These Wounds Won't Heal

Alan was not really cowering at the back of the classroom – his demeanour was more akin to him being unsociable, isolated in his own little world, where everything was still and quiet. He liked that little world of his, where he could be alone. He liked it when nobody disturbed him. This little bubble was burst, however, upon his name being mentioned in passing. It was a quiet conversation, one he was obviously not meant to hear, but he listened in anyway. He was different, but still prone to bouts of displaying distinctly 'human' behaviour. Not that he couldn't be considered human, of course.

"Did you see Scarface and Paris?"
"You mean Alan? Yeah I saw them What do you think those two were up to?"
"I don't know, but I don't like it. Alan look terrified, no way he'd go along with that sort of thing willingly."
The conversation went on like that, until Thompson shot the pair a freezing glance. Whether it was due to the conversation being there, the content of it, or something else entirely, was unclear. What was, was that they had been told to stop – and that was in Alan's favour. He hated it when people talked behind his back, and these two were doing it in the same room as him.
 
Paris kept her head down for the majority of the remainder of the class, focusing on the words in her book but not really reading it. When the grating bell that signaled the end of class rang, after what felt like an eternity, she began packing her things into her bag, leaving her paper on the desk like Caldwell had instructed. Standing up, she slung her bag over one shoulder to catch Caldwell fixing her with a withering stare. Flinching, she got out of there as soon as possible, practically bolting out of the classroom.

Too shaken to even go find Alan, she made her way to the fine arts wing, where her next class was. Walking into the String Symphony's classroom, she went to the instrument room towards the back after announcing her arrival. It would be her second year in String Symphony, and she was able to greet the conductor happily. Finding her bass in the back of the instrument room, under a labeled enclave marked "Paris Wilkenson, first bass". Smiling at the familiar label, she unzipped the case before folding it up and taking it out to the practice room.

Taking her spot to the right of the rest of the chairs, she talked amiably with the other basses while she lightly dusted the fine wood of her instrument. Compared to her, the instrument was massive, and she looked too small to handle such an instrument. Indeed, when she had started playing the bass, her instructor had asked if she would like to try a different, and much smaller, instrument. Oiling her bow, the bell rang, and she couldn't help but feel at home in the familiar surroundings.
 
The bell signalling the end of the lesson sounded, and with that, Alan did nothing. It was his usual policy to remain in place for minute or two while everyone handed in their work, handing in his when everyone else had gone. He just couldn't deal with the rush of people – dealing with people in general was something he did not despise, but feared outright. He kept his presence in the history room masked until the last chattering pair had left, instinctively eavesdropping on their conversation. Nothing of particular interest arose, just what was being served at the present time. Alan handed his work in, and received a polite nod for his troubles. Just the standard procedure.

There were two places Alan spent his lunchtimes – Thompson's history room, or the library. His more favoured teacher's room was a good choice for him, most likely because neither party bothered the other while they ate, in silence. It was never an awkward, unsociable silence, as Thompson understood his student – to a degree. He understood that the boy would not like to be talked to, and simply left him be while he ate, and while he read to pass the time. When Thompson couldn't stay in the room, however, Alan braved the corridors to access the library – a safe haven, of sorts. People there were usually too embroiled in their books to notice him or care, and those that did quickly remembered they had more interesting or urgent things to be getting on with. He couldn't eat in there, but it was a viable option.

Alan braved the corridors.

He did not think badly of Paris, and didn't want her to hate him for it, but he figured that he would attempt to evade her, at least until she gave up. Some would say it wouldn't be hard for him – he had a knack for hiding his presence, by making himself inconspicuous, even in plain sight. There were no particularly relevant books he could immediately access, and he wasn't about to ask the librarian for a book on keeping people away. Instead, he just read his mystery novel in silence, letting something only the most privileged of sentient beings were allowed to experience – his smile. Though it was tiny, it genuinely showed that he was happy – whether it be at a gift, or a character's witty line. Eventually, though, the bell did go – and this prompted the boy to scamper off, much like a frightened hare. His pace as he moved through the corridors was surprising, but when you considered it was to prevent lateness and evade crowds, it made sense.
 
String Symphony went by normally. Most of the students had been in either Beginning Strings the year before, or this was their second and third years in the class, so Paris had no limit to the amount of familiar faces in the room. A couple of the other students, who didn't know her outside of the classroom, gave her odd looks, whispering amongst themselves. At first, Paris didn't understand, until she realized it must have been from earlier, when she had been leading Alan towards his classroom. Shaking her head at the amount of ridiculousness the students were exhibiting, she tuned her instrument with the other basses, humming the notes to herself quietly.

Halfway through the class, the bell for second lunch rang, and the class was dismissed for lunch. It was only a few minutes after first lunch let out, and a few of the students from it were still in the hallways. When she arrived at the cafeteria, she sat down at the circular table towards the back, where her friends all had gathered. Taking her lunchbox out of her bag, she gave the usual explanation: her mother was on a crazy vegetarian phase, and insisted the Paris do the same. It was true, too. Her mother was a huge health nut, and always made sure her daughter's meals were gluten-free, fat-free, and completely healthy. It was one reason why none of Paris' friends wanted to trade their lunches, like they did with the rest.

Taking out her sandwich, she ate quickly, deciding to find her next class before the bell rang. Quickly finishing it, not even noticing the non-processed taste, she left the cafeteria after bidding her friends farewell, knowing that there were fifteen minutes left of second lunch.
 
Alan reflected upon the lesson he had been in beforehand – not that there was much to reflect on, now that he thought about it. Not that he hadn't noticed before, it was just that he was looking more deeply into it now, seeming to have nothing better to do. He had finished the novel – it was by no means an easy read either. He was a fast reader, and an astounding one at that. He had actually spent most of the previous lesson speculating on the ending, only occasionally jotting down notes on the topic being taught. He recalled it was physics, but that was about the extent of it.

The lone child stared blankly at the sheet he had scribbled down various notes on, unable to link anything on there. He had taken them down purely to make it look like he was working – some of the notes weren't even to do with the lesson at all. Some weren't even doodles – one was a fish with a moustache, a half-finished top hat adorning its head. It was nothing big, just a scribble done to pass the time. After studying the words documented intently, Alan managed to discern that it was likely something to do with either fission or fusion – maybe both. He didn't really think of it as a pressing matter.

He took some small solace in the fact that lunch was being kept down, though seeing as it was a pretty plain and standard one, the only factor that could have possibly made him feel sick, would have been how fast he ate it. And even that wasn't an issue. A ham sandwich with a packet of budget crisps was pretty much the standard body of it, the most notable thing being the minute chocolate bar he had decided to treat himself to. The flavours were lost on him, though – he had been having the exact same lunch every school day, for the past three years. Al that ever differed was the juice. Not that it particularly mattered –he always performed a vanishing act at lunch, leaving people to only guess at what his parents had packed him.
 
On her way towards her next class, Paris passed by a grouping of vending machines. At first, she had completely ignored them, like she did most of the time, but a sudden chocolate craving hit her. Digging through her pockets for some money, she found exactly half the amount she needed. Searching above the machines and in the change deposits, she found the money she needed and was able to buy a bar of chocolate for herself. It wasn't often that Paris was able to treat herself; her mother would swear up and down that chocolate was going to kill you, so Paris had to sneak around to buy it. Almost always, she bought it at school with whatever money she could scrape up.

Scarfing down the chocolate like a drug addict, paranoid that somehow her mother would find out, she continued towards her next class, finding it. When the bell rang, she returned to the band room, half of the class remaining. Yawning as she practiced with the other basses, she could still taste chocolate, a taste that brought a smile to her face.
 
Alan sat in his usual corner, awaiting the stampede of his fellow form members. Though they made such a racket, they never paid much attention to him – he was just the quiet, odd little guy at the back of the room. Nobody to be particularly concerned about. Of course, at this point, ignoring him would be like ignoring the elephant in the room. The boy 's secret had been revealed, and it would be frankly amazing if nobody commented on his appearance when they entered the room/ He tried to hide his face, tried to mask his presence, but one moment of surprise had blown him clean out of the water.

And then the bell went. The bell that signified the end of the lunch period, and the start of afternoon registration. The students would be on the curve leading to the home straight, and then it wuld be time to haul themselves back home. Such was the life of a normal student, and such was Alan's. Except he kept away from the crowds, purposefully taking a longer route just to avoid speaking to or meeting anyone. That was the world he lived in – where he felt compelled to avoid anyone and everyone, coming into contact with them only when he found it absolutely necessary.
 
When she arrived in her next class, she barely paid attention, wishing she hadn't been recommended for honors classes that year, because most of her friends were in the regular classes. Sighing, she took out a notebook, deciding to take some notes. The teacher, Mr Stewart, was known to give tests on the first and second days of school, and Paris wanted to know that she would get a decent grade on it. She didn't fancy having a bad grade at the beginning of the year.

At one point, a student next to her asked Stewart why the classroom was kept so cold, even though most students were glad that it wasn't as hot as it was outside, to which Steward replied, "It matches my cold heart." After a stunned silence and a couple nervous chuckles, the classroom continued on business as usual, though everyone was now vaguely worried about the coming year.

Once again, Paris had to ignore the odd looks and whispers passed about Alan and her seen together earlier. It had spread almost as fast as word of Alan's scarring, and when they were not talking about that, they were talking about Alan and Paris. When she was asked about it for the fifth time, she turned to the boy who had asked her.

"Look," she said, frowning, "Alan is a good person. Leave him the--" she had to stop herself from cursing, Stewart just passing by her. "Just leave him alone." She turned back to her notes, waiting until the bell would ring.
 
Like Paris, Alan had to sit through listening to the rumours, though people seemed to confine themselves to talking behind his back. Still, he did not have the ability to deal with it the same way as Paris did. People talked about him, but he couldn't stand up for himself. Or Paris, for that matter. He sat there, his widened eyes fixed upon the sheet, his entire being shaking. Not much, but if you looked closely, you'd see it. His pen hovered just above the paper, his sentence cut off in its middle, with a few scribbles where his pen had accidentally made contact with the paper. It was taking him all he had not to just run out of the door, and hide in a corner for the next year and a half.

Eventually, the lesson ended, the bell's familiar tone signalling the conclusion of yet another school day. Most students took their time packing up, chatting idly to friends as they got up, but not Alan. He couldn't get out of the door quickly enough – prompting some odd stares from various members of the class. He knew not where he was running to, nor where he was supposed to go. All he knew was that he wanted out, and that he wanted out now. Even as he walked hurriedly by, he could hear the judgemental whispers, rumours about him and Paris already floating around.
 
As soon as the bell rang, Paris did her best to seem normal as she packed her things back up, glad that the day was finally over. After closing the final zipper on her bag, she slung the straps over her shoulders before walking out of the room. This would be a difficult year....and the following would be the same, if the rumors persisted. Frowning to herself, feeling the stares on the back of her head, she made her way through the halls, wanting to just go home and forget about the whole day.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't even see Alan directly in front of her. His head was down, so he must not have either, and she practically ran into him. Muttering a curse punctuated by a 'sorry', she glanced up to see Alan. Forcing a smile to come to her face, she said, "H-hey...How was your day?"
 
Instinctively throwing his hands up to defend himself as soon as Paris (practically) collided with him, Alan only lowered his hands upon realising just who he was actually talking to. Only slightly, mind – he still had them up a little, and was shaking quite violently, if you looked at him hard enough. Of course, looking at him hard enough would mean that you were focussing attention on him, enough to make him feel uncomfortable, likely making him want to scarper off. So, you probably wouldn't notice, given that he'd run away before you ever got a chance to note his shaking.

Forcing his head up, with an expression that unmistakeably showed the kind of fear only he would display at conversation, Alan forced out a meagre reply, barely audible above the standard din of a student body leaving for the day.
"F-f-fine…"
It was obvious he was struggling to say even this. He was in the middle of a crowd, after a class was talking about him, and a school was spreading rumours about him – given his current state, it would have been little wonder why he was finding speech as hard as he was right now. He seemed to be trying to hide his presence, though since he was standing where he was, this was easier said than done.
 
As soon as he spoke, Paris set her jaw. Mercilessly taking his wrist, not giving him the chance to get away, she led him through the school, once again gathering unwanted stares from the other students. Ignoring her locker, deciding that she would get her things later, she led him towards the back doors of the school. In the back, there was a small area that was never in use, save for the stoners who used it almost every day. Her grip was as firm as a vice, not once letting up for him to get a chance to escape and disappear into the after school chaos.

Pushing open the back door, she pulled him through it, a frown obvious on her face. "Look," she said angrily, finally letting go of his arm. "I am facing the same exact thing you are in class. They stare at me, they whisper about us, and they'll even ask me about earlier. How do you think I feel? And then to have you acting scared of a girl not even three-fourths your size. I don't know what your definition of terrifying is, but I doubt that a girl is on the top of the list." She stood back, crossing her arms over her chest, waiting for some sort of explanation, anything to prove that she wasn't the only one.
 
Laying bare an expression of terror unmatched, Alan seemed to be scared witless when he was pulled along. He had seemed scared at being touched in the first place – he didn't even need to cry out in order to convey such a feeling. His face told the whole story flawlessly. As she mercilessly dragged the poor boy hither and thither, he seemed to grow increasingly worried with every turn taken, nearly being in tears by the time she had released her iron grip on him, with every fibre of his being used to prevent a flood of terrified tears lurking in their ducts.

The tirade made things no better for the lad. It would have been comical, were the situation not so delicate. A girl, so short in comparison to him, lecturing him and raging at him, with the taller – and presumably physically tougher – of the two backing up like a frightened rabbit. By the time Paris was finished, he was practically glued to the wall, his expression increasingly worried. In response, all Paris began to get, was him repeating himself for a good few seconds.
"I… I… I…"
Balling his hands into fists, Alan looked at the floor, but closed his eyes before he shouted. "I'vegottogodosomething!"
The words may not have been discernible, but the message was clear as he ran out at a surprising speed – put him on the spot, and he won't stay on the spot for very long.
 
Paris almost chased after him. Almost. She didn't care that she wouldn't be able to catch him. Not only was he running faster than she would ever be able to get to, but she had shorter legs, and even walking faster than him would be a challenge. As she watched him run away from her, she let out a heavy sigh before turning away from him. Walking back inside, she wandered back towards her locker, gathering her books and things.

Though there wasn't many more students in the hallways, those that were would fix her with odd looks before whispering with their friends. After zipping up her bag, she shut the locker before leaving the school, wishing she had a ride home instead of having to walk.
 
Keeping his head down as he paced hurriedly from the premises, Alan did his utmost to block out the sounds of the crowds around him, not managing to stop himself from hearing the odd snippet of a conversation. They only assumed – they knew nothing. Not that he would tell them anything, or even do so much as to stand up for himself. He didn't have the courage to speak to Paris properly, even when it was obvious she meant no harm, did not judge him like everyone did, even if she still seemed awkward around him. Though this was likely partially Alan's fault, it changed little in the long run.

Still, he felt a slight spark inside of him, even if it was an iota of happiness in his daily life. Someone was genuinely making an effort to be nice to him – instead of just feeling sorry for him, or staying away from him. He knew they thought he was a freak, but woe betide him if anyone actually said it to his face – he was fragile enough as it was, to hear n insult at point-blank would leave him a train wreck of a person. He smiled – just a little, mind. Nothing to get worked up about.
Nonetheless, he smiled.
 
Paris was far from smiling as she made her way home. Her family lived out of the way from a lot of the other houses, inside a newer housing development. The way she walked into it, from the back, you could still see empty plots of land and a few houses that were in the process of being built. Striding angrily towards home, she noticed none of this, instead focusing on her shoes, slightly glad that not many people from her school lived there.

As she unlocked the door to her home with her key, she stepped into the empty house. Her mother wouldn't be home from the university for several more hours, leaving Paris to eat dinner by herself. It was okay, though. Paris knew how to cook her own meals, and if all else failed, she could see if a friend wouldn't mind having her over. Sighing heavily, she sank into the couch, not sure if she felt like crying or screaming from the day's events.
 
Stepping gingerly into his own home, Alan faintly announced that he had arrived, receiving an upbeat greeting from his mother as a response. A contented smile spread across his face – this was his home, with two loving parents, and all the solitude he needed. He lived on a road where few residents were below the age of forty, and where all they wanted to do was get along with people. It was a quiet, friendly road, with little to complain about, and it was likely the reason why Alan had been moved here. Nonetheless, he was contented with this one part of his life, one of the few things he still felt right about.

"I-is dad home?"
The question was asked quietly, though not with nervousness – with genuine curiosity, in fact.
"I'm afraid not, sunshine. He's stuck there until Thursday… Still, he sends his love, and hopes for the best. Now, come on, get out of that uniform, I know how much you hate wearing it."
The – surprisingly young-looking – mother smiled at her son, as he nodded and hurried to his room This was his daily life, when nobody was looking. The boy who was just quiet, not hiding. He had the same capacity for emotions that other people had, but it always made his mother's blood boil that people would shun him regardless, just because of an incident that had left him horribly physically – and emotionally – scarred.
 
After Paris had calmed herself down enough, she changed out of her uniform, putting on a loose shirt and jeans. It wasn't long before the wall-mounted phone began ringing. Running down the stairs from her bedroom, she picked up the phone, answering it with a "Hello?" It was her father.

"Hey, baby girl...How was your first day of school? I'm sorry I didn't get home in time to see you this morning. I don't think I'm gonna get back until next month. I'm sorry, honey. Can you tell Mom for me?" When Paris answered with a halfhearted "Yes," he continued. "Thanks...Tell me about your day."

And Paris did. She tactfully left out anything involving Alan and the rumors now circulating about them. After taking out all of that, she was telling her father about a relatively normal day. "Sounds like you had a good day," he said when she finished. "I'm going to have to go, hun. I'm sorry I couldn't talk longer. I'll call you next Monday. Promise. Love you."

Without waiting for a goodbye, her father hung up, leaving Paris alone once more. She sighed, Setting the phone back on the receiver, she debated calling her mother, or putting off telling her about her father until she got home. Deciding upon the latter, she sank onto the couch, holding her head in her hands. This year would be impossible to get through, she decided.
 
Morning registration – the daily ritual in which pupils were made to socialise before the school day's torturous beginning, followed by them being made to call out to signify that they were present. Of course, given that a deathly silence usually ruled over the pupils during registration, it was one of the few times Alan's meek voice was heard, and even then a pin dropping could be louder. That, and it would startle him so much he'd stop speaking and go into hiding. As per usual, the boy sat in the corner of the room, keeping his gazed fixed solely to the desk, hoping to whatever higher power there was, that nobody bothered him.

Nobody bothered him directly, of course – even the most notorious of bullies in that school wouldn't pick on him. He wasn't going to have any reaction other than curling up into the corner, whimpering – this either repelled them because he was boring, or because it was below even the scumbags who believed bullying to be excusable. However, he did overhear people talking about him – they probably didn't realise, but he could hear what they said about him, and it did him no favours. His hands were curled up into balls as he struggled to hold back the tears, awaiting the arrival of the teacher – granting at least a brief respite from judging glances and uninformed whispers.
 
Paris sat among her friends, talking with them amiably. She was painfully aware of where Alan was, but she decided she would deal with that bridge when it became more imperative. Which proved to be sooner than she wanted. As soon as the teacher walked in, a hush fell about the room. Paris took out a notebook and pretended to be busy, as did most of the students around her.

Tugging at the hem of her uniform's skirt while they went through the morning routine, she tried to ignore the whispers and the growling in her stomach. That morning, she hadn't been able to eat breakfast because she woke late, and she was now feeling the effects of that choice. Stifling back a yawn, she nearly missed hearing her name. Jumping when her neighbor elbowed her in the side, she called out a hasty, "Right here!" As a ripple of laughter rang through the room, she blushed, embarrassed, and looked down at her desk, deciding that today just wasn't her day.,
 
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