at the small frame now standing—glowering.
"You gonna call your mommy?"
"Oh, wait..." Archer tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"I forgot. You've got none."
He throws his head back and laughs. "Not even your own mother wants you, loser!" Then—ripping the photo in half—he tears the boy's heart with it.
He stares at the torn photo, as if his mother might still reach out through the split page and hold him.
But she doesn't.
She never will.
Archer doesn't have time to react before he's slammed to the floor.
The boy jumps on him, fists flailing, fighting for the tattered picture.
"Get him off me, you losers!!" Archer screams at his gang, who freeze—panic dawning on their faces.
Three boys leap in—two grabbing his arms, one trying to wrap around his waist, prying him off Archer.
Archer shrieks and struggles, his hands pushing weakly at the boy. Curses mix with the sound of knuckles hitting flesh.
The boy shakes them off and swings his fist—catching one of them in the nose. The kid collapses, groaning, fingers touching blood.
Terror flashes in their eyes. The bullies drop him like fire, instantly regretting everything.
If this rage had lived inside him all along, why had he let them torment him in silence?
They gape—wide-eyed, frozen.
He is wild. Unhinged.
He straddles Archer, bruised fists slamming down on his now-bloodied face. Archer doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He barely breathes.
The boy's face is red, grim, his body fevered with vengeance.
Archer is passing out.
It feels good. He savours this feeling after all the evil Archer had put him through.
The beast tears out of him—realising his sinful desire.
But he hates that it feels good.
One of the boys starts crying—legs quaking, urine trailing down.
While he stammers for his mother, another bolts from the room.
Minutes later, he returns with a teacher—who stands at the door, her heart plummeting.
"Rhean, stop this instant!"
The voice yanks him out of it. Rhean pauses, panting, still hunched over Archer.
His wild, red, water-lined eyes lift to meet the homeroom teacher.
She rushes forward, the boy who fetched her quivering behind.
"What have you done?!" she gasps, shoving him aside, falling to her knees, horrified by Archer's nearly unrecognizable face.
Rhean stumbles back, landing hard on his rear. A red handprint marks the white tiled floor—his blood and Archer's, mingled in the same scarlet stain.
The teacher checks for a pulse. Archer's shallow, labored breath eases her panic—but only slightly. Her pallor begins to return.
Before lifting Archer into her arms, she turns on Rhean with blazing disgust.
"You. Principal's office. Now."
She rushes out with the unconscious boy, vanishing down the hallway.
Rhean glances at the corner of the room where the other boys huddle, trembling.
They recoil when he looks at them.
Rising, he picks up the torn photograph.
His parents—smiling.
Archer had split it right down the middle. His mother, ripped from his side.
He wipes off the spilled food, gathers his scattered books, and packs them back into his bag.
He swings it over his shoulder.
And without another glance at the broken bullies, Rhean walks out of the classroom.
Their view of him has shifted—forever.
But at what cost?