Illusive Eden - He Pretends He's the Hero

The echoes of humiliating laughs ringing in his ears. Head lowered in shame, fists clenched strained, the tiny frame shuddering—the wasted food spilled over him, staining his flesh, his navy blue blazer uniform.

They always craved a chance to torment him. The students, their unruffled, taunting gaze overwhelmed him. So he preferred the classroom, he just wanted to be alone, to have his lunch in peace.

Tears threatening to bursts out, a flood bleeding in the burning eyes—a tall, broad dam to collapse. Wild, trespassing images, piercing shame crossing his head.

"Look at me loser!" One of the kids barks, roughly fisting his hair and forcing the icy gaze to rivet with his flinching self.

"Who you glarin' at loser!" He knocks the boy off his chair and down on the cold hard tiles, angered and refusing to acknowledge he almost intimidated him.

"You stink! You belong to the thrash!" Another kid hurls an insult at him, kicking him on the back, pinching his nose and waving through the air.

The group of boys giggles in along, snatching the bag from the table's hook. Zipping it open, the heavy books, stationery—tumbling upon him, hurting him, but he wouldn't even let a squeak out his lips, and it annoyed them to the depths.

And away a picture slips, falling on the bullied boy, who has his head hung low.

A happy family paints the portrait in the white glossy paper. Before he could pick the memory before him, a kid snares it.

He analyses it, when their leader asks for it, he hands it to him.

"It's just a stupid photo," he snickers, the rest joining in the exploit.

"Give it back to me Archer!" The boy finally raises his voice, gathering immediately their mocking gazes.

"Or what? Loser."

Archer leisurely steps towards him, smirking at the glaring frame standing tall. "You gonna call your mommy?"

"Oh wait," Archer tilts his head, eyes squinting, glistening in a mischievous light. "I remember, you've got none." He barbarically laughs out loud, eyeing around his friends, tying in their cruel laughs.

He looks at the boy, "Not even your mother wants you, loser!" Saying, he tears it apart, biting along his little heart to shreds. Archer is roughly slammed on the ground.

He jumps on him, fighting for the tattered paper.

"Get him off me you losers!!" Archer screams at his minions, who stood there stiff—wearing panicked faces.

The three of them struggling catches his arms, one kid on each, from the back another one encircling his waist, attempting to peel away the crazy boy. Archer is yelling at them, frail hands attempting to push him, he's cursing at the boy—breaking between the hits on his jaw.

Shaking them aside, he swirls his fist at a lad's nose who held him back, sending him pounding on the floor.

Propping himself up on his elbows, grazing his hurtful nose, he feels faint at seeing the blood on his fingers.

The underlings has fear thrashing in their eyes, instantly fleeing their hands off the tiny frame, regretting ever messing with him.

If he had this lot rage inside him, why had he been not fighting back all this time they picked on him, silently enduring everything?

They are stunned, widened eyes and petrified bones. He's being hysterical.

Bruising hands punching Archer's now bloody visage. Archer is eerily still and silent.

His grim face is red, his body heated with vengeance.

Archer is passing out, but he's savoring the taste of all the evil he had him through, the beast tearing out of him; realising the sinful desire.

One of the bullies starts crying for his mom, legs trembling while the other lad runs out the empty classroom.

Soon he comes back with a teacher, who standing at the door has her heart collapsing at the scene.

"Rhean stop this instant!!"

Rhean ceases his motions, breathing heavily, still strangling over Archer. Wild, red sore eyes with water building up looks up at the homeroom teacher. The tears slithering free, streaming down his chubby cheeks.

The teacher rushes towards them, the fidgety kid following behind. "What have you done!" She shrieks, horrified at Archer's almost unrecognisable features.

Rhean shoved away lands on his butt, a trail of scarlet handprint left behind on the white tiled floor, the blood melted with his own and Archer's.

She checks Archer's pulse, the agonizing, shallow, stuffy breathing of her student washing her in relief. Her paled features—drawing in back colour.

Before she takes Archer to the infirmary, she glances at Rhean, revulsion and wrath in her glare.

"You, to the principal's office now!"

Rhean sees her running out the classroom with an unconscious Archer in her arms. He looks around at the three rats on the corner, shuddering at his fierce stare.

Rising to his feet, he picks up the ripped portrait, his parents smiling at him.

Archer had seperated them right in the middle. He was torn away from his mother's embrace.

He barely cleans himself off the spilled, and gathers his squandered books, arranging inside his bag. Swinging it on his shoulders, he walks out the door, without bothering to glance back at his tamed tormentors.

Their view of him shifted, with a price, a blow of trauma to their soul.

– – –

"Where is the boy?" The principal asks her, looking up through her squared glasses.

"I told him to–" "You told him to?" The principal cuts her off.

She swipes her tongue over her parched bottom lips in nervousness, the principal's glare burning a hole in her head.

Before she could open her mouth the principal slams her hands on the table, flinching her brutally. "Haven't you learned Miss Patricia? Get him here!"

"I–I've searched for him everywhere Ma'am, he's fleed somewhere." Patricia reasons. "Where would he possibly hide! He's only a child." The principal slaps back.

"Y–yes Ma'am." Patricia stutters, closing her eyes and clenching the lids.

The principal takes off her glasses and massages between her brows.

The child peculiarly injuring the guy bigger in age and size bewilders her. Rhean had always been above his peers, remarkable in academics, that is why he's in the first grade with only a tender age of four.

Archer's father was an influential figure, if things go south, he can even stamp her school to shut.

"Wait. Call his parents." She instructs.

Patricia retracts her hand from the doorknob and turns around to face her.

"He doesn't have a mother, and I've never met his father."

The middle–aged woman sighs loudly in frustration. "What irresponsible parents!"

"But his grandfather is around, we can inform him." The younger woman suggests.

"Please, do so." She replies. Gazing up at Patricia she grumbles.

"What are you still here for? Go look for the boy!"

"Y–yes."