#blocked toilets harlow

[xarrixii]

flash/burn chapter 42, translated several times

i couldn't make a monday chapter update for today so you get this instead

english -> portuguese (brazil) -> hungarian -> french -> german -> italian -> finnish -> chinese (traditional) -> norwegian -> vietnamese -> russian -> swedish -> english

/ / / / / |

link to pure format google doc (where i didn't edit for clarity)

Chapter 42: Moving Forward 2023-12-17

So why can't you teleport somewhere? Harlow said, making a vague gesture with his other hand.

Liam tilted his head to the side. I can't teleport to a place I've never been. If you want to go to Yugenzia's bakery, you should find out what it looks like in advance. Because it's a technical prohibition. The same goes for teleportation. It also requires a lot of mental calculations. Stable.

Harlow snorted softly, stopped looking for the unconscious guard, and walked past Storm's blue smartwatch. Liam had just explained that it was essentially Storm's version of Cinder's arm. They entered Storm's house. How's Haydn? Bank? How many times have you teleported in two minutes?

I checked the driver's destination first, Liam admitted. I trained for weeks to be able to teleport to this place from anywhere in this area. I know where it is and that memory is always with me.

They also moved into the truck. When it moves in an unpredictable way.

But that doesn't mean I like it. The truck's GPS system was a big help. When they found Raiden, they were no less concerned. Liam tied the last guard's hands and waited for Harlow to put away his watch. "Can you always use fire, like a lightning bolt?"

“What do you mean what?” Harlow closed Storm’s hunting bag.

"Stand up. Walk faster. Imagine you're launching a rocket into space."

Harlow took a deep breath. He doesn't remember anything like that. Especially when they're running away from someone. I think. He shook his head. ninth NO.

Trilla walked through the building and Liam raised an eyebrow. Liam cursed. "Damn it. We still have to check if Raiden is here. Sure. You guard the entrance, and I'll guard the camera..."

Harlow suppressed the thought and nodded, watching Liam run out the door and head towards the cell.

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and struck it, letting the small flame spread through the air, across the table, and straight to the middle of the door behind the locker. Inside the cell, I heard Liam run towards the metal wall. A few people were thrown to the ground.

Harlow slowly removed the flame from the lighter and ran his finger up and down the metal part of the lighter. Heat slowly.

The lighter appeared to be empty.

He lunged at the first man who entered, gently touched his temple with one finger, grabbed him with his other hand, knocked him to the ground, and threw him into the street.

Rinse and repeat this procedure each time with a different finger.

“Toilet paper for three!” Liam called after him. Three seconds later, someone put a hand on his shoulder and he found himself in a garage, a few blocks from a converted prison cell.

Harlow turned to Liam. The ignition clicked again and went out again. Suddenly his hands lost the heat that had burned since early December.

"You..." Liam's gaze moved from Harlow to something brighter, something hard to describe in the cold, heavy air. "...Ainsley excels at everything she does. Keep up the good work, son."

Liam's hand released Harlow's and stopped just above her shoulder before pulling away. Really weak, no, not through the tunnel of thought.

"Let's go."

Harlow got into the driver's seat of the truck they were driving and placed the bag full of the recently stolen watches in the back seat. Even though Liam's hand hadn't yet touched his shoulder, it was already a wonderful graft from someone else. He was quickly becoming a fool.

Like the trip to Longport.

Liam looked at him, pointed to the left, about a third of the way, and said, "Did you know that the original tower wasn't just the foundation of Amaterasu?"

"What are you trying to cut in half?"

"Correct."

Harlow felt that she had no feelings at all. "No, I haven't heard of that."

“Yes,” Liam continued, “this has been her home since she gave birth to Raiden. After participating in its construction, he realized that everything was starting to take on a reality and began to answer the question Where? my character behind the plot."

“Why Longport?” Harlow asked. Liam heard the confusion and surprise in his voice. “I mean, why did you choose Longport to build this tower? There are many other crime-ridden towns nearby."

"Oh," Liam said, pulling a bagel out of the glove compartment. "Thunder."

He watched as Liam continued to eat his half bagel in silence, his vision blurred and his eyes focused on the road. Harlow smiled softly. "You... realize how little that explains, don't you?"

"You'll find out if you promise not to tell him."

"Even if they tear him to pieces."

"I am sick."

"explain."

Liam smiled and placed the remaining bread on the dashboard. "He may not act like it, but he really wanted to take care of Raiden before he joined Cinder. He wanted to be with his son for as long as he needed him and then return to his family. the family he left behind. But Chen found out about him, she realized that Ye was not a person who could be ignored. He scolded Raiden's father."

Harlow's first reaction was to wonder if Raiden would do the same to Storm. Lives closer to Longport. Ask Harlow if he would like to participate in your new project. I think.

weakened This is really a way to gradually wear him down.

"Okay," Liam sighed as Harlow tightened the grip on the steering wheel. "Take it off."

"Just because of this?"

"I'm an idiot."

Harlow frowned, but stopped the car at the first spot on the side of the road and turned to look at Liam, who refused to get out of the car. Instead, Liam crossed his arms.

"I said I wanted to pee."

"Yes, I'm a liar." Liam looked Harlow up and down. "I told Jack Starr he was impulsive and emotional. But I also told him I trusted him. I was starting to feel like he was trying to trick me and that I shouldn't have told him."

"The Electric Man Was he the one who made me unable to move for days?"

"Yes, that's exactly it. This is good for identifying talents. The ones you're throwing away now. I'm losing my authority." Liam laughed and turned on the radio.

Harlow took a deep breath.

"I'm here to play your stupid game, pretending we still have Raiden in some cell and Amaterasu is trying to trick you into being A-4. Do you know how long it takes a normal dick to get to A-4? He's only been at A-5 for about three months, but he's still finishing up his paperwork."

"I'm not pretending..."

"So tell me what I remember."

Harlow's hands turned pale as she grabbed the steering wheel. "Forget it. Okay, Raiden is free, okay? You did it."

"Free Raiden," Liam continued to shout, "but why did you deliberately choose to withhold information about your current mission and your personal differences with Cynder? Some say it was you who sent this message, Raiden, and today you have shown me that you are willing to lie to me to keep a secret and prevent someone from committing tyrannical murders.!"

Oh my God… Harlow took a deep breath, took his hands off the wheel, and covered his face with his hands. Liam turned the radio off again and looked at the sidewalk before walking over to Harlow.

“Listen my son, I know it’s hard. But we have to start thinking about this truth. This is a matter of national survival. The Thunderers are on the move now. They’re farmers. Night Prankster, so what? Now we’re on the plains."

I'm trying to understand, thought Harlow, but I can't.

Nothing, Liam thought, placing his hand on Harlow's forearm. But I need to know if I can trust you when the time comes. Amat can trust you. You're on an inclined plane.

Harlow suddenly burst out laughing.

You remind me of thunder, don't you?

Liam smiled. "Here it is. Well, I missed R&S Jambalaya."

"Teleportation machine. And before you start the truck again, how do you know I asked why you chose Longport?"

"I don't think so, I tried to explain, but you explained it first. Damn, I can't teleport that far."

"Keep walking quietly."

"Donkey, Urbain, the correct word is donkey."

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The first 1 Ye

[boshaw-manor]

Atlanta

More John and Harlow drabble because I love them. Sorry about it.

Seed ranch was boring as hell. There was nothing to do and John was always busy with the Project. Harlow would hazard to stay she hated it sometimes when she snuck off to visit him for a few days but she couldn’t resist. There was something about John Seed that had a real hold over her.

After spending a good ten minutes sliding across the polished dining room floor in her navy woollen socks, Harlow wandered out into the living room. Yawning, she rubbed her tired eyes as the morning sun glittered through the window. Bored. Oh so very bored. She should’ve brought her old Gameboy to play Pokemon or something. Sliding to the floor behind the couch, she rolled her ankles around before letting out a long sigh. The sound of gunshots in the distance outside would’ve made any normal person bolt but to her it was just background noise now. The same as the birds in the trees, the whir of a plane’s engine or the bark of a dog. Smirking to herself, Harlow pressed her fingers together to form a gun.

‘They’ve got me surrounded captain. I might not make it out alive, but it’s a sacrifice I gotta make.’ Whispering into a pretend com, she leapt to her feet and shot the fake gun at imaginary enemies. ‘Pew, pew, pew!’ Harlow combat rolled across the floor and took cover behind the taxidermy wolf by the stairs. ‘You’ll never take me alive!’ She howled, vaulting over it and pretending to spray bullets

‘What are you doing?’ John’s cutting tone made her jump and she spun around, pressing her mirrored index fingers to the skin of his slightly exposed chest.

‘I’ve found him sir, the ring leader! I’ve got a point-blank shot!’ The Deputy grinned at the Baptist in hopes he’d play along but knew it wasn’t meant to be the moment he rolled his eyes.

‘If you’re bored come and help me clean out the office.’ John’s hands wrapped around her ‘gun’ and lowered it, tilting his head to the shut door across the room. ‘You’d be actually making yourself useful for once.’

‘Fine. Mission aborted.’ She grumbled, unclasping her hands and taking the liberty of skidding across the floor once more before opening the office door. Piles of paperwork littered the desk and boxes upon boxes of crap towered up to the ceiling. ‘You’re messy.’ Harlow stated, reaching for the first box on top of the highest pile.

‘I am not. I’ve just been neglecting my duties somewhat to spend time with you.’ He ran a hand through his distressed hair, pulling loose unkempt locks back from his forehead, before busying himself with a filing cabinet in the corner.

‘You coulda fooled me.’ She muttered, placing the cardboard box on the ground and rifling through it. It was all old contracts and legal stuff signed off with John’s dramatic signature. Shoving that hunk of junk out of the door, she motioned to take another one down. Teetering on the tips of her toes, Harlow’s fingers grazed the top of the box as she tried to reach it. ‘Almost... there...’

‘Wait-‘ John tried to stop her but it was too late. The tower began to waver, shifting its weight and toppling down on top of her. Books and papers buried her body as she struggled to free herself from the fragile binding now pinning her to the ground. Emerging, her head popped out first and a hand soon followed to rub at her temple.

‘You have a lot of shit.’ Harlow groaned, releasing her other arm to pick up a leather bound black book and wave it in the air. John frowned at the mess she’d made, slamming the cabinet draw shut and stalking over. Taking the black book into both her hands, Harlow smoothed a palm over the cover. A big white sticker had started to peel at the corners in the centre, reading ATLANTA in block capitals. Flipping it open, her curiosity was piqued at the sight of dozens of photographs.

‘Huh. Haven’t seen that in a while.’ John’s frown dissipated into an intrigued smirk, looping his arms under Harlow’s armpits and pulling her from the wreckage. Her attention remained focussed on the pages as he dragged her to his office chair and sat, practically yanking her onto his knee.

‘Looks like quite the life.’ Harlow remarked as he rested his bearded chin on her shoulder. One page was decked out with fancy cars littering a driveway, another saw a slightly younger John and a group of men in a casino winning big money. Flipping the page, a panoramic shot of a penthouse filled with people partying reminded her of a more expensive looking Where’s Wally? scene. The drinks were flowing, the people looked happy and right in the centre of it all was John. Turning the page again it landed on the Baptist, or in that time the lawyer, with his arm looped around the back of a young woman. Harlow’s eyes traced over the long red gown and sizeable jewellery clinging to her tiny frame. The next page was almost identical but with a different woman in a different outfit. And the next page. And the next page. And the next page.

‘Wow...’ She mumbled under her breath. They were all so opulent and luxurious and she was... not. She could never be that. Damn she’d tried it as a teenager but high school prom had been such a disaster that she’d decided maybe sticking to shorts and a novelty t-shirt was a safer bet. It was better than crying in the toilets alone. And rather than being sweet and smiling, she’d learnt to scowl and throw bitter insults at any guy who approached her in the university common room. It became easier for her not to be taken the piss out of that way. Insecurity washed over her as she leant back into John’s chest.

‘You okay?’ He asked, dragging a hand down her arm. She’d tensed up and was still staring at the same picture.

‘In the real world you’d never of chosen me.’ Harlow finalised quietly, snapping the album shut and tossing it on the floor with a thud.

‘Is that envy I see?’ He chuckled, squeezing her sides teasingly. But she wasn’t laughing.

‘No. Just honesty.’ Sighing heavily, the usually stone-cold Deputy scratched at her neck and tightened her lips to stop tears from forming in her green eyes. ‘I could never look like that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’d look stunni-‘

‘No I wouldn’t.’ She interrupted knowingly. Trying to picture herself on John’s arm in a skin tight dress or sitting in the passenger seat of one of his sports cars made her want to barf. She’d look frumpy and out of place and just plain wrong.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t even remember half of those women’s names.’ John crept his hands soothingly up her back and rested them at the base of her neck. ‘Everything in there is fake. Fake asses, fake tits, fake smiles. All of it.’ Harlow wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

‘But if you passed me on the street, that’d be it. Just passing. You wouldn’t pay me an ounce of attention. I feel like...’ Incisors nipping into her lip, Harlow cursed herself out for getting emotional. ‘I feel like maybe I’m just convenient for you.’ Slipping off of his knee, she padded out of the office and shoved her hands in her pockets. Of course he’d pick the women with the perfect hair and the trim waistlines and the big beautiful smiles over her. She knew that. She was short, swore like a trooper and was still on a personal mission to complete her damn Pokedex. Trudging up the stairs, going back to her room seemed like the best option. Maybe she could cry for an hour and then resume her internal struggle as to which Star Wars film was the best.

‘She’s found me! Agent Fox has found me!’ Harlow’s footfalls paused, as she looked over her shoulder at John. He was half-heartedly holding his hands up like he had an invisible gun in them. Blue irises staring right at her, he nodded a little to try and coax her back down the steps. ‘But wait, she could be waving the white flag? This could be our chance to blow up the world!’ He mimed an explosion, even making booming sounds under his breath. John felt like a moron in this moment. But he knew he had to give her an inch. He had to try at least a little bit. Granted, she wasn’t his conventional type. She was mouthy, unfeminine and, to be honest, a massive nerd. But she was also calculating, perceptive and far smarter than most people would give her credit for. She was a challenge, willing to butt-heads with the Baptist just to get a reaction. He liked that. The way she wound him up pissed him off but turned him on at the same time. Being with her was the most fun he’d had with a girl for a very long time and he didn’t want to lose that. If the Project ended tomorrow, he knew he’d rather stay in Hope County with her rather than return to his flashy lifestyle. Because unlike everything and everyone else before her, Harlow was real.

He watched as her lip quirked in confusion before she warily turned around and lifted her hands back up to form a pistol shape.

‘Mission resumed captain. I’ve got eyes on the target.’

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

julian - echolalia (ongoing)

It starts with Russell Barker. Three weeks into first term and he's got little Peter Finch — bespectacled, freckly, owner of a constant runny nose he never has any tissues for — backed up into one corner of C-block's corridors, growling. You don't know what the altercation's about, you're lining up outside the art room with the rest of your classmates, minding your own business — or should be — but you can see a lot of jaw jutting and head cocking, and snotty-nosed little Finch is shaking so hard you're surprised he hasn't pissed his pants. From your position down the hall, Barker is a thirteen-year-old, five-foot-six brooding wedge of brutally shaved head and crumpled un-tucked shirt, and you'd be lying if you tried to pretend you have no idea who he is. He's been strutting around with a chip on his shoulder since he turned up lugging a JD sports bag full of Benson and Hedges on day one. You don't think he's made any mates yet. Tommy Harlow tried to talk to him during lunch the other day and ended up down the nurse's office with a bloody nose. You're fairly certain that's precisely where Finch is headed too. On your left, Edward Posenby leans into your shoulder, crunching a spearmint Polo against your ear. "Bet you a fiver Finch starts bawling his eyes out." To which Bobby Summers, craning in from your right, breath all lemon ice tea, counters, "Bet you a fiver he doesn't." And you're not sure whether it's because your friends are trying to capitalise on someone else's misery, or because poor snivelling Finch really does look like he's about to burst into tears, but for some bizarre reason you find yourself stepping forward. Twenty-six pairs of watchful eyes follow your every step down the corridor. Twenty-six lungs instinctively hold their breath. Edward Posenby starts taking more bets. Drawing closer to Barker and Finch, your heart pounds. But not because you're afraid. Because, really, you're not. But for some other, still-to-be-discovered reason. Unfathomable in all of it's namelessness to you now. And as you draw closer you can hear him. Snapping teeth in snapping jaws and voice like an oncoming freight train ready to run you down.

"Was you lookin' at me?! Was you?? Was you lookin' at me, ya mong??" He's interrogating Finch, of course, but it's you who speaks up. "He wasn't." You say, folding your arms, still unsure where — or who — this mysterious bravery has been borrowed from. "But I was." Barker, leaning so far into Finch's face he's practically diagonal, turns his head, slowly. "And who the fuck are /you/, nonce??" He's got the kind of features you'd see only briefly outside of school — and that'd be when he was in the middle of mugging you outside the local corner shop. All severely scowling brows, and scarred spiteful mouth and kinda smudgy looking street summer tan that's half sunburn half dirt. He doesn't really belong here. He's not the well-thought-out, prodigious boarding school sort. (And you don't know why you immediately desire to know /more/...) "Kaminski." You tell him, holding your ground, "Julian Kaminski. It's Barker, right?" But Russell doesn't confirm your comment, just immediately swings himself round to face you, with a balled up fist, then pushes his face close to yours. "In that case, /Julie/, you wanna fuck off before I put you on the floor." He smells like wet grass and secondhand smoke. And while he's intimidating, definitely — his presence is so overbearing it makes you feel infinitely small — you're not /afraid/ of him. Not like Finch, who you can see quickly slipping away to safety in his moment of freedom. And that's why you're able to say the next words that arrange themselves into a mocking comeback. And why you don't mind so much when you're sitting in the nurse's office five minutes later, holding an icepack against your cheekbone. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate. You might give me a hard on." It starts with Russel Barker. The boy who's bite is most definitely /worse/, funnily enough...

---

As the bruise across your cheek fades from purple to yellow, Barker's tyrannical fist-shaped lovebite spreads like a contagion round your year group. And by the time you wake up in the morning with your reflection assuring you that it's finally gone, you're pretty sure he's stamped his blotchy swollen calling card on almost everyone. Not that you're keeping track of Barker's malicious endeavours. (You're really not.) But when you're miles from home, living among three hundred other teenage boys for months at a time, word gets around. And he's not exactly easy to miss. Not when he insists on tucking his pants into his socks, skulking round indoors with his hood up and spending every other ‪Saturday morning‬ in the bathroom maintaining the meticulous vertical lines shaved into his right eyebrow. "His dad's dead." Tommy Harlow tells you, as he skips stones across the lake, water sparking like flames in the early October sun. "His mum got loads of compensation from the army." Bobby Summers says, kicking his way through mounds of gold and russet leaves one November afternoon down the woods. "Whatcha betting he's a terrorist?" Edward Posenby whispers, leaning into your ear as you string tinsel round the assembly hall, "He's half Pakistani, you know." By the time you come back to school after spending the Christmas holiday at home, Barker still hasn't made any mates. He has, however, gained a small squadron of spineless sycophants, who follow him about, imitating his every move. You're not sure whether they latch onto him through fear that he'll otherwise batter them (or blow them up) or whether they've targeted him as something from which to leech power like parasites, but you do know that every single one of them got a pair of white Nike Air Max trainers for Christmas — just like his — and a monochrome camouflage printed Super Dry cagoule. And you do know that every single one of those suddenly sweary, suddenly swinish boys, passing round half-smoked cigarettes behind the tennis court and saying 'bruv' too much, are posh upper-middle class toffs who idolise Bach and call their parents 'mummy' and 'daddy' whenever they go home. 

Because, let's be real here, so are you. (Sans the mummy and daddy bit, of course...) So the next time you spot Barker picking on Finch, this time using his newly acquired crew to block Finch's way into the bathrooms unless he coughs up a two quid 'entry charge', it's an easy decision for you. Finch isn't a mate of yours, per-say — to be honest, you think he's a bit of a hopeless cause — you've just got a strong moral instinct and you're not quite sure why, but it appears every time you see someone in pain, whether it be emotional or physical, it somehow makes all your insides hurt. Plus, you're still not afraid of Barker. And his fake gangster tag-alongs are an absolute joke. So it's a two pound coin slipped from your own pocket into Finch's hand to get him out of the line of fire. Then you and Barker, tense, agitated, nose-to-nose. "You and all, Julie." He snaps, bristling down at you from under his hood, "Four quid for you, innit. Double or no entry for puffs." And you don't regret your response. You really don't. "Puff? Me? What're you wanting double off a puff for? Gonna come in the toilet with me and suck me off?" You don't regret it at all. Because when you look in the mirror the next morning, Barker's famous lovebite is back across your cheekbone.

---

After the number hits double digits, you start to lose count of how many detentions you and Barker are forced to sit through. And though they're punishments for situations in which you're the victim (kinda) you don't really mind them all that much. You are, after all, a flourishing academic who chose to attend boarding school for the educational benefits — and you're cheerful for any extra study time to feed your brain and broaden your horizons. Barker, however, doesn't appear appreciate being stuck in a classroom on a Saturday afternoon, while all his mates hang round the park without him, quite as much as you do. "Yer a dead man, Julie." He snorts, low, as he kicks the back of your chair, jolting the pencil in your hand. "Gon' kick fuck outta ya next time I get ya on yer own. Believe, bruv." You carry on sketching, smirking a bit into the palm of your free hand. Because his threats are empty, you've sussed out that much. Sure, his punches are authentic and all the bruises they leave behind do genuinely hurt. But unless you actually hit him /back/, he quickly gets fed up after a couple of one-sided blows. And /you/ don't hit back. Because /you/ know countering violence with violence doesn't do any good. (And okay, maybe you also kinda enjoy the way not fighting back really winds him up.) So when Mr. Peterson steps out of the room to go make himself a coffee, leaving you and Barker alone in the class, it doesn't bother you at all. It doesn't even bother you when the sound of his textbook snapping closed and chair legs scraping across the floor signify movement. And it doesn't bother you when he leans over your shoulder, the coarse velcro-like feel of his skull scratching your ear while the sharp, spiced scent of him clogs up your nose. It does bother you when he suddenly snatches your sketchbook, however. And it does bother you when he holds it high in the air while he struts to the opposite side of the room. "What you drawin', swot?" He tilts the sketchbook diagonally, head following at a ridiculous jaunty angle while he frowns, as though working out which way is up.

“Give it back." You're out of your seat with your hands on the desk, half surprised at the volume of your own voice. Because there's a foreign lump in your throat now. An unfamiliar sensation in your chest that feels a lot like a knot. And while there's nothing in there that you're worried about Barker seeing -- it's all flowers and animals and architecture. You are worried that he might do something to ruin all of your hard work. "In a minute, Picasso. Chill out." But it's hard to chill out when Barker perches on the edge of the nearest desk and in all of his brusque direct naivete begins to leaf through. And it's hard to chill out when the perpetual furrows creased into Barker's forehead begin to slowly iron themselves out and one corner of his permanently down-turned mouth begins to coyly twist up. "You gonna be an artist, or something?" He asks, coming to the last of your sketches, then immediately rewinding to flip backwards through. The question catches you a little off guard. You're poised ready to save your sketchbook from being spitefully ripped to shreds, not have a conversation about what you're gonna do when you grow up. It takes longer than it should for you to formulate an answer. And even when you do it's a shit one. "Haven't really about it that much. I'm not sure."

"Oh. Right..." He seems miffed by this revelation. As though he simply cannot comprehend why you might want to do anything else. He goes quiet for a moment. Looks like he's rearranging the furniture in his head, until, "You should, though, innit like. Like, this stuff's buzzin', ya get me? You got talent and that. Proper skills, man. I'd be an artist if I was you. Get all Banksy up on that shit." Get all Banksy up on that shit, sure. If your parents weren't constantly talking about you becoming a surgeon, or a scientist, or going to Cambridge to study law... But you don't get to explain this to Barker. You don't have the time to explain it, even if you had wanted to. Because in the next second Mr. Peterson walks back through the classroom door. And before you know it your hands are filled again with your sketchbook. And half an hour later a paper aeroplane nosedives over your shoulder, decorated with Barker's heavy handed, half-backwards scrawl. "UR DRAWINZ R SHITT PUF." 

---

When the snappy days of spring give way to luxurious summer evenings, you sit on the edge of the lake, pant legs rolled up, feet creating ripples in the warm water, feeding the mallards dinner leftovers with Tommy Harlow. Harlow's a strange hybrid of a boy, tall and leggy, in the middle of a very awkward stage of angular growth in which all the arms and legs of his clothes are inches too short, but with cherubic round, constantly pink-tinged cheeks and a head of bouncy angelic-blonde curls. The two of you share a dorm, and you'd say he was your best friend, if you were forced to name one. He's less of an opportunist than Edward Posenby, more thoughtful than Bobby Summers, and absolutely nothing like Barker's lot. He's also the owner of an extremely patchy furred, extremely well loved, stuffed rabbit named Barnaby. And so that's why, when Harlow poses the fateful question, you don't mind very much. "Jude?" "Hmm?" The tiniest gang of duckling thugs peck impatiently at your shinbones. Harlow appears hesitant. He stalls. Breaking off bits of stale cafeteria sandwiches to placate the hungry little hoard. "Are you... I mean... It's been spreading around a lot, and lots of people have been saying stuff, and I was just wondering, and thought I might as well ask... but..." You hear him inhale a breath. For bravery, you imagine. "...About you fancying other lads? ...Is it... true, that?" And then, added hastily even before you're able to fully register the first part, "Because like, it's okay, you know. If you are. It won't change anything. It doesn't matter at all. Just because of all the rumours, I thought I'd ask you, you know." Another forty-five degrees around the circumference of the lake, Barker's mates tussle among themselves, threatening to wrestle one another off the edge of the bank. While Barker himself, heavy shouldered and gently browning from the slightest of sun, stands apart from them. Staring down at his reflection, busy seasoning the water with cigarette ash, no doubt. Something in the epicentre of your chest stings. Like a grain of salt wedging into a paper cut. Surprising. But not really enough to /hurt/. 

"To be honest..." You start, turning your head to Harlow, "...I haven't ever thought about that one." There's a lot of stuff you haven't thought about, you suppose. Like, what you /really/ like and dislike. Like what you want to /do/. And maybe it's just 'cos you're not a very opinionated person. Or maybe it's because the majority of your decisions so far in life have been made /for/ you. But in eight or nine or ten years time, a boy with a scowl just like Barker's — and half the ego, to boot — will call you a coddled little spoilt cunt, and it'll be like receiving a thousand paper cuts all at once. (Because the truth hurts.) You look back across the water just in time to see Barker leaning forward, a long column of slowly oozing saliva dangling like a pendulum from his bottom lip, until it dissolves his reflection with a sudden momentous drop. With your hand on your chest, you clutch instinctively at that slightly sore spot. "I mean, I haven't thought about it, but... I don't think I do." 

---

The first time it happens, it's because of the bird. Mangy looking thing, barely half feathered, you wake up to it making distressed little chirps outside your window as it limps around the yard. It's concrete grey, like a pigeon, but it doesn't appear able to fly. Just stretches its wings out time and time again, tests out three or four ambitious hops, attempts a handful of flaps, then crumples onto its right side, head first in the dust. You watch it for a while through the glass. Heart swelling every time it flashes that hopeful wingspan. Stomach plummeting at every failed take off. Until you just can't stand it any more. The helpless despair. The will it/will it not. And you run outside dressed in your pyjamas. And deftly scoop it up into the plush folds of your dressing gown. "It's a dove." Mr. Davenport tells you, as you stand over his desk in the biology lab, holding out the bird. "In a bad way, mind you. That's a few broken bones there." He gently stretches out the injured wing. The dove squawks. "And that lack of feathers won't be doing her any good." "Can you fix it?" Mr. Davenport laughs. "Kaminski, I'm a biologist, not a veterinarian." "Please." You press him, speaking around the growing, prickly lump in your throat. "Please just try? I can help. I can do whatever you need me to. Only... she's never going to live if I just let her go." And so you spend the rest of the morning holding her still while Mr. Davenport fashions a tiny splint out of lollipop sticks which he ties onto the injured wing. And you spend lunch time foraging in the grass beside the lake for worms while Mr. Davenport punches air holes into a little dove sized cardboard box. "Let her rest tonight. Then put her out again in the morning." He says, as you crack open the lid to post a worm, still writhing, through the gap into the dark. "Sure." 

"I mean it, Kaminski. Don't go getting attached. She /has/ to go." Gotta fly high, you think. Gotta grow all those beautiful feathers back. Soar through the clouds. See every corner of this gigantic, remarkable world. "Of course." You say, tucking the box safely under your arm, then turning for the classroom door, "I know that." You just wish somebody had informed Barker's lot about that, too. Because when you and your new friend get back to your dorm, all five of them are gathered outside the door, waiting patiently for you to return. 

---

Later, when Harlow finds you curled into a ball down a deserted corner of the library, with your head in your elbows and blood on your shirt, you'll tell him you don't remember what happened. Later, when you're standing in the headmaster's office with that same blood drying brown on your collar, as efforts are made to contact your parents, you'll refuse to talk. And later, when you wake up in your lonely studio flat in the middle of the night, ice-cold sweat sticking the sheets to your back, you'll dump a quarter bottle of whisky into a coffee cup hoping the nightmares might drown. Because you're not a violent person. And you don't like it when innocent things get hurt. But humans are cruel and ruthless creatures, selfish and ignorant at a cost of every other living being in the world. And you're going to be better. You are. You are. "Wossin the box, Julie?" It'll seem like a dream when you look back. All hazy and out of focus, muffled by the abrupt panicked pounding of your heart. You're not afraid of Barker. Still not afraid of his little gang. But you worry, suddenly, enormously for the bird. You clutch the box tighter under your arm. "Nothing." The dove ruffles her feathers. Chirps. "Dun sound like nuffin' to me, bruv." You'll remember the feeling of cardboard slipping out of your helpless grasp. The surprised shouts. "It's a fucking bird!" Laughter. "Only bird he'll ever have!" And then how small and wide-eyed she'd looked clutched tight in Barker's fisted hand. And you'll remember the amusement puzzling across his face as he'd studied her. The naive ignorance as he'd pulled at her make-shift splint like a curious child. Then the pained squawk. Subsequent fierce peck. And howling "FUCK" before immediately dropping her to the floor. And you'll remember how you acted on impulse. Driven entirely by electricity and emotion and rushing of your blood. And you'll remember canting forward with intention. And the way Barker's nose cracked perfectly in the spot between your eyebrows. 

But you won't remember the bird. You wont. You wont. You won't remember the way she'd fluttered lamely around the feet of Barker's little crowd. And you won't remember scrambling about trying to scoop her back up. And when one of the dickhead's shoes comes down with pin-pointed accuracy and sickening force, you won't remember the /crunch/. And you won't stand out on your balcony, seven years later, ‪at three am‬ with a mug full of whisky, listening to the traffic and the drunks, trying desperately to erase those eternally haunting dream echoes of the sound. You don't remember what happened. You promise, you don't. 

---

Directly after the dove incident, the sickness comes. You can't explain it. You somehow don't have the intellectual ability to fathom the ailment into comprehensible words. And it's a bit silly, really, all things considered. Because your Dad is a general practitioner. And your Mum's a nurse at the local hospital. So if anyone should be able to communicate how they feel medically, it's you. But you can't. You don't know how. Because this illness, this sudden contagion that plagues you, isn't something tangible. It isn't something you can feel with your hands in the form of raised temperatures or swollen tonsils. It doesn't show up in blood tests, or saliva swabs. And there are no red, itchy rashes, or wheezing coughs. This sickness is invisible. And it morphs it's shape from day to day, week to week, month to month, so you can never really grasp it. Never really wrap both your hands around it and pin it down. Some days, it's a debilitating migraine, confining you to a solitary pitch black room. Other days, you spend countless hours completely immobile, staring stupidly at the wall. Some times, just the thought of food makes your stomach churn. Other times, you eat so much you make yourself wanna puke. Some nights, you'll sleep for fifteen hours or more. Other nights, you'll restlessly pace the floorboards until the sun comes up. 

And all the while you stop drawing. And all the while you forget about those pages Russell Barker complimented in your sketchbook. Partly because your hands shake so much you can't hold a pencil. But mostly because you just don't care any more. About anything, really... The future. The present. The past. Harlow. Barker. You. The only reason you're still breathing is because it's autonomous and you can't switch that part of your functioning off without putting in effort. Effort that requires motivation and energy that you just. don't. have. "You're just very sensitive." says your Mum. "Rest up and you'll feel better soon." "Medication." says your Dad. "The boy's had enough rest. /Medication/ is the cure." And so after two months off sick from school, you're sent back to full time boarding with a repeat prescription for one hundred milligrams of Sertraline and a doctors' note. It doesn't really help. You're not sure, honestly, what it's even supposed to do. But when your Mum calls, you lie on the phone. "Yes, I feel better." And... "No, I don't want to come back home." Not that it matters anyway. Because later, when you're older. When you wish your very last run in with Russell Barker one fateful winter night had ended any other way. And when you've survived walking out into oncoming traffic because you just don't see the point in looking either left or right any more. You find the mulberry wine at Christmas helps you to fall sleep, fast. And your Dad's whisky at New Year stops the constant pain in your chest that feels as though someones trying to smash their fist through your heart. And you decide to change your medication. And you write your own liquid prescription. And it works. And it's great. Great for you. Fucking /incredible/ for your art. And you feel better. You feel better. You promise. You do.