Chapter 2: Hardworking Boy
996 Words
Something had changed.
It wasn’t gradual. It came like the flick of a switch.
One day, Lucien’s door stayed closed.
The next, it creaked open — and out walked a boy reborn in borrowed light.
His hoodie was gone. Hair brushed. Shirt tucked in. He even smiled.
But it was the eyes that gave it away.
Eyes that had once burned with pain now shimmered with something colder. Precise. Watchful. Silent.
He stepped into the living room that morning and greeted his parents with a chirpy, “Good morning!”
His father, mid-sip of tea, nearly choked.
“What’s this?” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Lucien tilted his head. “What? I can’t greet my own family now?”
His mother narrowed her eyes. “You feeling alright?”
“I’m fine,” Lucien said brightly. “I’ve had time to think. I just wanted to apologise. For everything. For… losing control. For embarrassing you. I’m sorry, Dad. Truly.”
His father set the cup down, staring at him like he’d grown another head.
Lucien stepped forward, eyes wide, voice sincere. “You were right. I overreacted. Broon was just a dog. I should’ve been stronger.”
The man raised a brow but said nothing.
Lucien looked to his mother. “And you. I never thanked you for not pushing me away when I shut down. You both gave me space.
I’m grateful.”
His mother blinked.
No smile.
Just a slow, hesitant nod.
“Well,” his father said eventually, “It’s good to see you… better.”
Lucien grinned. “Better every day.”
But inside his mind, something clicked:
“Didn’t apologise. Alright.”
“Didn’t acknowledge Broon. Hmm.”
Later that afternoon, he walked two blocks to the home of the boy who had swung the first brick.
His legs moved on their own, face calm, steps steady.
He rang the bell.
The boy’s mother opened the door.
For a moment, she looked unsure — maybe even guilty.
Lucien bowed slightly.
“I wanted to apologise. For what I did to your son.”
She stiffened. “You… you really did a number on him.”
“I did,” Lucien nodded. “And I accept that. I’ve taken time to think. He didn’t deserve what I did, even if he hurt me first.”
She folded her arms, her expression unreadable.
Lucien offered a gentle smile. “I know it must’ve been hard for you, seeing him in that condition. I just… wanted to come in person.
Say sorry.”
Behind her, the boy’s father appeared. Stern, tired, older than he should’ve looked.
“Well,” the father muttered. “We didn’t expect you. But apology accepted.”
Lucien bowed again.
Neither of them said a word about Broon.
“Logged.”
He visited all four families.
Every time: calm voice, lowered head, apology offered.
Every time: no mention of the dog. No sympathy. No guilt.
He shook hands.
He smiled.
And he remembered everything.
That night, in his room again — but not in the corner — Lucien picked up the leash and coiled it neatly like rope.
He sent a voice note to Anthony.
“Hey. I’m okay. Heading back to school soon. Just a few things I need to finish up. Some work, y’know?”
Anthony responded almost immediately.
“Dude, that’s awesome. Christy’s gonna flip. She actually cried after visiting you. We’re all here for you, man. You’re stronger than all of us.”
Lucien stared at the screen for a long moment before replying:
“Yeah. I know.”
Then he messaged Christy too.
“Thanks for coming the other day. I’ll see you soon.”
She sent a dozen heart emojis and a gif of a dancing dog.
Lucien smiled again.
Real wide.
But it never touched his eyes.
Lucien didn’t remember picking up the pen.
One moment he was staring at the blank desk, the next he was already halfway through the page — words scrawled in uneven ink,
some lines pressed so hard they tore the paper.
He wrote like he was chasing something.
Or maybe running from it.
He didn’t stop to think.
Didn’t pause to correct the spelling.
The words weren’t planned — they came from somewhere deeper, somewhere cold and wordless.
It started with a sentence.
“There are things I have to fix.”
Simple. Blunt. Mechanical.
And then came more.
About his weight.
About how he slouched when he walked.
How he blinked too much in conversation.
How he smiled wrong — too wide, too late, too fake.
He wrote about waking up before the sun, running till his lungs cried, working out until his arms gave out.
He wrote about how sugar made the brain soft.
How weakness was visible. Smellable.
He even wrote about eye contact — how he’d have to practice it, rehearse it, rehearse being human.
It wasn’t a to-do list.
It was a blueprint.
Lucien stared at the mess of ink and loops and underlined phrases until the paper blurred.
He couldn’t feel the pen in his hand anymore.
Couldn’t remember when the light outside had gone from gold to black.
He felt like he was watching himself — on a screen inside his mind.
Like a show with bad reception.
There he was: sitting straight, scribbling fast, mumbling to himself in a tone too calm to be sane.
He didn’t recognize that boy.
But he didn’t stop him either.
He looked into the mirror across the room.
Bare fat torso.
Thin and lanky arms.
Bags under the eyes.
Someone once called him “soft around the edges.”
Not anymore.
He leaned closer to the glass, watching the reflection’s lips move.
“You’re not staying like this,” the mirror-Lucien said.
And something inside him agreed.
He wasn’t doing this for revenge.
Not for justice.
Not even for Broon.
He was just preparing.
- Writer
