Next morning, I'm out of the house before six. I told Nicolás we had extra maths olympiad practice which I doubt he bought but he also didn't prod. I didn't tell him about trying to apply to Stellatus. I mean, inevitably I'll fail—I did decide not to show up to half of my GCSE exams—and it'll be embarrassing if he gets his hopes up.

Darkness reigns the world still. Black is interrupted only when I skate past a door as it opens and the tarmac floods with light. The glow elevates ice to a coat of glitter until I'm past it and the lack of friction regresses to nowt but a safety hazard.

I know I shouldn't skate but the ice has finally become even enough to make it possible and I'm not wasting the opportunity. The ride is smoother than the cement at the skatepark. I've missed the thrill of speed, even when it comes with a wind that threatens to skin my cheeks.

I deny myself music. Pathirana's advice for writing personal statements cycles in my head. I tried to jot down summat last night but couldn't conjure up a single word. A familiar fog filled my brain—one that grows thicker the harder I try and only disperses when I give up.

Since I had no success writing on my bed, reckoned I'd have a go at changing the scenery.

The path turns to gravel and I kick my skateboard up. The wheels stain my trousers where they rub my calf at each step. Birch leaves squelch under my trainers.

Sansel Park—named a "park" extremely generously considering it's a patch of grass encased in chainlink fence—is my chosen destination. It's halfway between me and school with only a slight deviation from my normal path. And it's empty. So it'll do.

I select a bench enveloped in evergreens, placing my skateboard on top of the planks to have a dry surface to sit on. I use my maths textbook as a pad to open my notebook on top of. I title the page "Motivational Statement" and position the point of my pen to the first line.

My momentum ends there.

I crack the knuckles of my left hand and tap the ballpoint against the page. What do I write?

"Your personal statement is your chance to sell yourself." How do I sell myself? The only thing I've learned from my work experience is that "my social worker wants me to" ain't a good answer to "why are you interested in this job?" and that stealing from the register is not advisable.

I would be a valuable pupil because... because... because what?

By my foot, a slab of ice clings to needles of sticker weed protruding from the fissure between two stones. Unable to curb the impulse, I bend over and press my finger into the crust. The ice melts under my body heat and velcros to my skin.

Why should anyone choose to let me into their college instead of one of the other gazillion better-qualified people applying?

You're missing the obvious answer. They shouldn't.

My spine spasms when Beewolf settles onto it.

You have nothing to offer. You only want this so you have new victims to hunt.

My finger breaks through the ice.

I return to my notebook, ready to write summat that'll prove Beewolf wrong, but my pen has slid off the page and I have to stand to search for it, giving the wasp more than enough time to shred whatever confidence I've managed to patch together.

This is stupid. I won't get in anyway.

And what if I hurt them? What if it's right and all I want is a hunting ground for innocents who won't know to hide?

Fuck it.

I find the pen in the mud behind the bench but when I sit back down, I drop it into my bag.

Giving up already? That's just like you.

Though a voice at the back of my head who sounds disturbingly like Diwa tells me I'll regret it within the hour, I dig out the old watercolour tin, pry it open at the sacrifice of my recovering fingernails, and snatch the pre-rolled zoot waiting for me.

Instinctively, I check that the park is as barren as when I arrived. Not that it would matter much for me to be in the middle of a busy street: weed ain't exactly rare around here, the stench permanently set into the mortar that keeps our buildings together.

Beewolf crawls onto my face. The embryonic sunrise stains the sky red. The sphere itself, an all-seeing eyeball, bobs up from behind brick buildings, dragging along its rays like a clump of optic nerves.

My heart is beating really fast.

(I could die. I could have a heart attack. I could have sepsis.)

Fingers numb, I struggle to spark my zippo and with each failed attempt, Beewolf's critters grow louder in my skull.

You can't even use a lighter. You'll accidentally set yourself on fire one of these days. Unless you do it on purpose. What if you do it on purpose?

What if you do it on purpose?

The sky bleeds. Hot wax, but I shiver when it drips on my skin. In mockery of me, flames lick my spine, ready to burst. I catch a glimpse of myself on the bench, consumed by fire, and it hurts! It hurts! But then the image disappears, leaving behind only the stench of melting flesh.

My blisters have finally healed enough that Nicolás didn't wrap them in new gauze after my shower last night. The skin is so tender.

Red. Burn. Pain–

The zoot finally catches flame. I drag in a breath as though it's my first after drowning (let us pray), fill my lungs until my chest aches. Gripping the smoke, I secure my headphones over my ears. Deafened by Big Joanie, I slump against the bench and watch smoke spiral against the crimson backdrop of the sky.

The same crimson as a ladybird's wings.

I used to get so happy when one landed on me that I'd scare it off in my excitement. Eventually, Nicolás taught me to stay still and observe calmly.

He used to bring me here during his visits because we weren't allowed outside of a five-hundred-yard radius of my foster home at the time. His locs were still short then, his face boyish. He hadn't been cut open and stuffed full of pain yet.

I didn't notice the bulges in the chainlink from drunk cars and bikes that've crashed into it, nor the pitifully small space. At five years old, Sansel Park might as well've been the Amazon. Its grass was soft and green and perfect to lie in.

Nicolás read me books about kids who befriend animals. He let me turn the pages and interrupt with my enthusiasm about the pictures. He didn't get cross when I stained the knees of my trousers with chlorophyll, though he did tell me not to pluck daises from the ground just to tear them up. You shouldn't treat Earth so callously.

I nodded though I didn't understand. There are enough daises to go around.

I'm not sure I ever did understand, not in the intuitive way he does. Nicolás has always been one with nature.

My tolerance is too high. The illusion don't last an hour before I'm back in January 2017, accompanied only by Dirt In My Mouth blasting in my earbuds. And it's only seven-thirty. I should've brought two zoots.

I continue to stare at the empty page of my notebook. With the music drowning reminders of my violence, I force myself to scrawl owt that comes to mind. Every part of my body battles against the order, teeth gritted and knuckles taut around my pen, but for once, my mind is stronger.

            I woke up at half five. How is it possible for me to be late for school?

I only noticed the time when Diwa texted me. I had to run out of Sansel Park with my stuff scooped under my arm.

I swerve into the open school gate and my stomach lurches, heart skips—I know I'm going to slip just (pain) in time to break my fall. Hurt. My palms split open.

I do my best to ignore the sniggering as I get up. I should've been late. There'd've been no one around.

I step back into the street to grab my board from where it has ricocheted before showing Apostolou my school ID. Like he don't know who I am.

My maths textbook has slid a metre across the ice but thankfully the lamination has protected it from any damage. I dry it with my sleeve and it's as good as third-hand.

'Motivational Statement.'

Ice chases fire up my spine. Crisp winter air is exchanged for the bitter odour of a swimming hall.

I dare only to look far enough to see black Air Forces with neon green laces. Like I couldn't recognise Sakda's voice. He speaks loud enough for the people who stretch their final minutes before lessons to look up again. And when they recognise the simmering fight, they edge closer.

'You're not applying to uni, are you?' The amusement in his voice is a cue for the audience to laugh and they do. 'Sides, you do know they're due in a year, right? You really are becoming more of a nerd by the day– Whoa, mate!'

Just as fast as I've flashed across the forecourt, Adio has seized my hood and yanked me back. My Vans betray me and I slip again.

Flash of white. Pain.

Then, explosion.

Since my friendship with Diwa, I've been cramming my anger down, thinking that, unfed, it'll starve and fade away. The opposite is true. The fire in my palms bursts up my arms. Scorches my spine.

It's too quick. It consumes me wholly and burns me to a crisp before I can seize energy from the heat.

Sakda turns back to my notebook, "accidentally" stepping on my fingers as he prowls. 'For most of my life–'

'Give it back.'

I leap to my feet. Adio shoves me back down.

The audience gains confidence in the understanding that I'm the loser and close in. I'm a bug caught under a glass and they all watch me buzz against my trap.

Until Sakda decides to crush me. 'For most my life, art has been my only constant, a provider of company even, and especially, when I'm alone–'

'Alright, whatever is going on, break it up.' Apostolou calls from the gate, a bored and exhausted messiah. Even with the sigh of disinterest in his voice, people retreat.

Rolling his eyes, Sakda holds the notebook out to me. Just as my fingers brush it, he lets go and it slaps onto the ice. I use up whatever embers are left to glare at him but it don't even pinch.

He sharpens a knife and slashes my throat. 'Weird way of saying no sentient thing could want you around.'

Flashing a grin, he joins Adio and the rest of the pupils who file into the school as the warning bell rings. Its screech barely breaks through the laughter echoing around my skull. Echoing so many times that it grows louder than it ever were, until bruises blossom on the inside of my head.

From beneath it, Beewolf re-emerges.