It was a quiet night. The streets were empty, save for the glow of a convenience store sign casting a pale light onto the pavement. Inside, a young man with a pale complexion, short shiny hair, and a name tag that read "Rick" was busy stocking shelves. He meticulously checked expiration dates, stacking cans of soup and boxes of snacks with practiced precision. The faint hum of the store's refrigerator and the fluorescent lights filled the silence.
The bell above the door jingled, and Rick looked up, offering a polite greeting to a man who walked in. The customer didn't reply, heading straight to the aisles. Rick moved to the cashier, scanning the store from behind the counter. Minutes later, the man placed a single item on the counter. Rick checked it out quickly, thanked him with a smile, and watched as the man disappeared into the night.
When his shift finally ended, Rick stepped outside into the cool air, unlocked his battered bicycle, and pedaled home. The streets were dimly lit, the faint sound of waves crashing on the distant shore accompanying him as he rode.
Rick arrived at a modest house on the edge of town. Using his key, he entered quietly. The house was dark and silent, his grandparents already asleep. He headed straight for his room, which was tucked away in the attic. The small triangular window at the far end of the room let in the faint glow of the moonlight. Rick hung his school uniform on a hook by the wall, dimmed the light, and collapsed onto his bed. Staring at the moon through the window, he let out a tired sigh before closing his eyes, surrendering to sleep.
Morning came, signaling the end of summer break and the beginning of a new school year. Rick rode his bicycle to St. Dominic High School, weaving through the crowd of luxury cars dropping off students. Parents fussed over their children, chaperones carried bags, and even personal guards stood nearby.
St. Dominic High was a prestigious school, the epitome of elite education, where the wealthiest and smartest students roamed. Rick didn't belong to either group. His place here was a result of an accident—a tragic incident that had left him with a scholarship.
Rick parked his bike and checked his schedule. Room 501. He climbed the stairs and found the classroom. Opening the door, he saw a few students already inside. Most were unfamiliar, but near the window sat a familiar figure: Tristan.
Tristan, with his dark brown hair and glasses, came from a decent, well-off family. He never looked like he had worked a day in his life. Rick grinned and walked over, throwing his arms around him in a hug.
"Rick!" Tristan exclaimed, startled but smiling. "What's up? Sit here."
Rick sat beside him. Unlike Rick, Tristan was reserved, but once comfortable, he could talk endlessly.
"How was your summer?" Tristan asked, adjusting his glasses.
"I worked two jobs," Rick replied with a proud smile. "Saved a bit, but it was tough."
Tristan shook his head. "Man, you're something else. My summer was... tiring. We traveled abroad, and honestly, it's overrated."
The classroom slowly filled with students. Most looked polished and wealthy, wearing designer accessories and exuding confidence. Rick scanned the room, hoping to recognize someone else. Sadly, the faces were all new to him, save for Tristan.
Their history teacher, Ms. Belinda, soon entered, silencing the room with her imposing presence. Known for her strictness, she wasted no time diving into her lesson. Rick, though sleepy from his late shift the night before, kept his eyes on her, pretending to listen.
When the break bell rang, Rick and Tristan headed to the football field with snacks in hand. The field was bustling with students laughing, playing, and chatting.
"I'm nervous," Tristan admitted, munching on a sandwich. "If I don't do well, my parents will kill me. They expect me to go to this fancy university and take over the family business. Gas stations and car parts, you know the drill."
Rick shrugged. "Must be nice to have a plan. I don't even know if I'll make it to college. Too expensive and besides I am thinking of other plans."
Their conversation was interrupted by a football smacking Tristan in the face. He yelped, falling to the ground.
"Tristan!" Rick yelled, helping him up. He picked up Tristan's glasses and handed them to him.
A tall boy in a football jersey jogged over, snatched the ball, and walked away without so much as an apology. His jersey read Troy, #07.
Rick glared at him, his fists clenching, but he held his temper in check. He helped Tristan to his feet, and they walked away. As Rick glanced back, he saw Troy laughing with his teammates. The sight made his blood boil.
Later that night, Rick was back at the convenience store. The usual flow of customers came and went. To his surprise, Troy walked in, grabbing a bottle of water. Rick's eyes narrowed as he watched him approach the counter.
Troy didn't recognize him and placed the water down. As Rick rang it up, he noticed faint bruises and scars on Troy's arms. Rick hesitated, tempted to ask, but decided against it. He handed Troy the bottle, and the football player left without a word.
Rick cycled home that night, the image of Troy's arms haunting him. Something wasn't right.
At home, Rick lay on his bed, staring at the moonlit ceiling, his mind racing with questions about Troy.
Meanwhile, across town, Troy sat in his bedroom, tracing the marks on his arms with his fingers. His breathing was unsteady as the muffled sound of shouting crept through the walls.
"Useless! Why can't you be better?"
The voices grew even louder—his parents. Troy clenched his fists, closing his eyes tightly, but the tears wouldn't stop. He curled up on the bed, willing the shouting to fade, the scars on his arms a haunting reminder of the chaos he couldn't escape.