He was a bristling cat, a sneaky ferret, a lurking snake. He was a perfect animal. He was Tobias Erin Rogers, second year, fighting for his life on the lot behind the school, every Thursday without fail. There wasn't an agreement of any sort: if you were there, you could simply attack him. Toby did his thing, throwing punches and kicks, scratching, but he was so weak he barely managed to leave marks.
Toby couldn't feel anything, that's what they said. Not coldness, not warmth, not pain. Nothing. He also had Tourette, which was kind of funny in the middle of a class, when everyone was reading and, suddenly, like a thunder
"Son of a bitch! Bitch! Bitch!"
Of course, the teachers weren't allowed to kick him out of the classroom. He was a special kid and he had to be treated differently. If he cursed, fine. If he hit the table and threw his books, fine. If he bit his hands to the point of bleeding, to the nurse and that's it. They didn't have to break their heads over him, such were the words of Mrs. Rogers. The principal, a serious woman who believed in discipline and generous donations, listened to her. They got along well.
Toby went to school only three times a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. The rest of the week, he was taught by a private tutor. German, serious, the first time he hit him —a badly redacted essay— Toby had a severe tic episode. Neither of them told anyone. Her mother was quite happy with the results, not great, but good, and invited the teacher over for dinner sometimes. Toby always sat next to him.
Actually, besides the Thursdays, he tried to behave like a good son. Like it was possible for him to be one. He would bottle up all his anger and frustration and humiliation, from Fridays to Wednesdays, and then he would explode. Pure, raw violence. His father used to say that, in a fight, the one who wins is the one who kills.
What an idiot.
But he was also kind of right and, even though Toby didn't win his fights, he didn't come out badly injured from them either. Because he didn't give up. Because he would never know how badly they hurt him, unless... unless he died. And without pain, that seemed far away.
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It's not among the instructions to burn the house down, but Toby feels inspiration calling to him. He waits for Masky and Hoodie to leave —neither of them tries to stop him—, pours gasoline and watches the match turn into flames. It's beautiful. He has around a minute before leaving. The Operator only tolerates this kind of thing when they are not seen.
Toby has fucked up a couple of times, with the sightings and the blurry photos on the newspaper (I'm on the front page!), and he knows there's a limit. Punishments are evil, not nice at all, but when the Operator runs out of patience and punishments are not enough... then, what?
Death. And he doesn't want to know what that means for the Operator.
(Surely Masky would offer himself for the job. Dick.)
After a minute, he starts hearing screams and worried (noisy) neighbors getting close to where he is. So, Toby runs. He runs into the woods and, although no one will find him, he doesn't stop as he should. Maybe it's because he noticed.
