SAVED ☆ Bang Chan [COMPLETED]

1

"Channie oppa! I bought a gift for you!" Hana, one of the popular girls in my class, squeals as she thrusts a gift bag almost as pink and glittery as her into an overwhelmed boy's hands. Bang Chan blinks, taken aback. He looks up from his desk and sets his pen down gently ontop of a stack of papers that are full of his neat scrawl. Eyebrows furrowing, the boy swallows, an apologetic expression crossing his pale face.

"That's ... really sweet of you, but I'm sorry, I can't accept it."

Hana's face falls as she takes the bag back. "Why not?" She asks in a particularly nasal tone, all pretense of kindness vanishing as the boy crushes her hopes.

Chan rubs the nape of his neck. "Because I'm a classmate, you can't just randomly give me things because you think I look attractive. You don't even ... know me."

"I know you enough to know that I'm deeply in love with you."

Chan grimaces. "I'm sorry," he says gently. He's always gentle; even the most vicious of tropical storms wouldn't be able to ruffle his feathers. "I'm sure you're lovely, but unfortunately I don't feel the same way."

With a look of disbelief, the girl storms out of the room, followed by her group of walking-talking orange barbies. Each of them shoot daggers in the direction of a sighing Chan, who ignores the curious eyes of his classmates on him, instead clicking his pen and continuing to write.

I snort in disgust, pulling my notebook out from my backpack. My best, and only friend, perches on her desk. Her poker straight blonde hair frames a fake tanned face that looks just as disgusted as I feel.

"They're so annoying," she says, her gaze fixed on the empty spot that was previously occupied by Hana. I narrow my eyes. I'm sure there's three more gift bags stuffed into the small drawer ...

"I feel bad for the boys. The amount of gifts and dates they turn down from random people has got to be so stressful," I reply, shaking back my braids. I impatiently blow the stray silver strands out of my face, completely aware I probably look like a frosty tomato.

Leah looks down at me with a frown. "Oh? You speak as if you've got experience. But that's not possible, we all know you've never been in that situation."

I bite back a cutting retort that I am too shy to ever say out loud. Ah yes. The ever so degrading remarks that leave her mouth more often than a positive comment. I'm not a hundred percent sure that this is the way a good friend is supposed to treat you, but one, I'm too much of a coward to stick up for myself, and two, well ... I'd rather have a bad friend than being completely alone. "I'm just imagining what it'd be like."

She studies me for a while, her expression impassive, before whipping a compact mirror out. With the tip of her long nail, Leah wipes away an imaginary smudge of mascara. Taking out my pen, I begin doodling on the corner of my page, waiting for the teacher to come in and teach the final lesson. The tip of my tongue automatically pokes out from the corner of my mouth as I scribble in purple ink, a tiny ladybug forming on the paper.

An extremely tedious fifty minutes later, well, it could have been fifty hours, the bell finally rings and I hastily shove my belongings back into my bag, eager to get out of the building. In the process of doing so, I manage to trip over the edge of a rogue supplies cupboard and I go sprawling, landing on the floor in front of thirty or so classmates. Laughter erupts all at once and I feel heat rising up to my freckled face, my cheeks flushing a rich scarlet as I realise my books have spilled out of my unzipped bag and are now scattered across the musty carpet. Scrambling around I try to pick them all up with fumbling fingers, wincing as my ankle groans in protest. Great. Another sprained ankle. How typical.

Just as I've finished picking up my last piece of crumpled paper, heart drumming like crazy with embarrassment, a delicate hand appears in front of my face. It's a pretty hand, I suppose, knuckles slightly too big for the slender fingers, but charming nonetheless. Hmm. It looks as if it could do with moisturising, I think, noticing the raw skin around polished fingernails.

I look up, gaze meeting a concerned looking Bang Chan, and I almost do a double take. His collar is open at the neck, displaying a glinting silver chain. I can't help but gulp with shame at the thought of one of the eight most favoured boys of the school seeing me on my red knees after tripping almost comedically. Gosh. He must think me a clown.

"Are you okay?" He asks me in his soft voice, still offering me his hand. Slowly I take it, not knowing what else to do, and he closes his warm fingers around mine, gently pulling me up off of the floor. I let go of him when I'm stood up and brush the dust off my skirt, nodding as I don't trust myself to speak. My heart is pounding in my chest rapidly with humiliation and anger at the world for hating me.

He opens his mouth as if he's about to say something else but with a small, completely humiliated smile in his direction, I run out of the room, leaving my tittering classmates behind.

Walking home in the rain is pleasant. The breeze cools my hot cheeks and the earthy smell of wet vegetation acts like a therapeutic fragrance to my pounding head. I viciously do my best to push away the reoccurring image of Chan helping me up from the floor ... I can't afford to think about that. He was probably making fun of me, right?

Earphones plugged into my ears, I block the disastrous world out for a while, letting the music wash over me like a comforting blanket. Because if I don't enjoy this short moment of being alone, I won't be able to enjoy anything else until tomorrow. If I'm lucky.

I stand outside my house for a while, fingers toying with the cool metal of my keys. My house is not one of my favourite places, and I dread coming home every day, never knowing what mood my mother is going to be in.

Sighing, I turn the keys in the lock and creep inside, placing my shoes at the side before padding into the kitchen where my mum is. Upon seeing me, she immediately glares and starts snapping.

"What time do you call this? Who have you been with? What were you doing?" She fires questions at me quicker than a bullet shooting out of a gun and I feel the familiar sense of dread rising up from my stomach, knots forming in my throat.

"I was by myself, I took longer than usual because we got let out of class late," I reply, keeping my voice as nonchalant and calm as possible. Sounding offended and aggravated will only raise her temper even more.

"I'll be checking with the school. Now get to your bedroom, I'll call you when dinner is ready." She turns away and begins furiously stirring in different pots as I make my way up to my bedroom, hands clenched tightly by my sides as I try to keep my composure until I enter my room.

Dinner? Wow. She's actually cooking tonight.

Once I'm on the other side of the door, my guard falls down on its own, just like the tears streaming down my cheeks as I collapse onto my bed. Tears seep into my pillow despite my trying to hold tbem back; I find that the harder I try not to cry, the more I end up crying. I've never felt as alone as I do on this moment, years and years of trauma and exhaustive pain weighing down my small shoulders.

Feeling in the drawer of my bedside table I finally come into contact with a small, sharp piece of metal. I pull it out and stare at it for a while, biting my lip. I don't have to do this, I think to myself ... but no ... the sight of the blade has already opened up the toxic path in my brain.

Almost in a trance, I bring the metal down to my arm and slice open one of the rare patches of unmarked skin.