The Highway Man

1996

Dean recalled loving school when he was two years younger. He remembered the table of friends he would sit with at lunch, giggling in class until his face was red, staring at girls with curly hair, sending his friends crude jokes via notes. Those sorts of things didn't interest Dean anymore. What kept him busy were his thoughts. Not his music, a book, or a girl; what rolled around inside his brain occupied enough. What bothered others the most was how loud these thoughts could be. Seemingly nothing could wake Dean from the stupor his life had become. The therapists, doctors, and psychiatrists had suggested many a techniques for blowing away the haze, but what good would that do Dean? He couldn't remember ever wanting to change his dreary schedule, although his aunt fancied the notion. His strolls at dawn and twilight around Pfieffer Hills, Michigan were the only things that entertained the idea that Dean would ever find a healthier life.

On March 13th, a Thursday, Dean was on one of his strolls when the daily bullies came to tease his figure. He wasn't fat, wasn't bulky, and didn't wear the crater faces some of these boys did, but he wasn't very attractive either (he'd come to realize). Dean was skinny, a pale yellow color that he'd deemed hideous, had a mop of dull brown hair, and a pair of shit brown eyes. His wardrobe consisted only of dark hoodies and baggy blue jeans. The bullying wasn't violent, easy to ignore, but what caught Dean's attention was the effort they had put in their taunting that day. They must have spent hours studying his route. How considerate. After ducking into his house and closing the front door, Dean eyed his room upstairs, his eyes glistening with desire. Before he could ascend to his quiet haven he was yanked into the house's kitchen by an older woman. Dean resided with his aunt Wenet after his mother became unfit to care for him. She was a few feet shorter than her nephew, had brown hair that glowed red when caught by light, orange freckles that had been lightly sprinkled across her cheeks and nose, thinly shaped pale lips, and a pair of hazel-brown eyes. She was prettier before her divorce. Dean never knew his uncle, but from what he'd heard the man wasn't kind. Thankfully they decided to not have kids, so cousins weren't an issue for Dean.
"Dee." Wenet's voice was wet with worry.
Uh oh. He thought.
Dee was his childhood nickname, and his aunt only ever used it when speaking condescendingly.
Couldn't she bother to make it all the way to the end? Dee isn't very different than Dean.
"Are you having trouble at school?" Her voice was high and squealing, a sound that he found nauseating after a while.
He looked at her, but didn't answer.
"Because I got a call from your school," she paused to watch him begin rummaging through the fridge.
Still, no answer.
"They said you weren't participating in class." Her tone rose as if she was asking a question, even though she wasn't.
Nothing.
"Dee, I think we should talk medication-"
Much to Wenet's disappointment they didn't talk medication, for Dean had stalked out of the kitchen and hovered into his room where his door slammed shut behind him. Couldn't Dean go unnoticed in the world? There were plenty of people like him, all with the same scraggly appearance and sad eyes. No one paid attention to them. Perhaps Dean was still in the process of becoming invisible; if only he could lurk deeper into the shadows he hid in.