Ch2: 5 times Keith is told to change (and 1 time he knows he doesn’t have to)
A/N: Lowkey trying this posting format because I wanna try smth new. But also cos I don’t think i’ll have the time to touch my com anytime soon so mobile will just have to do. ANYWAY, enjoy part 2 of this fic!
“Alright,” Mrs Hooper announced. “We have a special talk today! Everyone, head over to the hall.”
The clatter of chairs being pushed back and the chatter of excitement, which came with any disruption to their boring lesson routine, was aggravating to Keith’s ears. With a groan, he got off his seat and trailed after the class as they headed towards the corridor to line up in twos.
‘Special talk’, they said. Most likely going to be the local police officer coming to tell them not to shoplift or do drugs or something idiotic like that. The boring stuff. Keith yawned.
As the class walked towards the school hall, Keith slipped out of the two neat files. Used to this by now, no one cared that he was leaving. All except for one person.
“Mrs Hooper! Keith’s trying to leave again!” James yelled.
Keith shot him a look but James just glared back.
Mrs Hooper sighed and said, “Keith, where are you going?”
“To the toilet,” he replied curtly.
“You cannot just walk off like that,” she chided for the nth time. “You need to inform the teacher of where you’re going. We won’t want anyone going missing without us knowing, right?”
He rolled his eyes. “Then, may I go to the toilet?” he asked, without turning to acknowledge her.
He could hear the teacher’s short exasperated hesitance. Then, like every other person who had given up, she said, “Yes, you may. The rest of you follow me.” She turned towards the front again.
However, just as Keith sauntered off, he heard James mutter, “Seriously, stop acting like some emo kid just because your parents died.”
Rage surged through Keith as he whipped around to glare at him. Sensing a fight, the class stopped and watched while Mrs Hooper obliviously continued forward.
“What? Am I wrong?” James taunted, raising his chin. “Grow up, Keith. No one’s going to listen to your little tantrums anymore.”
Keith’s grip tightened. “I don’t have time for you,” he bit out.
If it were any other day, Keith would have raised his fists within a split second. Every word was a spit in the face. He knew that. But today, he was too damn tired to deal with James and his taunts.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stalked off. His lips were pursed as his heart pumped with vigor and he kicked several dustbins down on his way to the toilet.
As soon as he was in a cubicle, he slammed the door shut. He dragged his hands through his hair and gripped it so tight the roots of his hair pulled his scalp painfully.
It wasn’t like Keith wanted to be angry. He didn’t like getting angry either.
He knew how he would lose his temper every time. Of course, he did. He was the one who saw himself descend into fury time and time again. It was a pitfall trap designated for Keith and he fell into it every single time without fail.
Before he knew it, fights became almost a daily thing for Keith, and so had getting into trouble. Especially after Pop’s death. The number of times he came back to the orphanage with bloody fists and bruised up face would frighten his father. Not that anyone in the orphanage cared. Even if he was bleeding onto his shirt or limping. Not unless they received a letter of complaint.
Then, suddenly getting into a fight was a big deal. “We cannot have one of our kids starting fights,” they’d say, even when it wasn’t Keith who had started it, as if bullies in the neighbourhood never labelled orphans as he local punching bags.
Even his dad had warned him so many times not to get angry. “I know how easy it is to get angry but you need to control your anger, Keith. Don’t let it control you,” he said all the time. “I used to be hot-headed like you. But I learned to control my temper, and so can you.”
But it’s just so difficult. His head would just heat up and boil like a kettle of water. If he knew how to turn off the fire, he would. Really.
He’s tried and he’s tried but he failed each and every time.
And, honestly? Sometimes, it felt as though getting angry was the only way for people to hear him now. No one else cares about the orphan. No one cared if the orphan was breaking. Not unless the orphan was breaking someone else’s nose. Someone else with a parent who would care.
Keith kicked the walls of the cubicle and slumped to a squat. He let out a groan and dragged a hand over his face.
Today was Pop’s birthday.
Supposedly, he would go home to find him cooking steak, a family favourite and must have on his birthday. Supposedly, they’d sing Happy Birthday with the steak on the table because they were weird like that. And supposedly, he’d get to just have a nice relaxing dinner with him.
Today, Keith knew what was going to happen. He’d go out of the cubicle as soon as the dismissal bell rings singe the teachers would never bother to find him. He’d pack his bags and head back to the orphanage, where he may get a complaint for being the annoying troublesome kid he was. He would complete just enough homework not to get into too much trouble. If the day could get any worse, he’d somehow get into a fight with another kid again. Then, he’d get sent to bed. While the other kids might chatter amongst themselves, he’d be fast asleep and hopefully sleep till morning without any disturbances.
It’d be just like any old day
But it wasn’t just any old day. It was the first birthday that he couldn’t celebrate with his father, and it hurt to know that it wouldn’t seem any different even when it felt like the worst day of his life, with the exception of the day he went home to the news of his father’s death.
He folded his arms over his knees and pressed his face into the crook of his arms.
I’m too damn tired today was his excuse as he felt the tears choke him up, yet refuse to fall.
