#its a constant reminder of moustache monday

[aelysalthea]

Wisdom In Words

Summary: Sherwin was quiet. Unobtrusive. The kind of person to duck his head and strive to be overlooked. That was always the way when starting at a new school. Except that this one was different - just barely, and almost indiscernible at first, but apparent nonetheless. And all because of a few passing words.

Rating: T

Tags: Pre-Film, Changing Schools, Muteness, School Life, Messages In Quotes

Chapter 1: Changes

The tolling of a bell could mean a number of things. A beginning. An end. A call to attention. It could be a melody of poignant sound crying a change in routine, or a solemn ode of loss.

A school bell was all of these things in its own way. Regardless of the school, the specific pitch of that bell, and the hour at which it sounded, Sherwin knew that much. He'd had his fair share of experience with a variety of the sort.

The school loomed before him, all grey walls and shuttered windows. Students in navy sweaters and grey slacks slung bags over their shoulders, rising from where they sat upon the modest spread of the school's front lawn. The chatter of voices, laughter, and moans of disgruntlement overrode the ringing residue of the bell's echo.

Sherwin swallowed. Starting anew. Starting anew was… always hard. It had nothing to do with the change in uniforms. It wasn't because of the struggle he would inevitably face with the confusing layout of the school. He was prepared for that – or at least as prepared as he would ever be. Those changes were the same at every single school he'd attended.

It was the people that made it the hardest.

Fingers digging into the strap of his own bag, the satchel bumping his side as he clung to it as he would a lifeline, Sherwin took a deep breath. It didn't help. Breathing, coaxing himself into slow breathing, never really did. If anything, he felt just faintly lightheaded for the fact, and it didn't serve to slow his pounding heart either. So loud, it thundered in his ears. Sherwin perceived that surely, surely someone must hear it.

No one turned towards him, however. No one glanced his way as they bypassed where he stood rooted to the path leading to the front steps of the school. Unfamiliar faces of unfamiliar people who barely spared him a glance but to turn away a moment later and skirt around him.

Sherwin was relieved for that fact. He didn't like being stared at.

It took a herculean effort to unstick his sensible shoes from the path. An even greater effort to start his trudging way towards those steps. Eyes fixed directly ahead didn't stop him from seeing those around him.

 Are they looking? Do they know I'm new? Do they think I'm strange?

How many times had Sherwin been plagued by such thoughts? He didn't know, couldn't remember. They likely wouldn't ever leave him alone, either; most of the time they proved to be valid suspicions. With a tuck of his chin, he picked up his pace and slipped into the flooded halls of the school.

Vinyl floors. Dinghy lockers that were better than some he'd seen but worse than others. Schoolrooms and noticeboards pinned with posters and reminders, a water foundation patterned in a mosaic at its base for all of the colourful gum spotted around the piping. And people. So, so many people.

A bump to the shoulder, a dodge out of the way of a senior, another backpedal to avoid the trail of juniors that hastened past and almost tripped over Sherwin's feet. He scuttled to the side of the hall, clinging to the wall as he made his way down the corridor. He'd seen the map. He'd studied it as soon as the principal had sent his mom a welcome package. Homeroom was around two corners and the third door on the right. Mr Simpson, his teacher was called. Hopefully, Mr Simpson knew to expect him. Even more importantly, it was Sherwin's hope that he didn't draw attention to him.

Sherwin hated when the eyes turned and the focus was drawn. He hated it even more than changing schools itself.

The classroom was barely half full when he stepped inside. Shoulders still hunched, fingers still clinging to his satchel strap, he edged his way around the room of buzzing students, eyeing those around him with a ducked head. These would be his new classmates: the girl with the high, blonde ponytail perched on the edge of a desk, the boy at the window nibbling on an apple, the pair of other boys seated towards the front of the room appearing nothing if not engrossed in the books they were reading. A scattering of them in various states of ease; Sherwin's gaze darted around the room, committing faces to memory even without their names.

It was better to know people. Better to recognise, to be able to tell them apart, to define each from the general crowd of 'new'. That way, at least, he could pretend to be something other than 'new' himself.

The back corner seat was blessedly empty. Sherwin slid into the creaky chair, tucking his satchel under his desk, and hunched upon himself with eyes still studying the room. Plain, simple, all but interchangeable from every other homeroom he'd ever been in, it was nonetheless a necessity to commit every detail to memory.

The desks, in rows of five by six.

The teacher's station, front and to the left of the room and sparsely spread with whiteboard markers and papers.

The pattern of student arrangement, tending not too far to the front – so as to avoid the teacher's attention – and yet not too far to the back, either – for such would be indicative of potential troublemakers.

Except for Sherwin, that was. Apparently there was something about him that bespoke 'not concerning' to each and every teacher he'd ever had. Maybe it was his tendency to sink all but completely under his desk. Maybe the silence that he wore like a protective scarf seemed suggestive of obedience.

The slightly grimy windows.

The stacks of dog-eared textbooks at the back of the room.

The fluorescent lights overhead that whirred so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

And on the board –

Sherwin blinked. The board was wiped clean, as was almost expected of a Monday morning, except for a single line of text in slightly slanted hand written with meticulous straightness. A single line… and it seemed to drown out the rest of the room entirely.

 There is nothing permanent except change.

Underneath, written in the same slanted print, the name Heraclitus sat like a footnote. Sherwin didn't know what it was – a name? The person who'd said the words like a quotation? – but that hardly mattered. It felt like the quote was written entirely for him.

Everything changed for Sherwin. Everything and always. Cities and towns, schools and friends that became less about the friends over time and more simply just the schools. His mom's job and their placement, and the house they stayed at, and the neighbours and rental cars and shopping malls. So much change, and Sherwin had perhaps, maybe just a little bit, hoped that such changes might someday cease.

Maybe he was reading too much into the quote that had likely been left by the teacher only that morning. Maybe the words were simply a throwaway mention of the inevitability of that change, and something to be read, nodded at, and discarded.

It likely wasn't meant to resound so strongly. It likely wasn't meant to place both a heaviness of the inevitability of constant change upon Sherwin's shoulders while at the same time offer a strangely satisfying hand to hold. Nothing would remain the same, and for Sherwin, that likely meant more towns and more schools. But change – that could always be anticipated.

Sherwin stared at the slanted words as the room slowly filled with students. As the boy with the apple crunched idly and the girl with the ponytail kicked her legs where they swung off the edge of her desk. As the boys at the front of the room flicked through their books to the disregard of the rest of the students, and the seats around them scraped upon the ground when filled and the slap of bags dropped at feet picked up frequency.

And Sherwin waited. He only caught a hold of his attention once more when the man who was likely Mr Simpson entered the room.

A tall, heavy-set man, he was balding and wore a pair of wire-framed glasses perched slightly askew atop his nose. The stack of folders he carried under one arm dropped heavily onto his desk as he took himself to the front of the room, but the students before him barely quieted for his presence, though several heads turned and more chairs scraped as they were filled by obliging bodies.

Not until Mr Simpson glanced towards the whiteboard. He absently patted his belly, plucking distractedly at the button-down front of his shirt. Then he turned back to the room, and a smile spread beneath the bristled tufts of his moustache. "A very appropriate way to start this week, I should think," he said, and the murmur of student voices died. "Once again, we appreciate the written words of the wise men of old." A gesture towards the whiteboard behind him, and then Mr Simpson was inclining his head to the room at large. "Thank you for your contribution again, Mr Philosopher."

As though by reflex, a ripple of laughter passed through the room. Practiced laughter, old laughter, the kind of laughter uttered by those who had heard the joke before and yet still found it somewhat amusing. Sherwin glanced briefly around himself, eyes darting towards mouths that murmured words like, "Have you heard of Heraclitus before?" and "He probably got it from one of his books." Someone even snorted with a, "Suck up. Every single day…" that Sherwin almost, almost frowned at.

He didn't really have the time to grow affronted on behalf of someone else, however. Not even someone – a student, it would seem – who seemed to have written the quote directly for him. Instead, his attention snapped towards Mr Simpson again as he continued. "On the note of change, however, we have one such change in our classroom today." The teacher squinted slightly as he cast his gaze around the room.

It scanned.

It passed once, twice – and then it stopped.

Sherwin truly wished he could sink beneath his desk at that point. Change or otherwise, the introduction of the 'new student' into the cohort was one so consistently arising as to be almost predictable.

Please don't, please don't, please don't, Sherwin all but begged in a mental chant. Only to smother a wince when Mr Simpson spoke. "Sherwin, was is? I'd like you all to welcome our newest student to our year."

Mr Simpson smiled at him, but Sherwin hardly noticed. He noticed only for the response it caused when Mr Simpson gestured towards him, warm and welcoming. That warmth was lost before the sea of turning faces; the girl with the ponytail and her friend alongside her with the too-big jumper. The boy who'd long since finished his apple to turn with raised eyebrows and curiosity towards him. Even the two boys with the books twisted in their chairs to regard him; one of them went so far as to lower his book entirely to turn his gaze with mild curiosity.

Sherwin could hear as much as feel his heartbeat in his ears. He could hear, too, his ridiculously overloud breath and hoped – hoped – that no one else heard them both quite so loudly. His eyes darted around the room once more, and he could feel his cheeks redden with the readiness they always did.

The students would likely smirk. They would likely tease. Why wouldn't they? There was nothing quite interesting about a skinny new kid with hair too red and a propensity for blushing in his too pale cheeks. The chanting reprimands beating away inside Sherwin's head were so loud that he almost didn't hear Mr Simpson continue. "Sherwin? Good effort on finding homeroom on time; the corridors can be a little tricky to navigate sometimes." He smiled benignly, then gestured to Sherwin once more. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

And there it was. The worst possible words to hear. Sherwin only managed to refrain from truly sinking beneath his desk by grasping the sides of his chair so tightly his fingers whitened even paler than they usually were. He hated, hated, hated having the attention drawn to himself. It was almost the worst part of changing schools.

Almost.

Sherwin didn't stand. He didn't introduce himself. With cheeks flaming, chin tucking once more, and doing his best – and thoroughly failing – to ignore the stares of the curious, the dismissive, and the resigned as his fellow students turned to regard him in wait, Sherwin shook his head.

There was a pause, a long pause, after which Mr Simpson finally seemed to realise the futility of his own wait. Then he dropped his gesturing hand back to the front of his shirt and cleared his throat quietly. "Well," he said with false cheer. "Not to worry! Sherwin, welcome to the class. I'm sure everyone will be more than ready to assist you should you need a hand with finding anything. Now, I'll ask for the usual quiet while I just take roll call, if you would…"

Sherwin tuned him out as he sunk forwards until his head nearly rested upon the desk. He'd almost expected it to happen, because it almost, almost always did. It didn't make it any easier to endure, however. He still hated the attention, the introduction, the staring and the unconscious judgement from those around him. To the sound of Mr Simpson's drone, Sherwin sighed and closed his eyes once more.

Two things in Sherwin's life were permanent, it would seem. Change, he'd recently discovered, and perhaps obviously so, was one of them. And the other?

Sherwin hadn't spoken a word to anyone in nearly three years. He doubted that was likely to change, either.

A/N: I have every intention of continuing this story, have already finished the first draft, and would absolutely love to know your thoughts! This is such a wonderful Short Film and it deserves all of the love and support in the world. A thousand Kudos to Beth and Esteban for their incredible work!

If you’d like to follow this story, please take a look at it on AO3 here!