The first time Darren shoved someone at school, he didn't even realize he was doing it.
One moment he was standing at his locker, struggling with the jammed metal door, the familiar tightness coiling in his chest the way it always did when he felt trapped
The next, a boy from his class,loud, careless, laughing too close,bumped into him from behind.
"Watch it," Darren snapped.
The boy laughed. "Relax, man. It was an accident."
Something inside Darren split open.
He turned, hands already moving, shoving the boy hard enough that he stumbled back into another locker with a sharp clang. The hallway went quiet in that way it always did when something crossed an invisible line.
"What's your problem?" the boy yelled.
Darren didn't answer. His heart was pounding too fast, his ears ringing. For a second, he saw not lockers and backpacks, but the narrow hallway at home, his mother's stiff posture, his father's shadow filling the doorway.
A teacher appeared, her voice sharp with authority. "Darren! Office. Now."
As he walked down the hall, Darren's anger curdled into something heavier. Shame. Fear. Not of punishment,but of recognition.
He sat in the principal's office, hands clenched between his knees, staring at the motivational posters on the wall. Choose kindness. Words matter. They felt like accusations.
"Is this becoming a habit?" the principal asked, peering at him over her glasses.
Darren shrugged, staring at the floor.
"Your teachers say you've been… on edge lately. Quick to anger. Is something going on at home?"
The question hit too close. Darren's jaw tightened.
"No," he said.
The principal sighed. "We're calling your parents."
The word parents landed like a weight.
When Jennifer arrived, her face was calm, polite, and apologetic. Darren hated how convincing she looked. He hated himself for noticing.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "This isn't like him."
The principal nodded sympathetically. "We just want to make sure Darren has the support he needs."
Darren stared at the wall. He didn't look at his mother. He couldn't.
On the drive home, Jennifer didn't speak at first. She kept both hands on the wheel, eyes forward. Darren watched her from the corner of his eye, waiting.
Finally, she said softly, "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
He shrugged. "Nothing."
She sighed, not angry,just tired. That somehow made it worse.
"Darren," she said, "this isn't the first call I've gotten."
He flinched. "So what? I mess up. Big deal."
She glanced at him then, concerned flickering across her face. "You're not a mess-up."
He laughed bitterly. "Sure."
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
At home, Darren went straight to his room, slamming the door harder than he meant to. He paced, heart still racing, hands shaking. He hated school. He hated home. He hated how small everything felt.
He kicked his backpack into the corner and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. The anger was still there, buzzing under his skin, demanding somewhere to go.
A knock came at the door.
"Darren?" Jennifer's voice. "Can I come in?"
He didn't answer, but she came in anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed like she used to when he was younger.
"You don't have to talk," she said. "I just want you to know I'm here."
He turned his face toward the wall. "You always say that."
"And I always mean it."
Silence stretched between them.
"I didn't mean to shove him," Darren muttered. "He just,he wouldn't stop."
Jennifer waited.
"It's like… everything piles up," he said, words tumbling out now. "At school, at home. And then one thing happens and I can't breathe."
Jennifer's hands tightened in her lap. "What makes it pile up?"
Darren swallowed. He thought of his father's voice, calm and cutting. The way the house seemed to shrink when he was angry. The way his mother flinched even when she tried not to.
He shook his head. "Never mind."
Jennifer reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm. Darren stiffened, then relaxed.
"You don't have to protect me," she said quietly.
That made his chest ache.
"I'm not," he snapped. "I'm just tired."
She nodded. "I know."
That night, Darren lay awake long after the house went quiet. He listened to the familiar sounds,the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the floorboards, his father's footsteps moving through the house like a patrol.
He hated that he knew the sound of those steps so well.
The next day at school, the anger followed him like a shadow.
In math class, a boy whispered something under his breath and laughed. Darren didn't hear the words, but he felt them anyway, sharp and mocking.
His hands clenched. His teacher's voice faded into background noise.
At lunch, he sat alone, pushing food around his tray. Karen's face flickered in his mind,quiet, observant, always watching. Angela's small hand clutching their mother's sweater.
He thought about standing up. Saying something. Doing something.
Instead, he slammed his tray down and walked out.
By the end of the week, the anger had nowhere left to go.
During gym, someone tripped him on purpose. Darren hit the floor hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Laughter erupted around him.
He was on his feet before he thought, shoving the boy back, fists clenched, vision tunneling.
"Enough!" the coach shouted, pulling them apart.
Detention. Another call home.
This time, David answered.
When Darren walked into the house that evening, his father was waiting in the living room, sitting too still.
"School called," David said calmly.
Darren stood frozen.
"You want to explain why my son is acting like a delinquent?"
"I didn't start it," Darren muttered.
David stood. "That's not the point."
Jennifer hovered in the doorway, silent.
"You represent this family," David continued. "And you're embarrassing me."
Darren felt the familiar heat rise in his chest. "You don't care about me," he blurted. "You just care about how it looks."
The room went very still.
Jennifer inhaled sharply. "Darren,"
David stepped closer, eyes cold. "Go to your room."
"No," Darren said, surprising himself.
David's expression shifted, something dark flickering beneath the calm. "What did you say?"
Darren's heart pounded, but he held his ground. "I said no."
Jennifer moved between them. "David. Please."
For a moment, Darren thought his father might explode.
Instead, David smiled. "Fine," he said softly. "We'll talk later."
Later was always worse.
In his room, Darren paced, shaking. He punched his pillow, then his mattress, then finally collapsed onto the floor, breath hitching.
He wasn't brave. He wasn't strong. He was just angry and scared and tired of swallowing it all.
Karen knocked softly and slipped inside. She sat beside him without speaking.
After a long moment, Darren said, "I don't want to be like him."
Karen looked at him, eyes serious. "Then don't be."
"I don't know how," he whispered.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small notebook. "I'm writing things down," she said. "Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
That night, Darren lay in bed, staring into the dark. His anger was still there,but beneath it was something new.
Fear.
Not of punishment.
But of becoming the very thing he hated.
And for the first time, he wondered if anger was the only language he'd been taught,and whether it was possible to learn another one before it was too late.