The echoes of humiliating laughter cling to his ears like a swarm of gnats—unshakable, deafening.
Head down, fists curled so tight his nails cut into his palms, his small frame trembles. Cold, sticky food slides down his cheek, clinging to his skin before soaking into the navy-blue blazer of his uniform. The sour smell of food—of shame clogs his senses.
They always crave a chance to torment him. Always. The way they look at him—lazy, smirking, mocking—burns through him until his insides twist. That is why he prefers the classroom when it's empty. At least then, he can eat without their shadows crowding him.
Tears prick, hot and traitorous, burning behind his eyes like a dam about to collapse. His throat aches.
Images flash—knife-sharp, uninvited—memories steeped in shame. Each one digs into him like nails.
"Look at me, loser!" one kid barks, roughly fisting his hair, yanking his head up so fast his neck twinges.
His icy gaze meets a sneer.
"Who you glarin' at, loser?" The kid shoves him sideways. His chair tips, then his body hits the floor with a crack against the cold tile. His face scrunches as pain jabs his elbow.
The bully's voice drips irritation—as though he's angry for even feeling a flicker of fear.
"You stink! You belong in the trash!" another kid kicks him hard in the back, knocking the air out of him.
He crumples into himself tighter.
The kid pinches his nose, fanning the air in mock disgust.
The gang laughs, their voices merging into a cruel chorus. They yank his bag from the hook, dumping its guts over him—thick books, metal pencil case, every impact a dull thud against his spine.
He grits his teeth as each hit stings—but not a sound escapes his lips. And they hate him for it.
Something else flutters down—lighter, slower. A photograph. It lands on his lap. His fingers twitch toward it—too late. A hand swoops in, holding it hostage. The boy who caught it hesitates until the ringleader lifts a finger. The hand delivers.
"It's just a stupid photo," he grins, and laughter swells again.
"Give it back, Archer." The boy's voice cuts the air—sharp enough to startle even himself. Every gaze swivels toward him like knives.
"Or what, loser?" Archer's slow steps close the space between them. The grin doesn't reach his eyes.
"You gonna call your mommy?"
Then—like a flicked match—Archer remembers. "Oh, wait..."
His head tilts. His eyes gleam with the satisfaction of finding a softer place to stab.
"I forgot. You've got none."
The laugh that follows is long, cruel, deliberate.
"Not even your own mother wants you, loser!" His fingers rip the photo clean in two.
He just stares at the jagged edges. In the shredded half, his mother's face is still smiling—still unreachable. No matter how much he wills her to cross the tear, to hold him, she doesn't. She never will.
Then—he feels something inside him snap.
Archer's back hits the floor before anyone even processes the movement.
The boy is on him, fists hammering down, skin meeting bone with wet, sick sounds. His hands fight for the torn halves—rage driving every swing.
"Get him off me!!" Archer shrieks, thrashing. The others are frozen, unable to move right away. They're seeing something they've never seen before.
Then they rush—two grab the boy's arms, another wraps around his waist. He bucks, shakes them off, lands a punch on one's nose. The crack is sharp. Blood blooms instantly. The kid stumbles back, clutching his face.
Terror slams into the group like a gust of cold wind. They release him as if his body burns. Nobody dares step in again.
If this fire had been inside him all along—how had they missed it?
How had they thought they could break him without consequence?
They freeze, staring.
The boy's face is twisted, flushed, his breath fast and hot. His fists—already raw—don't stop. Archer's face is no longer recognizable beneath them. Archer doesn't fight back. He barely moves.
The satisfaction blooms in his eyes, dark and dangerous. He savors it—then recoils from it in the same breath. It's wrong. It feels too good. Relieving.
A whimper cuts through the air. One boy trembles so violently his legs give, warm liquid pooling beneath him. Another turns and runs.
The door bursts open minutes later. The runner returns—dragging the homeroom teacher. She freezes at the sight, her voice cracking.
"Rhean! Stop this instant!"
The sound cleaves through the haze. He halts mid-swing, breath ragged, eyes wild as they meet hers.
She shoves past him, kneeling over Archer, her face draining of color.
"What have you done?!" She shrieks, trembling hands pressing to Archer's bloodied face. She checks his pulse—shallow, erratic. She exhales shakily. Relief, but not much.
She turns to Rhean, voice low and lethal.
"You. Principal's office. Now."
Scooping Archer into her arms, she rushes out. Her footsteps echo down the hall until they fade.
The other boys cower in the corner. When Rhean looks at them, they shrink further back, as if the air around him has teeth.
He stands. The torn photo lies by his foot. He picks it up. His parents, side by side. The rip runs clean between them—his mother severed from his father, from him.
He wipes the last of the cold food from the image, stuffs it into his bag along with his books.
Bag slung over one shoulder, he walks past them without a word.
Their eyes follow him—changed.
And they'll never look at him the same way again.
But the price of that change?
It's still bleeding inside him.