My Rules

rule 1

I trudged to school that morning with my mind in a very dark place. The walk to school was one I had walked so many times that sometimes I would zone out for long parts of it and not remember walking across the little wooden bridge, or passing the corner shop.

You're at school for approximately 180 days in a year. So how many times had I walked that same route? Twice a day for four years. 180×2×4... One thousand, four hundred and forty days, not including this incomplete year.

No wonder I was bored.

I smiled bitterly to myself as the early November rain plastered my hair to my head. No, the rain wasn't so bad, but I'd like to arrive at school without having water in my socks.

Picking up the pace, I was striding up the street close to my school now: a church on one side, big, red bricks, with green metal railings around it; a little line of shops on the other. There was a chippy, a hairdressers, an italian restaurant and a derelict empty space in the terraced houses the shops were built into. I passed through the street quickly and crossed the road, turning left and following the pavement up to my school.

I said my mind was in a dark place, didn't I? Yeah we'll get to that later. I promise I'm not exaggerating; I don't have a Tumblr.

Uncharacteristically, I was early for school, so when I got to the tall black gate I had to rap on the window of reception to be let in. There were a few students milling around, but the place was fairly dead. I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes.

I sighed. I could go to the library, but I wasn't sure I was up to doing any work. I'd spent yesterday evening just lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling.

I leant against the wall of B building and pulled my grubby red raincoat off, now that I was sheltered. Underneath I wore a thick grey hoodie over my untucked white shirt and blue tie. Folding my arms to maximise the warmth my hoodie gave me, I checked the time. Fifteen minutes.

I picked at my school trousers, the thighs of which had been made uncomfortably damp by the rain, and raked a hand through my hair.

Before I knew it, more students had arrived, a lot more. That meant school would be starting in.... I checked my watch. Two minutes. Where had that time gone?

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My form room was in the English corridor. I milled in with the rest of my class and took a seat at the back, setting down my black rucksack and slouching. I didn't pay attention to Mr Montgomery calling out the register or saying the announcements.

I scratched the back of my neck restlessly. And I don't mean scratching like you have an itch, I mean scratching to hurt. Scratching to break the skin.

For hours now, maybe days, I'd been having this urge to either beat someone up or be beaten up. I would never attack someone, obviously. I wouldn't want to. But the longing for pain, impact and thrill was constantly at the back of my mind.

Thats what rule 1 is. It's about fighting: never start a fight, but always end one.

That's what my dad taught me. He'd been teaching me that ever since I was little.

The period ended and Mr Montgomery dismissed us in his genial way; he was a kind man. He was short and a little tubby, with thick black hair, dark skin and a smooth, benevolent face. He called to me on my way out, "Have a nice day, Arren."

I nodded back, slinging my rucksack over my shoulder haphazardly and sloped off to maths.

We had a new maths teacher, apparently. Miss Zelner left after screaming at a student and throwing a protractor at her, fired obviously (she had really good aim, too - it was weird. Normally a protractor wouldn't do much damage but Cindy's eye was messed up for weeks. Her parents were furious. Then again, what do you expect when you call your child Cindy? Her younger sister in Year Seven is called Precious. Come on people) and this was our first week of our new, permanent maths teacher.