Alastair stood at the bus stop, his eyes glued to the flickering streetlight overhead. The cold, metallic smell of the rain-soaked asphalt filled his nose, mingling with the faint scent of blooming lilies from the garden across the street. He checked his watch again, the ticking echoing in his ears like the rhythm of his racing heart. 3:45 AM. The school bus was late. Again.
His thoughts drifted back to the letter he'd found in his backpack. The harsh words scribbled in his father's handwriting were etched into his mind, a constant reminder of his failings. Carlio had always been a man of high expectations, a shadow that loomed over Alastair's every move. But tonight was different. Tonight, the screaming had been louder, the slaps harder. And yet, as always, Carlio had donned his public mask, leaving the house with a gentle pat on Alastair's shoulder and a forced smile.
The quiet of the early morning was suddenly shattered by the growling of an engine. Headlights pierced the darkness, and the school bus rumbled to a stop in front of him. The door hissed open, releasing a blast of warm, stale air. The driver's weary eyes met his, and Alastair felt a pang of guilt for keeping her out so late. He knew she had a family waiting for her, but she never complained. She was one of the few who saw the bruises beneath his school uniform and didn't ask questions.
The bus was empty except for him, the other students long asleep in their beds. He took a seat near the back, the cold plastic sticking to his skin. The rain had soaked his clothes and hair, and he shivered as the chill seeped into his bones.
He pulled out the letter, now a soggy mess thanks to his tears and the relentless rain. The words blurred together, but he didn't need to read them to know what they said. The accusations of laziness and disappointment were etched into his soul. He'd always strived for perfection to win his father's approval, but it was never enough. Each failure, real or perceived, was met with a barrage of fists and a sea of tears.
The bus lurched forward, and Alastair's thoughts turned to school. He'd been the butt of jokes for as long as he could remember. His classmates teased him mercilessly about his mismatched eyes and stark white hair, a stark contrast to their own youthful hues. They whispered that he was a freak, a curse, something to be feared or mocked. The isolation was a prison of his own making, a defense mechanism against the pain that came with any attempt to connect.
The lights inside the bus flickered, casting eerie shadows across the empty seats. The rain pelted the windows, creating a rhythmic melody that was almost soothing. Almost. It mirrored the tumult in his heart, the relentless beat of his fear and anger. He knew that when he arrived home, it would be worse. Carlio had a way of finding out about even the smallest of his struggles. And when he did, the punishments were swift and severe.
As the bus rumbled along the deserted streets, Alastair felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was just a kid, but his father treated him like a soldier who'd gone AWOL. It wasn't just the bruises or the loneliness that hurt; it was the constant battle for something that seemed unattainable.