Introvert

11

'every evil can

be defeated

but only by those

who have light where demons have

darkness.' ~ unknown

||Shyanna||

Art passes by in a fluid motion of moving brushes, scratching pencils, and slowly more real smiles. Art is not difficult, and nor is design, but sometimes it takes it out of me. It's nice to know sometimes I can feel happy wielding something other than my battered pencils. It's nice to think 'I can do this I can do this' rather than the negative. 

By the time I've finished my artwork, though, my wrist is cramping, my face is smeared with yellow and brown paint, and my hands are damp and becoming wrinkled with the water colour. I'll scrub my face clean at break, but for now, I have to pop into my form room to alert my tutor that I am, in fact, alive and well. Perhaps not as well as many other people, but well enough to be in school.

"Kris," I whine, as she pulls away and walks off, smiling, next to Anna. They don't share the same tutor as me, so this is a common occurrence for us, but it still hurts to see them leaving.

"I'll see you later, babe!" Anna calls, as Kristy merely winks and blows a kiss. Anna pretends to catch it instead, and I make a slightly hurt face before settling my face into a neutral expression.

"Okay." I mumble into the nothingness, before setting towards the tutor room I have come to like. It's not a marvellous room, and there are too many people in there of a mix of ages, but I can get on with most of the people. Besides, I don't need to spend the whole time there. I have the right to go anywhere, really, but making an appearance at tutor at least once a week is the school-accepted thing.  

The class, when I get there, is full of a range of people. Boys in year eight grin at me, and I know the conversations they've had about me are never, ever innocent, but they look so childish and gentle it's hard to believe they want to 'do terrible, wonderful things to her'. It's disturbing, actually, how odd I find it they find me to be the least bit attractive. I'm not the ugliest girl ever, but I'm not to the standard I'd normally expect these boys to have. It is flattering, I guess. But I do feel a bit pedophilic, finding them endearing.

I sit in my usual place; the back corner near to no one. A girl named Cat is giving me slow smiles, eyes closing softly aand daintily. I remember, with a flash, that she's come into school with cut up arms before, and I smile instantly back at her. We are the broken, but we don't have to break other people. She turns, eyes beautifully blue, almost violet, and I can't help but think 'we're not alone, we've both done stupid things.' I've never talked to Cat properly before, but I remind myself to talk to her soon, just to give her advice.

Mr Samuels, my tutor, begins calling out roll just as I'm settling in to my seat, pressing my back against the wall. It's cool, refreshing for my heated, paint soaked skin. The man gives me a pleased smile when he sees me. It has been too long since I've come here willingly, preferring the library to this place. Now I'm here, though, I know it isn't that bad.

"Today we're supposed to be doing silent reading, so the year sevens..." I fade his voice out after that. He won't tell me to do anything, really, because mostly sixth formers do what they want in tutor. If he wants help with anything, he'll come up to me directly. 

I glance around the room. There are the year sevens, the girls and boys predictably apart. The year eights, the boys in a group and the girls near them, muttering fast. The year nines, the year Cat's part of, are spread throughout the room. Some have friends, but only two of them sit together. The rest sit alone, silent and content with the break that tutor brings. The year tens are away for the week, a skiing trip that I never wanted to go on when I was that age. The year elevens are in the corner, curled over the computers, typing fast. Year twelves avoid tutor altogether, for the most part, but one of the males, Alix, is stapling stuff onto the wall. I am the only year thirteen in attendance, the only one of our tutor who stayed here. I feel like it's a battle of the person who knows best, and I do, because I'm so old in this tutor. 

The oldest of the kids. Huh. When did that happen? When did the years between year seven and year thirteen become forgotten? When did they become insignificant? 

"Shyanna," Mr Samuels says, in the nasally voice I've become accustomed to. He gives me a smile. I don't return it like I used to; I've grown since then, and my smiles come to those I trust. I do not trust this man as much as I once did. Because, although everyone says I'm a liar, he is creepy, and scary, and he reminds me too much of my father.

"Sir," I respond, because although I do not like him, I am not rude.

"Could you help Alix with the border?" I don't state that Alix is doing fine with the border, that he's half done already. Instead, I give a nod and a slight huff of air as I sidle up to him.

"Hi," Alix says, brown eyes flicking towards me unnervingly quickly. 

"Hi." I respond, hand reaching out for one strip of paper and the other for a stapler. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just staple around the edge. I've got to sort out one bit of paper that's kind of big, so if you could help me with that after you've added to the border, that'd be nice." He adds, quiet. Alix is the quiet type, which suits me just fine. I'd rather just get on with anything than talk, although admittedly with some people I like to talk. These people consist primarily of Anna and Kristy, though, so it must be said I am depressingly limited to freely talking.

"Sure." I mumble, stapling a piece of paper to the wall. 

And, as metal rips through paper and sticks to the wall, I think that I am a lot like paper. I am written on, torn, and crumpled, but I can still be used. I can still remain. I can be written upon, typed upon, and I can still be a respectable piece of paper. The choices we make are pencil, but our lives are pen. And the pen has merely punctured the paper, bled through a little. But I can still remain, and I can still be who I am. I just need a little help, sometimes. But so do other people, so that's okay. So glancing to see Alix smiling at me, I know we are all paper. But we're all okay, in the end. If we're not okay, it is not the end. And it isn't my end, yet. So I will, someday, be okay again. 

||Niall||

Tutor isn't something I attend with enthusiasm, if I'm being honest. I attend only when I have to, but I haven't attended in three weeks, so I'd probably be pushing it to not come in again. It's not really that bad, anyway. I've got Liam in there, so I have people to talk to. It's just. I don't have Shyanna. Although I don't talk to Shyanna, not much, looking at her calms me. Her radiant beauty stuns me into silence, and frankly, silence is something that frequently evades me.

"Niall!" Liam croons, as soon as I step in the fucking door. The whole of my tutor room whips round, trying to get sight of me as I walk towards Liam. God knows why. I'm nothing special.

"Liam." I mumble, placing my bag on the floor. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I feel out of it without Shyanna near me. Like I'm a drought and she's the rain that gives me reason, a way to develop. 

"What's up, Ni?" He asks, and his face is serious.

And I realise, suddenly, that nothing's up. Because I'm not Shyanna, and I don't have issues that hurt to think about. I have friends that love me, and parents that care, and my past is exactly the same. The only problem I have, is that I love a quiet, beautiful, sad girl. And I want nothing more than her happiness, and to see her by my side. I want to wake up and see a smile on her face, sunlight catching her hair because we'd forgotten to close the curtains. But I'm just a coin, spinning until it lands. Heads or tails, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Shyanna begins to learn how loved she is, even if she doesn't know it. And I want nothing more than to be one of the people who teach her exactly that.

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