Chapter Two: The Social Pariah and Wonder Boy.

Day two: the day I could have died but didn't.

Some would think that the start of winter would be a symbolism of a new season, which is true; white blanketed grounds with hollow figures imprinted in the layers of blankness, clouds of air from the slightest breath of a living creature and the calories one would lose from such strenuous shoveling of their front drive way or the sidewalk would not only be as cliché and stereotypical as vampire to human romance, but it would also be quite a tantalizing thing to visualize.

Now, I don't plan on getting so deep and philosophical with this bogus, but putting it short, these little factors and scenes would have just shown me the few things in life that I was missing out on for half my existence.

The reason I'm telling you these things is because those thoughts were the exact same words going through my mind as I pushed my body forward with crutches under my arms, the heavy weight of my backpack not making much of a positive difference. The vacant parking lots I passed were lightly dusted with the remainder snow the night before, rooftops adorned with Christmas lights as kids scurried off their front yard, leftover impressions of their scrawny figures stuck in the ground.

A thick, light breeze layered with a fresh scent of frost brushed against my struggling figure as I carefully made it up the stairs to my school, ignoring the snide comments from students around me.

"Clay, my man! How's it goin'?" the smug voice of Brandon Lanchester sent a ripple of anger to shoot through my body as I held myself from clenching my teeth so hard, it could have broken. If I were to tell this paragraph in the perspective of any passing living creature on the scene, I would mention how there would have certainly been a shadow of wrath that passed my facial features, fading before it could even land.

How's it going?

I repeated his question in my mind, not sure if he was either stupid, blind, or simply both. Trust me when I say you don't want to be both and that anyone who held the burden of- being a figuratively blind bimbo would just have been (and still would be) the death of humanity- or an insult to the worst of morons.

But of course, Brandon Lanchester was that type of guy who found pleasure in (despite the consequences) attempting the act of defying gravity.

"I'm fine." I spat, not wanting to deal with lost children at the moment.

"We haven't heard from you for a week and you've been skipping classes. You okay?" when he asked that question with a mask of counterfeited worry and pity, I never had such an urge to murder someone so badly. You'd know the feeling if you ever had a Brandon Lanchester in your life.

"I mean, I get it that you're probably still shaken up about the crash, but it's no excuse to be a wuss about it." he ended his remark with a mocking snicker. It took all the strength in my body that I could muster to not punch him right then, and to bite back the derogatory insults I had in my mind. I really wanted to do it- batter his arse black and blue and carve a hole in his face, but it would just have been another excuse for me to go the therapy sessions. A morbid, violent and disturbed nineteen year old who's heart is wholly consumed by wrath and vengeance; what a character.

"I was busy." Brandon saw through my lie, but for the first time ever, didn't bother pushing me into elaborating on my answer. And I was in fact thankful.

A wave of guilt and genuine realization washed over the guy's face as I winced from a short second of pain, but masked my emotions away instantly with a carefree attitude as his senior high schooler friends grouped up around him.

Conversation erupted between that group of students as I broke free from them, the struggle of pushing the school doors open reminding me of the strength that karma stripped away from me.

I ignored the loud whispers as I hauled my body forward with every step stealing away at my ego and pride; yes, at a time with only one leg working, I was worried about my ego. You'd understand as well if you were one of those kids who survived on social standings.

"Isn't that Clayton Deluca?"

"What happened to him?"

I bit back my tongue, holding back the tidal waves of nauseating irritation that washed through my body. I can remember clenching my fists into white-knuckled hands on the crutches that prevented me from falling.

"I heard he was in a car accident." one unfamiliar female voice whispered to a group of teenagers, a hint of contemptuous ridicule hidden away in the slurred words she spoke.

"Was he drunk?" the question was more of a statement than a question, but it was still obvious- the fact that everybody saw me then as a drunkard, horrible student.

I didn't realize how quick it was, but my feeble and puny figure was already standing on the other side of a wooden door; a golden plaque with the classroom number engraved in dark black; Class A-B 12.

Hesitation sparked in my mind as I shot my hand out to turn the door knob, only for it to stop a mere inch away from the cold metal object.

"Isn't that Clayton Deluca?"

"I heard he was in a car accident."

"Was he drunk?"

The questions from the hall repeated in my mind as I clenched my teeth, an unbearable pain of vexation bellowing in my chest. Seconds past as I drove the time away with my congested thoughts and growing misery.

"If you don't know how to turn a door knob, I can help you out."