Why Me ?

Inside the classroom, the noise is a wall. A paper ball arcs across the room. Two boys shove each other over a desk, and a chair screeches across the floor. Laughter spikes, drops, and spikes again.

Outside the door, a shadow stretches across the frosted glass and doesn't move.

"What am I even doing here?" His shoulder presses against the wall beside the door, his eyes fixed on the floor tiles.

"Forget it, I'll wait for the teacher. Then I'll go in. No, no. Sebastian, I have to go in. I have to go in."

His hand rises toward the handle and stops an inch short, fingers fluttering like paper in a draft. He clamps it around his wrist to hold it still. It keeps shaking anyway. His other hand presses flat against his chest, and under his palm his heartbeat stutters and races. A breath catches halfway in, and he pulls at the collar of his shirt as if it has shrunk. His teeth clench, and he knocks the back of his skull against the wall once, hard.

"Fuck myself and agoraphobia; I hope to die." Sweat gathers at his temple and slides down along his jaw. His knuckles whiten on the strap of his bag. "I feel like this whole life is against me."

He mutters into the empty hallway, lips barely moving. (I hope they don't talk... Or no, no. What happens if I go in? Will they be waiting for a madman or a stranger? No, no, forget it, let me check my hair.)

He pulls out his phone and tilts the dark screen toward his face, pushing a strand aside with two fingers, then pushing it back.

(If I go in, I'll definitely see a beautiful girl; she'll fall in love with me... Shut up, Sebastian, with your scenarios! Why am I doing this?

He drags in a breath, holds it, and pushes the door open. Inside, a boy leans on his elbow, scrolling through his phone. Two girls share one pair of earbuds. A pen taps against a desk somewhere. Not one head turns. Not one mouth opens toward him.

His eyes sweep the room, and his feet carry him down the aisle. (I have to sit at the back.)

He reaches for the last chair, then stops with his hand on the desk. Thirty meters away, a boy is already sinking into a seat at the back. Sebastian's gaze drifts sideways. Another desk sits empty, the third one from the back. (Is there another free desk? When did I see that?)

His bag slides off his shoulder and lands on the first desk in the front row. He lowers himself into the chair, staring at the empty seats behind him.

(What exactly did I do, damn it? I said I'd sit at the back. Why did I sit in front? There was an empty desk! I just saw a boy going to sit down... Forget it, it doesn't matter; they're all the same.)

He lays both palms flat on the desk and stares at the blank board.

The door swings open, and the teacher strides in with a folder tucked under one arm. He says a quick "Good morning" and is already at the board, uncapping a marker, talking with his hands. A boy in the second row says something under his breath, and the teacher answers with a joke that pulls a ripple of laughter from the room. He keeps moving, tapping a desk here, pointing a pen there, his eyes dropping to the attendance sheet and lifting again, name by name.

Sebastian's fingers curl against the edge of his desk. His thumbnail scrapes at a chip in the wood. His eyes stay on the teacher's pen, following it down the list, line by line.

(When will he get to my name? I hope he just says my first name, not my surname... I hope, I hope...

His knee starts bouncing under the desk. He presses his palm down on it, and it keeps bouncing.

The teacher's pen stops.

"Sebastian Shark!"

Sebastian's arm rises, elbow bent, and stops at shoulder height. His fingers were barely open. "Here." His voice comes out as thin as paper.

"Nice name, Sebastian! Where are you from?"

Sebastian's arm drops to the desk. His eyes flick to the teacher, then to the board, then back down to his hands. "Uh... I'm from here; I'm not a foreigner. Why?" The corners of his mouth lift into a smile, but his jaw stays stiff, and a bead of sweat slides down from his temple.

"Oh, I'm just asking because your surname is unusual. It's not common in our country. Same with your first name; it sounds Italian or French. Either way, you've got a beautiful name!"

Sebastian's shoulders climb toward his ears. His fingers tighten around his pen until the tips go white. "Th... thank you."

The bell rings. Sebastian is out of the classroom before the chairs finish scraping. He walks fast down the corridor, then slows and stops, his eyes sweeping the empty stretch of floor in front of him and the one behind.

(I'm alone... again. Forget it, let me go sit over there.)

He turns toward a bench by the far wall. Halfway there, a teacher appears at the end of the hallway, strolling with a coffee cup in her hand. His feet change direction before the rest of him does.

He cuts sharply to the left, and his hand catches the wall with a flat, hard slap. His lips press together until they go pale. No sound comes out of him, only a breath through his nose.

He tucks the hand against his ribs. With the other, he pulls his jacket open, then closes it, then tugs down the hem and smooths the front, eyes fixed on the zipper. He does it twice, and his steps carry him away from the corridor, quick and even, without a glance behind him.

Hours later, the sun hangs low over the rooftops, and Sebastian's shadow stretches long across the pavement ahead of him. He walks with his bag hanging off one shoulder, his head tilted toward the orange light spilling between the buildings.

(Look how beautiful the sun is... Man, if I had headphones, I'd be listening to my favorite song right now.)

His hand dives into his pocket and comes out with a fistful of coins. He tilts his palm, and they slide and clink against each other while his lips move, counting. Then he tips them back into the pocket.

His steps slow in front of a shop window lined with headphones and phones. His head turns toward the glass and stays turned, even as his feet carry him one step past it, then two. His fingers close around the strap of his bag. He doesn't go in.

(Forget it, it doesn't matter; I'll go tomorrow when I have good paper money. Maybe they won't accept coins...)

He stops walking. His brows pull together, and he presses his fingertips against his temple.

(What am I saying, man? Am I stupid? Am I the crazy one? Because you're all crazy, you make me crazy too! I don't even care; let my brothers die. What do I care about? Did they ever care about me? On my birthday you just fought.)

His pace picks up. His shoes slap the pavement harder with each step, and his free hand curls into a fist at his side.

(My father, instead of giving me a present, gave it to me one or two weeks later, took it back the same day, and then returned it after another week. Or my brother, who just said, "What do I care? What do you want me to do?" He brought me a present while showing me he couldn't care less. What an asshole... My big sister, who lives far away from us, instead of bringing me a good present, brought me a notebook and a pen.)

He kicks a bottle cap off the pavement, and it skitters into the gutter. His jaw works from side to side.

(Or instead of dealing with their kids' problems, they fight and busy themselves with how to buy this for the house, how to change the color of the house... Crazy family, they don't care about anyone!)

His shoulders rise and stay up around his ears. His head shakes slowly, again and again, as he stares at the ground rolling by under his feet.

(My father says, "All you know how to do is sleep and go to school.") Instead of asking me, he accuses me. My mother, who knows about my problem, keeps acting like she doesn't see it and then tells me I'm crazy. What a toxic family... from the parents to the siblings.)

His fingers dig into the strap of his bag, twisting it around his knuckles until the skin whitens.

(And what can I say about my idiot brother? I tell him good morning, and he swears at me; everything I say he mocks. Or my father says good morning or hello to everyone, but not to me; he just says, "Sleeping again?")

His feet stop in the middle of the sidewalk. A passing cyclist swerves around him, and he doesn't turn his head. He stands there with his mouth half open, the fist at his side slowly loosening, the strap sliding off his fingers.

(What am I saying? Why am I thinking about the old stuff, this toxic family?)

He drags both hands down his face, then drops them. The light falls across half of it, and his eyes stay on the ground.

Sebastian stops in front of an old, filthy building, its crumbling facade and rusted balconies straight out of the twentieth century. He tilts his head back to look at it, and his shoulders drop.

"Better that I left that family," he whispers. "It doesn't matter how I live. At least I have a calm, quiet home."

He steps inside. The room holds a mattress on the floor, a toilet, and a kitchen, all in one space. He lets his bag slide off his shoulder and hit the ground, then lowers himself onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling, where a black stain of damp has spread across the plaster.

A voice cuts in from outside. His head snaps toward the door, and his back goes stiff against the wall.

(What the hell? I know nobody lives in this house, or this building, except me.)

He crosses the floor on the balls of his feet and opens the door a crack, just wide enough for one eye. A white flash of light hits his face. His pupils shrink, and his hand tightens on the edge of the door.

(Who is that?)

His breath quickens. His eyes go unfocused, staring at the light. He sees it in his head: a man driving a knife into his skull, peeling the skin off his body, and eating him. His knees buckle, and he grabs the doorframe to stay upright.

(What am I thinking again? Why do I keep making up scenarios in my head?)

His heart hammers so hard it shakes his chest. He rakes his nails across his forearm, then his neck, then his forearm again, harder, until black patches rise where the skin has been scratched raw. He can't stop his hand.

The light lowers. Right in front of him stands a girl with blue hair and brown eyes. Her mouth opens wide, and they both scream at the same time.

Sebastian slams the door shut and throws the bolt. On the other side, quick footsteps pound away down the stairs, fading. Something small clatters against the ground outside and stays there. Her phone lies by the door, its screen still glowing through the gap beneath it.

He presses his back against the door and slides down until he's sitting on the floor. His whole body trembles, and his lips shut tight around a held breath. His nails keep scraping at his skin, up and down his arms, over his chest, across his neck, and the itch spreads to every inch of him.