The Atrophy of Clementine Darlington

II | Welcome to Aldergrove Academy

          "Not for long. My father says he's getting old—time to replace him, I think."

          As they all zipped up, their shoes clicked again...and the sound of running water drowned out their voices. But Clementine could still make out their conversation.

          "Brent will be lucky if she makes it another night in the hospital wing. Someone is bound to kill her—hell, I might just do it myself."

          "You really want to go down as the guy who killed a pathetic, defenceless seelie? Come on, Marcel. We all know you can do better than that—we all can."

          "Come on," one of them said as the door creaked open, "we've got to get to art class."

          As the door shut, and the sound of bustling students outside quietened, Clementine leaned back against the wall and let himself relax. He had to get to art class, too, but every time he took his meds, a brief moment of fatigue would grip him. Just a few more minutes.

          The door opened again. This time, however, only a single pair of shoes tapped against the floor. He listened...but the footsteps of whoever was on the other side of his stall's door started to slow. Clementine frowned—they edged closer...closer...and as the stall's door shook, Clementine's heart skipped a beat.

          He scowled as the lock shifted—whoever was on the other side was trying to get in. "It's occupied!" he shouted without thinking, giving his lonesome self away.

          But to his relief, the footsteps started heading to his right and into the empty stall beside him.

          Once he heard the stall's door lock, he rolled his eyes and screwed his pen back together. Then, he packed it away, picked up his bag and unlocked his door—

          A cold hand snatched his throat in the blink of an eye, but he was quick to react. He grunted, dropping his bag—he gripped the wrist of his attacker with one hand and used his other to grab his shirt. But as his back hit the wall, he struggled, the grip around his throat tightening.

          Clementine found himself fighting for his life. He choked, suffocating. He tried to identify his attacker, but the lack of air in his lungs was blurring his vision. All he could see was a pair of shimmering, golden eyes and a grin possessing a pair of fangs. He let go of the guy's shirt and tried clawing at his face with his nails—he pulled on his wrist, but with each of his attempts to fight, he felt himself getting weaker. Was this it? Was he really about to die in a bathroom stall?

          He could hear the walls around him creaking—the sound of scattering feet rustled from every direction, and the closer he came to death, the louder the whispers grew—

          Disoriented group laughter then broke through the ringing in Clementine's ears. He tried gasping for air, and through his blurred vision, he watched his attacker look back over his shoulder—was he going to get caught? Clementine sorely hoped...but as the laughter grew louder, he felt the grip on his throat relent; he was pulled away from the back wall, and instead pinned against the right. He still tried to fight, but all his strength had been sapped away. And just when he thought this attacker was going to kick the stall door shut to conceal his attempted murder, instead, he moved his blurred face into Clementine's...and kissed him.

          Unsure whether he was horrified or confused, Clementine stood there. He still held his attacker's wrist, even when he moved it to the side of his face. It only took a few moments of freedom for his strength to start returning; he prepared to attack, clenching his fist—

          He sharply turned his head as a group of three boys stopped outside the stall, staring inside with disgusted glowers on their faces. Clementine couldn't make out what they were saying, but judging by their expressions, he was sure they were insults.

          His attacker let go of him and stormed out of the stall before Clementine had a chance to glance at his face, all he saw was his ashen hair and the back of his navy turtleneck sweater. He grasped his throat, stumbling forward—

          "What are you looking at, fag?" the tallest of the three snapped.

          Bug-eyed and utterly dumbfounded, Clementine frowned and did his best to compose himself.

          "You can't say that," the boy to his left uttered, nudging his shoulder.

          "I can say whatever I want—it's true," he argued. Then, he looked at Clementine again. "Go on," he snarled. "Follow your little boyfriend."

          He wasn't about to stand there and argue with them. Whatever they were assuming, it wasn't the case, but he not only wanted to get the hell out of there, he also had no energy to plead his case to three irrelevant people. The word he'd said had sparked anger within Clementine, but all that mattered right now was that he was alive, and he wasn't about to tempt fate by arguing with a trio of fairly disgusted-looking kids.

          Confused and embarrassed, he snatched his bag from the floor, stormed past them and left the bathroom. As shaken as he was, he couldn't let it get to him. Someone had just tried to kill him...and if he showed how shaken he was, they may very well try again.

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