Chapter Text
The low rumble of Jacob’s Rabbit filled the car like a distant heartbeat. We were all silent — or, well, almost all of us. Rebecca had been talking non-stop since she slammed her door shut. She was recounting a fight with her best friend, a boy who’d given her a seashell bracelet, a trip to Forks, a dress she wanted to buy... I was only half-listening, my gaze lost in the blur of trees rushing past, my fingers gently clutching the edge of my sketchbook on my lap.
Rachel, on my right, had her headphones slung around her neck, one earbud still in, humming softly — just loud enough that her voice blended with the engine’s growl. Her knee bumped into mine every time Jacob took a turn too fast. Sometimes she’d glance at me — really glance, not the kind of look filled with pity or curiosity. She’d smile, without saying a word.
And Jacob… he wasn’t speaking at all. His hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the road. He drove like he had something to outrun. His arms had bulked up even more since the last time I’d seen him shirtless in the yard. He’d changed. A lot. And not just physically. I could feel it in the way he breathed — too slowly, too deeply.
“We’re here,” he finally said, without even turning around.
The Rabbit slowed with a faint screech, stopping in front of the main building. I hadn’t set foot in La Push High School in over three months. My stomach tightened at the sight of the other students crossing the courtyard, backpacks slung over shoulders, Monday morning nerves buzzing in the air, voices rising in clusters. Some turned to look at the car. Their eyes lingered. First on Jacob. Then on me.
I stepped out slowly, my left leg already protesting. I stretched it slightly, leaning on the doorframe. The pain was still there. Not as sharp as it had been at first, but constant — like a nail driven into the bone. A wound that would never fully heal, the doctor had said. I’d learned to walk with it. To live with it. But not to be seen with it.
Rachel grabbed my bag before I could say anything.
“I’m carrying it. And you’re not arguing, Mike.”
She winked at me. Rebecca had already wandered off, drawn by a noisy group of girls on the sidewalk. Jacob slammed his door and strode toward the building without looking back. He wore a tight black T-shirt and jeans that looked ready to burst from how much he’d grown. My brother. Someone I barely recognized.
I had barely taken a few steps when a whirlwind slammed into my shoulder.
“Mike!”
Collin. His smile was huge, his cheeks red from the cold. He hugged me tight before I could even try to dodge it. Then Brady appeared behind him — tall, calm, his gaze always steady. He didn’t say anything. He never needed words to show he was there.
“You look tired,” Collin said, eyeing me sideways.
“I didn’t sleep,” I shrugged.
“Me neither. Dreamed of a talking coyote.”
Rachel giggled behind us.
The bell rang — hollow, metallic. The hallways filled. I limped a bit more going up the steps, feeling the stares. The students saw me. They saw my leg, the limp in my gait, the sign of weakness they could latch onto, judge. My heart was beating too fast.
Room 102 was still half-empty. Yellowing walls, tall windows fogged up by the cold air. A dozen desks, the same old scribbles carved into the wood. Collin pointed to a seat in the back, on the right, between him and Brady. I sat down carefully, trying to hide the grimace as my leg bent.
Mrs. Carter entered with a stack of papers in her arms. She spoke too loudly, as usual:
“Today, narrative poetry. We’re starting with a reading of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. Who’s read it before?”
No hands went up. I kept my eyes on the desk. My sketchbook was there. I slid it onto my lap. The urge was too strong. Her voice became a distant echo. I could feel the eyes on me. As if I were a stain on a clean canvas.
I took out my pencil. Beneath my fingers, a misty forest path began to emerge,curved, secretive. Each line calmed me. Each shadow pulled me farther away. I was somewhere else. Between the trunks. Somewhere no one limped.
“Mike, do you have a black pencil?”
Rachel. She’d turned to me, elbow resting on the back of my chair. I shut my sketchbook instantly. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She understood.
Time stretched, each minute weighed down by quiet whispers, fleeting glances. The class's attention was more on me than the poem, and it made my throat tighten. The words blurred, my mind drifting between the shadows I sketched and the heavy reality of the classroom.
The bell finally rang, pulling me back to the present. I limped out, Collin and Brady at my sides, Rachel just ahead. The hallway light felt harsh, almost violent, after the dimness of the room.
Biology was next. The room was brighter, lit by pale neon lights that gave everything a sickly hue. Ms. Ross, a spry woman with short hair, waited for us by the lab benches. I took a seat between Rachel and Joshua.
The topic made my heart flutter — food chains, ecosystem balance. Simple to most. Familiar territory for me. The questions came, and without even raising my hand, the answers slipped out — natural, precise, like links in the living web of nature.
Rachel kept throwing me quiet, proud glances. Joshua nodded at every right answer. Ms. Ross smiled at me, pleasantly surprised.
Then she asked me to complete the diagram on the board. I limped to the front, my face burning. Slowly, I drew — deer, cougar, fungi, eagle — a complete system of harmony and balance. Silence fell like a curtain. Even Émilie looked away, visibly annoyed.
Back at my desk, I could feel her eyes drilling into my back. That silent contempt clung to me like a weight.
Math class was a whirlwind of noise. Mr. Densley fired off equations at a dizzying pace. Collin cracked jokes, raising his hand dramatically. Brady spun his pencil on the desk. I kept to myself — quiet, but focused, catching every formula, every logic step. I even corrected a mistake discreetly, which earned me a few surprised murmurs.
“Michael Black, right?” the teacher called with an amused smile. “Wanna help me out at the board?”
Laughter rippled through the room — not mocking, just surprised. My face flushed, and I looked down.
Then came Spanish. The room turned hostile. The words stumbled off my tongue. I mixed up conjugations, Latin sounds slipping through my fingers. The teacher, overly enthusiastic, tried to encourage me, but his words felt heavy, almost humiliating. Rachel avoided my eyes. Even Joshua frowned.
My head throbbed. I wanted to run.
When the bell finally rang, I let out a breath of relief. I grabbed my bag, sticking close to my friends, knowing I still had so much to prove...
The cafeteria hit me like a slap. The smell of hot plastic, industrial food, and damp jeans from the morning drizzle hung in the air. I hated this place. Too crowded. Too loud. Too many eyes.
Collin and Brady were already headed to our usual table — far in the back, between the broken juice machine and a dying potted plant. Rachel walked just ahead of me, her bag thumping against her hip with every step. She stopped, turned around, and raised an eyebrow.
“You coming?” she asked.
I nodded, but my gaze slid — involuntarily — toward the other tables. There, in the center, like on a stage, Émilie sat surrounded by her loyal satellites: Lily, Megan, Chelsea. She laughed, head tilted back, her hand brushing a guy’s I didn’t even recognize. Her laugh pierced me. Not because it was joyful — but because it was fake. I knew that laugh. It was the one she used to control a room. Not the one she used when she was truly happy.
I looked away. Sat down in silence. Rachel slid a tray in front of me — chicken sandwich, apple, a little bag of carrots. She didn’t ask if I was hungry. She knew I’d eat. Even without an appetite. Out of habit. Out of reflex.
“You crushed it in bio,” she said, biting into her soggy pizza.
Collin raised his plastic cup in a toast. Brady gave my shoulder a gentle tap. I shrugged.
“It’s the only thing I know better than my nightmares,” I murmured.
Nobody laughed. Not because they were uncomfortable. Because they understood.
I picked at my sandwich. It tasted like nothing. Like wet cardboard and stale memories. I tried to eat, but my thoughts spiraled again — always circling the same scene. The scream. The bite. The blinding, white-hot pain. And then… the void. The silence. The guilt.
I felt sick.
“Mike?” Rachel’s voice was low. Worried.
I looked up. The world felt blurry — like I was seeing it through rain-streaked glass. I took a deep breath.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t true.
The bell rang. Sharp, shrill.
And all I wanted was to scream.
The art room was its own little bubble. Quiet, bright, almost soothing. The walls were covered in students’ sketches — some beautiful, some grotesque, but all honest. The scent of paint, damp wood, and graphite floated in the air like an old perfume.
I took my seat at the back, near the window. My sketchbook was already open. My pencil, ready. Mr. Foster, the art teacher, walked in without a word. He was young, nervous, but passionate. He always wrote the instructions on the board before speaking. Today, he scribbled:
"Depict an emotion without a face. No features, no human figures. Just shapes. Colors. Textures."
Perfect.
I lost myself in the textures. I started with spirals. Twisted shadows. Then came sharp, clean lines — like blades. A forest of dry branches, of absent shapes. A black sea under a red sky. I wasn’t thinking anymore. My arm moved on its own. My heart beat in rhythm with the motion of my pencil.
“That’s dark,” said a voice beside me.
Rachel. She had walked over, leaning over my shoulder.
I didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything else. She stayed there for a moment, silent, then returned to her seat. She was drawing some sort of orange dawn — a sky exploding over a hill. It was bright. Like her.
Mr. Foster passed behind me, stopped. He didn’t say anything. But he rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. Just for a second. Long enough.
I looked down. My fingers were stained with charcoal and ink. The only kind of mess I could tolerate.
The extracurriculars took place in the small multipurpose room at the end of the north hallway — a square space with walls covered in club posters: debate, gardening, astronomy, theater. A tired old ceiling fan spun lazily overhead.
Today was the first meeting of the school newspaper club. Rachel had dragged me there.
“You draw. You notice things. You pick up on what no one else sees. That’s what a journalist does.”
I had shrugged. But I’d come anyway.
There were six students. All older than me. The club leader, a lanky guy with glasses named Theo, greeted us with an overly wide smile. He talked fast, full of excitement, tossing out ideas for columns, local scoops, movie reviews, sports recaps.
I hung back. Rachel had already taken a seat, perfectly at ease, asking questions, laughing. I just doodled in my notebook. Profiles. Snatched words. Frozen emotions.
“You could do a drawing column,” Theo suggested, glancing at my page. “Something quiet. Like a comic strip. Or a satirical piece. Like in real papers.”
I looked up at him. He wasn’t mocking. Just honest.
I nodded. A little surprised at myself.
The rest of the meeting passed without a hitch. No awkwardness. No judgment. Just voices. Ideas. Possibilities. It had been a long time since I’d felt like a possibility.
When the bell rang to mark the end of activities, I was the last to leave. Rachel was waiting, bag slung over her shoulder, a soft smile on her lips.
“You coming back?” she asked.
I looked down at my sketchbook. At the drawing I’d started. A hand holding a broken branch. Symbolic, probably.
“Yeah. I think so.”
And for the first time that day, I said it without having to fake it.
The hallway was nearly empty. The neon lights flickered now and then, casting irregular shadows across the yellowed tiles. My footsteps echoed in the silence, accompanied only by the soft rustle of my sketchbook against my side. I walked slowly, my heart still beating to the rhythm of the meeting. No anxiety. No pain. Just a strange, suspended calm.
Then a voice. Sharp. Mocking.
“So, the orphan found a club to cry in peace?”
I froze. Alexandre.
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Two other guys — Hugo and Liam, vaguely familiar — stepped up behind him, snickering.
I didn’t reply. I knew the game. I also knew words meant nothing with them.
“That’s cute,” Alexandre said, stepping closer, his cruel smile perfectly in place. “Little Mike hiding in the newspaper club. Maybe one day you’ll write an article about your own cowardice.”
He shoved me hard against the locker. My sketchbook fell to the floor, landing open on a page where I had drawn a lone figure standing in the rain. Alexandre bent down.
“What’s this? An autopsy of your ego?”
I clenched my fists, but I didn’t move. I didn’t know how to move. My legs were poles. My throat, tied in knots.
Then a growl. Literal. Deep. Inhuman.
Jacob appeared.
“Touch him again and I swear you’ll regret it,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. “Not at school. Not here. For real.”
Silence fell instantly. The laughter died. Alexandre raised his hands, a fake smile plastered on his face.
“Whoa, chill. We were just kidding.”
“You never kid. You’re just a coward with an audience.”
Jacob took a step forward. Alexandre backed off. He wasn’t scared. He was ashamed. Brutally ashamed — it twisted his mouth. And Jacob looked at him the way you look at something already dead.
Alexandre stepped away. Then turned around and muttered a half-choked “freak.”
Silence.
I picked up my sketchbook.
Jacob looked at me. For a long time. His expression wasn’t angry. It was hurt. Frustrated. A mix of helplessness and bitterness.
“You could’ve said something. Just… raised your voice. Anything.”
I didn’t answer.
He walked past me. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t look back.
Once home, I went straight upstairs. I could hear Jacob’s heavy steps behind me, but he didn’t follow. I slammed my bedroom door shut, and everything went quiet again.
I sat on the floor, back against the bed. Sketchbook on my lap. My hands were shaking slightly. My fingers still bore the charcoal stains from the afternoon.
I flipped through the pages. Shapes passed by. Then, almost naturally, as if my hand had just been waiting, I began to draw. A wolf.
A large grey wolf, thick-furred, light-eyed. Alone. Standing on a ridge, the wind ruffling its coat. Then another version. Lying in the grass. Then a third. Baring its teeth.
Always the same wolf.
I looked up. Through the cracked window, I saw Jacob outside. Like always. Hood up, hands in his pockets. He walked along the fence, then disappeared into the woods without turning back. I never knew where he went. Or what he looked for out there. But every night, he vanished. And came back later. Silent.
I drew the wolf again.
A fourth time.
A fifth.
I didn’t even know why I was crying anymore. But my eyes stung. My chest ached. And my hands kept tracing those same haunted lines. The muzzle. The eyes. The wind.
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Mike?” Rachel’s voice, barely a whisper.
I didn’t respond.
The handle turned slowly. She stepped inside. I didn’t look up. I just felt her presence there, resting against the doorframe. Her hands clasped. Worry clinging to her breath.
“Do you want to talk?”
I shook my head. She waited a few seconds. Then gently closed the door.
And silence returned.
The light turned softer. More golden. And suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore. I was somewhere else. In a clearing. The sky was pale, like the whole world was holding its breath.
I was laughing.
Flat on my back, in another time, when he and I were still friends. My arms around his neck. My laughter tangled with his. His back warm and solid under my hands. We spun. We ran. Leaves flew. A gust of wind. The whole world shrunk to that single moment.
He stopped, laid me gently in the grass.
“One day, Mike… we’ll leave this place. Just the two of us. Forever. I promise.”
I hadn’t answered. I had just closed my eyes.
I snapped back.
I hadn’t seen him in years. Just heard the rumors. The dark reputation he’d built.
I felt my tears drip onto the paper.
I was alone, like always. And no one was coming to save me.
I would never leave.
Nothing would change.