He stares down at his arm. He examines all of his skin, the light covering of hair, the remnants of old scars and the tense tendons pushing their way out of his wrist. His knuckles are clenched and he is vaguely aware of nails digging into his sweaty palm. His head is bowed to hide the embarrassing redness of his face and he can hear his heart pumping manically in his chest. The table he looks down at now is as boring and uniform as any other thing in this place. The engravings mark the history of so many other pupils before him. So much boredom, so many “bad kids”, so much lost potential.  He clenches his jaw, holds his breath and looks up…
Once again he is bombarded by an onslaught of words. Angry, putrid, venomous words. Words which flow around him and buzz like a plague of locusts; words which attack his ears and penetrate the deepest parts of his mind. But words he has learnt to ignore. He has heard them time and time again. They no longer mean anything to him. He is numb to the power they once had.
“Failure, useless, loser, not going anywhere, disappointment”
Inside he longs for something, the deepest parts of his being are aching for that feeling. He needs it.
His desk is soothingly cold on his flushed forearms. The windows on either side of the classroom reveal where he wants to be; the hills. The wild lands of freedom and peace, those places of stories that will to be told and legends that will be uncovered. Those magic places where nature still rules. Those are rules he will happily follow, not those stupid, pointless rules you keep giving him, but those ancient, sacred rules that the rest of life must follow. He is sure the cold, fresh winter air will calm his anger.
He looks forward to make contact with his adversary. His enemy. His “teacher”. Still the man will not shut up. He stops ignoring, for a second, and listens. He stares at the man’s spittle speckled lips. He looks at his pointing finger. That finger always seemed so rude, so disrespectful. Mocking him, almost, as it shakes in front of his nose. He stares intently at this teacher who has never taught him a thing apart from how to hate.
He stares at the monster-man’s smug face, and he has had enough. He breaks. He snaps. He lets it all out. Everything, all those words, all that laughter, all that pain and misery has been building up to this. He stands up and raises his fist.
The teacher stutters and stops. The pupil is a head taller, and he does everything he can to show off his dominance. The teacher cowers slightly, and looks up at his wild-eyed pupil hopelessly. For a few moments the two humans lock eyes and an almost understanding is formed between them. But no, the boy now looks away and smirks. He lowers his fist, his arm shaking just slightly. “As if I would waste my energy punching such a pathetic old man.” He grins, “You think I’m stupid, but I’m not that dumb.” He chuckles and opens the door, slamming it behind him.
He stops in the corridor for a moment, and thinks. A million thoughts float through his mind, but he decides to crush any sense or logic. He is sick of being logical. Of being grown up. Of following all those rules everyone seems to love so much. He shakes his head and begins his descent. He sprints down the staircases, losing his footing once or twice. He sprints past one shocked looking elderly secretary and now he is out.
He turns out of the main entrance and down the road towards his salvation. He moves even quicker, and he can feel the crisp winter wind stinging his eyes. And God, he adores it. Now he has reached the houses of the estate, he runs past his own house. A house it is, sure, but not a home. Never a home. He continues towards the only place he can think of going. A place which wasn’t logical, it had no stupid rules, no stupid adults telling him what to do, no one to call him stupid. No one at all, really. Just the way he likes it.
He finds the gap in the hedge and crawls through, ignoring the pain from numerous scratches and scrapes. He climbs through the undergrowth, stamping on the crisp packets and beer cans people do seem to insist on leaving there. Past the sofa with the foam ripped out, past the washing machine with no door and through to the beautiful clearing. Through to his home.
He lies down on his back, enjoying the smell of pine and wet grass, the tickling of a dry leaf on the exposed section of his neck and the quiet sounds of insects. He smiles contentedly up at the slowly moving clouds. He is happy. He has escaped the blockiness and cleanness he hates so much. He is surrounded by the mud, the trees but most of all the life which he loves so much. People always seem to talk about freedom, but he had never really understood that word, until now, that is. Now he truly feels free.
He lies there in woodland, and hopes never to be found