"All the things one have forgotten scream for help in dreams."

- Elias Canetti

14 days earlier,

11:45 a.m

Lunch breaks and school cafeterias were the symbol of freedom. Or at least they were to students. They represented the precious joy that came from doing the things you loved in a world where you're constantly forced to do things you hate, like calculus. For those who had not yet found a passion, they were free to explore and think of whatever they wish to. Love, life, sex, drugs, popularity, movies, the world was the minds' oyster, however broken the shell may be.

Seventeen years old Timothy Kleve, student of Ridge Valley High, sat alone at the corner-most lunch table, poking at his chunky bean paste. His maroon hair, a natural coloured gift given to him by his late mother, neat and swept to the side, dangled its bangs in front of his eyes. It irritated his eyelashes but he felt too down in the dumps to even raise his hands to swipe it away. Unlike most teens his age, Tim was not worried of his dressing and demeanour. He wore an odd combination of black jeans with sandals and a tattered hoodie t-shirt, along with other strange combinations on other days that made him the butt of fashion jokes in school. Most of the time, he just picked the first set of clothing he sees in his closet, owning only one set of formal-wear for those rare events and presentations. To him, there was no reason to alter his looks and comfort for others viewing pleasure.

“Why so gloomy kid?” a body moved into his peripherals and sat down opposite him, setting down a tray with a tuna sandwich and salad down on the table.

He knew of only one person that called him 'kid', even though said person was only a month older. “Lost the spot for the team this year,” he replied.

“Too bad man,” Tim could make out the guy picking up his sandwich and the disgusting chewing that followed. His friend never could close his mouth when he ate. “Naybe yo'll cat a chansh nesh yearsh.”

“I don't know dude,” Tim said, finally looking up. “I mean the seniors – Waoh! What the fuck happened to you?”

Clay Barber had a black ring around his left eye and a partially bloodied tissue stuffed up his right nostril. The black eye was particularly disturbing, seeing how his skin was already black to begin with. Tim found it somewhat impressive that whoever hit him was able to grant a darker colour to ebony skin. Clay's parent both had early whitening of their hair, something which he inherited at a young age and as such, was teased often about it. Coupled with his 'never back down' attitude, Clay had gotten into his fair share of scuffles, though the recent one seemed to have left a mark more substantial than normal. He kept his hair short in a buzz cut, which made him look like he was simply wearing a white beanie when viewed from a distance. He wore a black 'peace' shirt with khaki shorts and sandals, never really having liked long clothings as it made him felt hot. Unlike Tim, Clay didn't care much for sports and as such, had a thin figure which made his clothes droop over his body like a shower curtain.

Despite Clay's injuries, Tim could not help but crack a grin. “If I didn't know better, I'd say your whole body's bruised.”

Clay swallowed the food in his mouth and pointed with his sandwich, bobbing it at Tim as if it was a pencil. “That's racist and you know it.”

“You don't care and you know it.”

Clay chuckled. “Yeah.”

“You do look like shit,” Tim continued mockingly. “More than usual I mean. Who's it this time? Basketball? Soccer?”

“Wrestling club.”

“Ouch,” he winced at the imagined pain. “Your pride will be the death of you man.”

“Yeah,” Clay half bit into his food again but paused to yawn.

“Looks like your black eye ain't just caused by punches,” Tim said, unable to stop smiling. “You know, aside from your skin that is.”

“Skin joke? Seriously?” Clay laughed again. “I'm just tired that's all.

“History's up next. We all know how you love that,” he pushed his tray of mush beans away. “Take a nap then.”

“Yeah,” Clay took a small bite, pulling out the lettuce from between the bread. Tim watched as his friend stared blankly at the sandwich, the crisp lettuce crunching as he reeled it in with his bites. Something about his action felt serene to Tim, but he could not put a finger on why he felt that way. Clay swallowed softly. “I'll sleep then.”

XXX

14 days earlier,

02:58 p.m

The ringing of the clock tower bell signalled the end of the day, and on that day, the end of the week as well, for Tim felt that the week ends on Friday, starts on Saturday, and ended Sunday again. Towards the end of the class, Clay had quietly stepped out of the classroom and had yet return. Even as the class slowly dwindled, he was nowhere to be seen.

With his bag packed and only a handful of students left in the class, Tim packed his book into his sling bag, grabbed his belongings, picked up his club gear, and headed to a girl seated in the far back corner next to the window, directly across from his seat. “Hey Stella, where's your brother?”

The girl looked up through her oval glasses from the horror novel she was reading, Vrykolaka. With a long, pony-tailed strawberry blonde hair and ceramic pale skin from her lack of exposure to sunlight, Stella Barber was Clay's adopted sister.

“Aren't you always with him? Why are you asking me?” she replied, putting down her book. She readjusted her glasses, straightened the collar on her white shirt and smoothed the crease out of her checker red and black plaid skirt.

“I haven't seen him since lunch,” he retorted. “And we're not always together.”

She replied with an exaggerated snicker. “Right...” she raised her hands to stretch and gave a veiled yawn. Bending back, her small breasts raised out in front of her, her white bra outlined prominently by her white shirt.

Tim felt the temperature rise and could feel his cheeks heating up, no doubt red as an apple. He turned away from the sight. “Y-yeah. I can't keep taps on him all the the time.”

“And I'm suppose to?” she stopped stretching and turned back to Tim. Noticing his blush, she could not help but grin. “Oh? Little Timmy getting aroused?”

“Am not!” he snapped back, which only caused her to giggle daintily. “You know, people say you're all soft spoken and nice, but you're actually a devil aren't you?”

She replied with only a smile, causing him to sigh in resignation. “He said he wanted to wash up, so I'm guessing the bathroom's where he is,” she finally answered. Opening her book, she went back to the bookmarked page. “Maybe he fell asleep on the can.”

“Maybe he slipped and hit his head on the sink,” he added.

“Maybe he's vomiting blood into the toilet bowl from food poisoning.”

“Or maybe he's fine.”

“Maybe he got murdered.”

“You're getting more disturbing by the day. You should stop reading those books.”

He saw the corner of her mouth form into a smile. “Bye Tim. Tell brother to hurry it up. We're having pizza tonight.”

He turned and headed for the door. “Okay, okay. See you later Stell.”

Closing the classroom door behind him and leaving the girl to her disturbing read, he stepped out into the near empty hallway. Having waited almost half an hour pass the last bell, most of the students had already emptied out of the school. The remaining stragglers had their shadows and reflection stretched across the waxed ceramic floor, silhouetted by the light from the glass front door at the far end of the hallway. Someone slammed a locker and the echo rang through the long chamber. The sounds of footsteps and squeaky shoes were sparse and inconsistent.

Tim headed down the familiar hallway, where he had always found the bathrooms to be too few and too far between classrooms which had caused many runs of urgent release. Some rooms still had light shining out from the cracks of the doors with voices coming through that can only be heard as whispers. As he passed two girls having a conversation beside a water cooler they snickered softly and he knew instinctively they were joking about him, but walked on coldly. The lights overhead flickered on, rolling out brightness in his way like a red carpet. A dozen lockers after the gossiping pair of girls were the bathrooms. Males on the left, females on the right, because the girls are always right, Clay once said.

“Why don't you suck my dick, ass-face!” Clay's voice bellowed out from the bathroom out into the hallway.

“Fucking kid!” came another familiar gruff voice. Something large slammed into the bathroom door, causing such a commotion that people from down the hall turned to search for the source.

It did not take a genius to know that there was trouble, which worked out perfectly since Tim had no delusion that he was a genius. Going against the rule of not heading into the screaming and banging location of possible pain, he burst through the door leading to the room that smelled of ammonia and cheap store-brand lemon soap.

On the first step in, he saw his seniors, the lanky redhead Joseph, standing tall in front of him. And the shorter, and brutishly muscular Horace, crouched in the corner rummaging through Clay's bag. Joseph was breathing heavily, his fist clenched and a flaming rage in his brown eyes. There was no doubt in Tim's mind that this was Clay's Mr. Ass-Face. Both wore the school's black Air Rifle Team jacket and pants.

“Tim?” Clay's voice croaked out from beside.

Tim turned to find his friend slumped down against the wall beside the urinal, next to a dirtied mop, and its bucket. Both his nostrils were bleeding as compared to just one, as was his forehead. He grinned at Tim's shocked expression, showing that he had also chipped a tooth and not lost his callousness.

“What the hell? You all right?” Tim stooped down in a awkward attempt to treat his friend's wound, only to have his hand held back by the latter.

“I'm fine,” Clay insisted as he tried to get back on his feet, though he still leaned on Tim for support, slinging his arm over his friend.

Tim turned to face his seniors. “I don't know what Clay said this time, but this is too much captain.”

Joseph took a single step forward. “Not your business Timmy-boy. 'Sides, this ghoul started it.”

“No smoking in the toilet,” Clay coughed out. That's when Tim noticed the cigarette buds in some of the basins.

“Shut up Clay.”

“These kids jumped me after my shit.”

“You said it while on the can?”

“What can I say, I really hate the smell of smoke.”

Tim turned to his captain. “You guys beat him 'cause he asked you to stopped smoking. Are you bloody high?”

“Hey Joe,” Horace called out. “Look what I've found,” From Clay's bag, the bulky teen took out a bottle of pills.

“Hey!” Tim felt Clay's grip tighten over his shoulder as his friend pushed himself towards the two seniors. “Don't touch that, man.”

“Aw... what's the matter?” Horace teased, though his voice sounded more like a vicious growl. “Tough guy can't make it without getting high on his drugs?”

“Yeah exactly,” Clay sounded desperate, a tone Tim had never heard him make before. “Now give it back.”

The seniors laughed, and Joseph took the pills from Horace's hands. “You know what,” he said, tauntingly shaking the bottle. “I'll flush it. Much better idea. Teach ya to mess with us.”

Action and reaction. All primal creatures follows that law when cornered. Some called it impulse, others instinct. But before anyone could decide what it was, Clay had broke free from Tim's support and was rushing the seniors with the mop in hand, the bucket thrown against the wall from pulling out the mop. He swung the cleaning tool over his head and brought it crashing down against Joseph's skull. The captain of the Air Rifle Club failed to see the strike and he dropped to his knees in a yell of pain. The head of the mob snapped in half. Blood splattered across the floor. He dropped the bottle of pill and it rolled under the sink, uncapping and spilling its contents across the tile floor.

Clay dived for the bottle, dropping the mob handle in the process, clawing for the pills in panicked fervour. Horace, the lumbering goon, took the chance and grabbed the broken mob handle, and with the sharp end, swiped at Clay's head. The younger teen griped in pain but managed to roll aside to dodge a second swing. Joseph got to his feet and stumbled to deliver a stomp to Clay's stomach, forcing Clay to curl up into a fetal position to protect his face as Horace joined in the onslaught.

Joseph yanked the handle from Horace and pointed the sharp end at Clay's head. Joseph, his head bleeding from the hit priorly, shouted, “Fucking freak! I hope the nightmare gets you,” he raised the handle with the intention to hit but was stopped by the touch of a cold steel barrel to the back of his head.

“Put down the stick Cap',” Tim warned, pushing the barrel of his black pump air rifle a little harder against his seniors head. “Diabolo pellets. You know what these thing can do at close range.”

Horace, despite his thuggish appearance, backed up against the cubicle door, a rare look of genuine fear in his eyes. Jospeh said, “You're gonna shoot me for not putting you on the team?”

“No,” Tim replied calmly. “I'm gonna shoot you for beating up my friend.”

Slowly, the captain raised his hands. “Okay. Okay,” he said, slowly turning to face the door. Tim circled him, making sure he always had the upper hand of being behind. “Okay. But you can kiss your chance of making the team next year goodbye.”

“I'll take that chance Cap',” Tim gave a nudge with the barrel and Joseph stumbled a step forward before walking out. Tim gestured to Horace to follow and the thug gave a fierce glare before leaving with the captain.

Lowering his rifle, he turned back to see Clay sombrely picking up his pills. Despite his oversized shirt, the teen looked really small. A large portion of the pills had been crushed in the fight and he was sure more had been kicked into corners of the bathroom better left unexplored by human hands.

Tim bent over to pick up a pill by his feet. The action froze Clay in mid movement, who looked up to his friend with eyes of worry, like a child who got caught taking cookies out of the jar. Tim felt the bags under his friend's eyes were darker than the bruises now and finally knew the cause of the strange serenity that had fallen upon his friend at lunch. He examined the pill and carved into it was the letter 'S'.

“Somnidin,” he looked to Clay on the floor and thought of tales, myths and legends of fallen gods and felled titans, the demise of those who were once mighty. “You have Sin.”