Dylan Seville, The Devil himself.
I couldn't believe my eyes; what was he doing at my hidden sanctuary?
"Hello," I ventured.
He didn't acknowledge me, his head bobbing up and down to a rhythm only he could hear through his earphones.
Without thinking, I tugged the earphones from his head, immediately regretting it as I saw the fire in his eyes, capable of searing through flesh.
He snatched his headphones back before I could apologize.
"I'm sorry. I was just curious how you found this place," I stammered.
He regarded me as if I'd asked the most absurd question.
"Well..."
I continued my inquiries, but he remained stoic, ignoring my existence. I decided to fall silent, quietly munching on the apple I'd fetched from the cafeteria.
It was unusual for me to feel bored here; usually, this was my haven. I glanced at mysterious figure beside me.
He'd produced a book and a pen, engrossed in whatever he was writing.
Curiosity got the best of me. I leaned over to sneak a peek, but he quickly closed the book.
"Why can't you just mind your own business and sit quietly like you were doing?" he snapped.
"I wouldn't have to if you hadn't discovered this place," I retorted.
"Does this place have your name on it?" he countered.
"Whatever. How did you find this place?"
"The same way anyone else would if they wandered to the back of the school."
Perhaps he was right; this place wasn't exactly the "secret" sanctuary I'd thought it was. I'd just been fortunate that other students hadn't turned it into a hangout spot.
As he began to leave, I impulsively followed.
He spun around, asking, "Why are you following me?"
"I don't know," I admitted.
"You don't know?" He shot me another incredulous look.
I truly didn't know why I was following him, despite sensing the danger in his presence.
He glanced at me once more, clenched his jaw, and sighed. I was clearly irritating him.
He quickened his pace, his long legs making it challenging for me to keep up.
Sadly, I had to return home after school, knowing the worst part of my day was about to unfold.
I hoped my father might be in a "good" mood, but who was I kidding? My father was never in a good mood.
Upon arriving home, I found him seething on the couch. I wished the living room weren't the first thing you saw upon entering.
The moment I stepped inside, his enraged eyes fixated on me. I knew I couldn't escape; whatever work-related issue had arisen, he'd take it out on me.
He regarded me as if I were the root of all his problems.
Slowly, he advanced toward me, and I didn't even attempt to move; it would only make things worse.
He stopped in front of me and delivered a harsh slap across my face. My cheeks burned, my ears rang, and my face went numb. His blow was so brutal that it sent me sprawling to the ground.
He didn't grant me a moment to recover; another fierce slap followed. Then he began to kick me repeatedly, shouting all the while.
The kicks rained down, and after a while, I lost count. But I refused to cry, not in front of him.
After what seemed like an eternity of torment, he finally left me, retreating to his room. I was left to cradle my bruised and numb body.
Summoning the strength, I managed to crawl to my room. There, I finally let the tears flow, despite my aversion to crying. They streamed down like an unstoppable river.