The Impossible is Possible (Ryden)

Chapter 10

Brendon enters the school gates, feeling more nervous than he has in a very long time.

He's been thinking about it all night, and he's pretty sure he can guess how the day is going to play out. Emily will have told Timothy that he blurted out Ryan's name in the middle of the kiss, and Timothy will have told the entire school. Everybody will know. It's going to pan out just like it did in his old high school, and he's not sure he'll be able to take it for the second time.

He's really late for school, as it is, because his alarm had decided not to go off. He guesses it's a good think that he's arrived fifteen minutes after everybody else; there's less chance of running into anybody before his first lesson. Rushing through the yard, he heads towards the building, wondering if his History teacher - Mrs. Terence - will be annoyed with him or not.

The corridor is fairly empty when he enters, and he rushes straight to his locker to put away the books he won't need until the afternoon. He plants his bag on the floor, and turns the dial for his code. The door swings open - revealing an empty locker - and he bends down to empty his bag of the stuff he won't need for the morning.

He freezes, however, half-way through doing so, as a cold voice jeers, "Well, well, well. If it isn't the fairy."

Brendon stands up, slowly, and turns nervously, to find - rather predictably - Timothy, with four tall, muscular football-player friends. Brendon swallows, and takes a step closer to his locker, eager to avoid the violence that he's sure is about to take place. "Um. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Timothy asks, in a dangerous, silky voice. He glances around at his friends, and then smiles at Brendon, his eyes glinting. "I'm not in the mood for talking much right now, so I'll make this short. We don't like fags here, and I think it's about time that somebody beat that shit out of you."

"Look, don't you think it would be better if you all used your energy somewhere else?" Brendon suggests, wondering if he'll be able to talk his way out of this. He very much doubts it, however. "I don't know, you could go and play sports or something and that would be much more productive. I won't get in your way or look at you or talk to you, and then, I don't know, you could play against other schools with all the practise and win some games and trophies, and then --"

"What the fuck are you going on about?" one of Timothy's friends asks, shaking his head. "Shut up, or we'll pound your face in."

"We're going to do that anyway," Timothy dismisses, with a smirk at Brendon. Brendon looks either side of them, praying that a teacher might turn up, but the corridor is completely empty. "So, what'll it be, pillow-biter? Kicks, or punches?"

"How about neither?" Brendon asks, hating how much his voice is shaking.

Timothy laughs. "Both it is, then."

And then, five burly and strong seventeen year olds set about kicking the shit out of Brendon as best they can.

He falls to the floor as they set to work on him, their trainers beating bruises into his side, their hands pulling his hair, Timothy's fist pounding new, purple patterns into his face. His lip, that has been healing so well, splits open again, and the taste of blood is thick and copious in his mouth. He tries to struggle against it, but one of them twists his arms behind his back, hauling him to his feet, allowing Timothy better access to his face.

"Stop it!" he groans, blood spraying everywhere, as he's allowed to slump heavily back onto the floor. He's not been in this much pain for over a year, and his whole body is aching and bruised and all he can think about is the pain. Timothy stands over him, with a triumphant, deep laugh.