Wipe Head – Chapter 5: The First Crack
The pencil snapped.
The sound was sharp and sudden, like a tiny gunshot echoing through the classroom. For half a second, everything stopped. Conversations died. Chairs creaked as heads turned.
William stood frozen.
His fingers still clenched around the broken pencil. The yellow paint had cracked open, exposing the pale wood beneath. A thin line of red ran down his palm, dripping slowly onto the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
His blood stained the classroom tiles.
Then the laughter came.
At first it was small. A snort. A chuckle. Then it spread, louder, uglier, filling the room like rot.
"Look at him," someone said, voice sharp with amusement.
"Even pencils hate him," another boy laughed.
William didn't look up.
He bent down slowly, every movement controlled, deliberate. He picked up the two broken pieces of the pencil, noticing how the graphite tip had snapped unevenly. He placed them carefully on his desk and sat back down.
No reaction.
No words.
No tears.
The teacher cleared her throat and continued the lesson as if nothing had happened.
William stared at the board, but the words blurred together. His palm throbbed faintly, but the pain felt distant—like it belonged to someone else.
He pressed his bleeding hand against his leg, letting the fabric absorb it.
He didn't feel pain.
Not anymore.
---
School had become a routine. Not a place to learn—but a place to endure.
Every morning was the same. The whispers followed him down hallways. The stares burned into the side of his face. The nicknames were thrown like stones.
Wipe Head.
Monster.
Burnt freak.
Some said it quietly. Others shouted it, just to see his reaction.
Teachers pretended not to hear. When things got too obvious, they told him to ignore it.
As if pain disappeared when ignored.
But pain didn't fade.
It fermented.
It sank deep and changed shape.
---
That afternoon, the final bell rang, shrill and sharp. Students flooded the hallway, laughing, shoving, alive.
William walked alone.
His backpack felt heavier than usual, though nothing inside had changed. His shoulders were tense, his head lowered, his steps careful.
He was almost at the exit when it happened.
A hard shove from behind.
He stumbled forward, barely catching himself before hitting the lockers. His shoulder slammed into cold metal.
Laughter exploded behind him.
"Watch where you're going, freak."
William knew that voice.
He straightened slowly.
The boy stood there, taller, broader, surrounded by friends. He wore confidence like armor. The kind that came from knowing the world would never punish him.
William turned to face him.
For the first time, he didn't walk away.
The hallway seemed to quiet, sensing something wrong.
The boy smirked. "What?" he said, stepping closer. "Gonna cry?"
William said nothing.
The boy leaned in. "You think you're scary with that face? You think those bandages make you tough?"
Something inside William cracked.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
It was subtle. Like ice breaking under pressure.
His hand slid into his pocket.
His fingers closed around something familiar.
The broken pencil.
He didn't plan it.
He didn't calculate.
Fear didn't have time to stop him.
His arm moved on its own.
The pencil drove into the boy's shoulder.
There was a sickening resistance—then a sharp, wet sound.
The scream that followed tore through the hallway.
Students froze. Then chaos erupted.
The boy collapsed, clutching his shoulder, his face twisted in shock and pain. Blood soaked into his shirt, spreading fast, dark, real.
Someone screamed.
Someone ran.
Teachers shouted.
William stood there, breathing hard.
His chest rose and fell, fast and heavy. His hand still trembled slightly.
He looked down at the boy on the floor.
He expected something to hit him.
Regret.
Guilt.
Horror.
Instead, a warmth spread through his chest.
Relief.
Not happiness. Not joy.
Relief.
Like pressure finally released.
For the first time in years… the pain wasn't his alone.
Teachers grabbed him. Hands pulled him back. Voices blurred together.
"Are you insane?"
"What were you thinking?"
"You could've killed him!"
William didn't answer.
He didn't fight.
He didn't run.
He just stared.
And felt nothing.
---
That night, the orphanage was quieter than usual.
William sat alone on his bed, staring at the cracked wall. The light above flickered softly.
They punished him.
Isolation. Lectures. Warnings.
They called him dangerous.
But no one laughed.
No one mocked him.
No one said Wipe Head.
They looked at him differently now.
They were afraid.
William lay back, folding his hands over his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
So this is how it feels, he thought.
When they're the ones afraid.
His mind drifted—slowly, unwillingly—into memory.
A place untouched by fire.
The mountains.
He was six again. His father's hand warm around his. The air cold and clean, burning his lungs with every breath. Snow-covered peaks stretched endlessly, silent and powerful.
Two hundred kilometers from the city.
No noise.
No crowds.
Just them.
They had built a small wooden house together. It wasn't perfect. The walls were uneven. The roof creaked in the wind.
But it was strong.
His father had laughed as they worked, hammering nails, guiding his hands.
"Hold it like this," his dad had said. "Feel the weight."
They had eaten canned food by candlelight. Slept wrapped in blankets as the wind howled outside.
"This place," his father had said one night, staring into the fire, "is where you come when the world gets too loud."
William's throat tightened.
The memory hurt.
But it also called to him.
The image of the rough wooden walls.
The small window facing endless white.
The silence.
No people.
No eyes.
No laughter.
No judgment.
The thought settled in his mind—and refused to leave.
He didn't belong here.
He never had.
The orphanage was full of noise and memories that crushed him daily.
The mountains were empty.
Cold.
Honest.
Perfect.
---
That night, William packed quietly.
A few clothes. Bread. A bottle of water.
His hands paused over a knife from the kitchen drawer. He had stolen it weeks ago, without knowing why.
Now he knew.
He wrapped his face tightly again, hiding what the world refused to accept.
Before leaving, he stood in the hallway.
The place smelled like soap and sadness.
No one came.
No one noticed.
No one would miss him.
The door creaked open.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and alive.
William stepped into the night.
No plan.
No goodbye.
Just pain—and direction.
Two hundred kilometers away, the wooden house waited.
And somewhere along the way, the boy who once cried had already vanished.
What walked into the darkness was no longer innocent.
It was becoming something else.
Something the world would one day learn to fear..
Something that world would be scared of
A unknown entity which will haunt the world which previously the world haunted him no one would expect what monster would he become totally unexpected.