Word count: 1318
Prompt: Cozy blankets
Notes:
• Terrance Booker is an OC created by StorySnippets SaharaCastine and myself.
°
Why was it always him? Why couldn't they pick on anyone else? Anyone but him.
He was cold and the metal of the locker pressed against the back of him did nothing to help.
"Your daddy's dead. Accept it." Jeffrey Smith spat, his strong hands on his hips, his large figure blocking all the light opposite of him.
"You don't have any idea." Ed stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and desperately hoped to disappear from existence. Hearing the ridiculing words over and over so often— he sometimes forgot what their words were and what his thoughts were.
Ticking came from the clock on the wall, shouting that all the classes were over, how he was supposed to be heading home, and how this shouldn't have been happening. He kept hoping Peter would come inside, rush down the hallway, and scoop him up; but he didn't come.
"I don't know, huh? Two months ago, Ronald Avery's father was killed and he didn't receive the news until way later. I bet you Ronald didn't think his dad would die. But his father did."
Father was not dead.
Edmund's fists bunched in his pockets, his jaw clenched, "Shut your stupid mouth."
Sneering, Jeff blinked, his brown hair falling limply down his face, "Awww, poor baby Eddie. Shut up or what? You're too small to do anything significant."
"Shut up," Ed said darkly, cringing at the hated nickname, but feeling fury mount as he met Jeffrey's stare. His mind briefly shot to Terrance and boarding school and fear, but he shook that away and tried to stand taller.
"Or what?" Jeff challenged again, his eyes ablaze, "Are you gonna go cry on mummy?"
Edmund's shoulders stiffened and his bottom lip trembled, why did everyone say it was so bad to cry?
Two boys rushed by chattering and laughing as they went. They briefly stopped when they got to Ed and Jeffrey. And for a hopeless second, Edmund hoped they would pry Jeffrey away and help him. That they would comfort him and ask if he was alright.
Instead, they turned their faces away and fastened their paces.
No one at school cared.
Continuing his mocking, Jeffrey laughed, "Poor baby Eddie." Over and over, the ridiculing felt like a punch to a sore spot, a breath he couldn't catch. A chip at his heart.
The bigger boy chuckled and kept taunting, "No one cares about you." "No one loves you." "You're the stupidest kid in school." "Your father's dead."
Ed narrowed his eyes, "I wish you were dead. You don't know anything. Just shut up!" He was tired of listening to Jeff's teasing, he was tired of feeling so small.
He was tired of feeling helpless. If he were Peter, he could stand up and fight for himself better. But he was just Edmund.
And every time Jeffrey spoke, he looked at Ed like Terrance had; like he had no control over his actions or his emotions.
He felt cornered. Trapped.
Like he wanted to scream, but his lungs wouldn't let it out.
°°°
Trees swayed slowly in the cold, leaves falling off, brown and brittle, and the clouds up in the sky moved as slowly as Edmund walked. The sun, now dull, scorched the back of him— just like how his wrist burned where the principal had swatted him with the ruler.
For disobeying, for Jeffrey, for talking back, for crying.
And now, he had to deal with the huge battle of a lecture from Peter.
As they neared home, his older brother took his wrist.
Ed struggled in the hold, the slight blaze from his earlier punishment acting up, "Don't touch me," He growled, a small sting from his wrist extending up his whole arm.
Pete huffed and let go, "You ought to listen to the teachers. Why would you tell another boy you wished he was dead?"
Edmund stared blankly at his brother. Why wouldn't he? Jeff was infuriating.
"Ed! Do you realize how awful that was?"
"Yes. I do. That's why I said it." He retorted, fiercely glancing into Peter's blue eyes.
Pete put a hand to his head, "Edmund. I know it's hard since the war worsened and—"
"Ugh. Stop acting like father. I don't need you!"
It wasn't true. Not at all. He needed his older brother, he needed the safety of Peter's arms around him. But he wouldn't be a baby, at ten years old he could take care of himself.
Shaking his head, Peter sighed, "Mum's going to be so disappointed. Just wait until she hears..."
Disappointed? Probably ashamed too. He shouldn't even try to be better, what good would it do?
°°°
Mrs. Pevensie let out a breath, "Oh Edmund. What am I going to do with you?"
"Do with me?" Ed asked, staring hard at his mum, who leaned on the dining room table. "What am I too much trouble? Am I too bad? Am I a problem?"
Her kind brown eyes looked exhausted, "Edmund, no," She came to take his hands between hers, looking into her son's dark gaze, "You're not a problem."
Frowning, Ed pulled his hands from hers before she could see the marks on his wrist, for some reason, it felt embarrassing for her to see them, even though it was a perfectly normal punishment from the principal.
Bitterly, he grumbled, "I hear people! Just because I'm young doesn't mean I don't hear! They say stuff like "Poor Mrs. Pevensie, poor Peter, poor Susan, they have to put up with that brat!" Everyone says so!"
"Why are you doing this?" She tried to caress his face, concern etched into her features.
He dodged the touch and erupted into furious words, "Whatever! I'm a problem! I know!"
"Stop it," Peter said, approaching slowly from where he'd been standing, hidden slightly by the doorway to the kitchen.
"Stay out of this Pete! You don't understand! Just shut up and get lost! I know you hate me, stop acting like you care!"
"Edmund," Mrs. Pevensie reprimanded, looking stern yet sympathetic, "Don't say those things—"
"Why not!? They're true and I know they are!" The shouting hurt his own ears and he wanted himself to stop.
His mother reached out a tentative hand, but he stepped back sharply, causing her to pull away.
Peter eyed him, glaring, "Ed—"
He couldn't stand this anymore, he needed to be alone. Edmund ran out of the room, hearing his mum quietly crying and Peter whispering something to her.
Comfort could be found in his room, so that's where he ran to, his blankets covered him in a scent of safety and warmth; and he curled up under them, pulling the soft fabric as close as possible around himself.
The door creaked open and closed swiftly behind him. His breathing was labored and he pressed his face into the soft pillow, wishing; begging that his father would come back. But he wouldn't.
War was raging, and Father was needed.
Peter sat down on the end of the bed, "Edmund—"
"Go away. I want to be left alone."
"Do you see how much you are upsetting Mum? She's already going through so much stress! Don't add to it by being a brat!" Pete watched as Ed peeked out from the maze of covers.
"Dad isn't here and I don't care!" There was an ache in his chest, with each beat of his heart, it throbbed horribly. With each thought of father, it felt suffocating.
His older brother stood angrily, "I do try to help Ed, but you never listen." Peter huffed before adding, "I love you, rest well." Then he left, the door slamming in the slightest; silence immersed the room.
"Dad," Edmund mumbled into the cozy covers, tears pricking his eyes, his stomach clenching, "I want you back."
A sob pried from his mouth no matter how much he tried to stop it, "I need you back."