Follow The Rules

I'm not lost

The next day at school went no better than the first, and with the memories of last nights dreams continually running through his head he felt even more isolated.

He had enjoyed it. He had sat there, moaned in pleasure as his attacked sucked him off. What the hell was wrong with him? How could he let that happen? Sure, at first he didn't want it. He had struggled, screamed and kicked aimlessly as the mans hands undid his pants and pulled them off and even when the man had first taken him it was only surprise that had caused his fighting to cease momentarily. But then once the man started working, he had practically melted under him. He felt disgusting at the thought and the need for a shower immediately over came him until a sudden blur in front of his face pulled him from his thoughts with a flinch.

"And he's back."

Oliver looked up to see Finley leaning back against his chair with an amused smile and Oliver blinked up at him, slightly confused until he looked around and saw his friends looking at him. It dawned on Oliver that Finley must've been waving a hand in front of his face to bring him back from his own thoughts. He had zoned out, but the worried looks from his friends reminded him of everything. School. Lunch. The cafeteria. Eating. Socialising. It all suddenly seemed too much like hard work.

"You blanked out on us for a moment there, mate." Will explained from his spot next to Finley. Oliver mumbled an apology which his friends seemed to accept and they returned to whatever they were talking about while Oliver rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands trying to erase thoughts and images from his head.

"You okay?" The whisper startled Oliver and he looked up to see John looking at him. While the others had accepted the apology and shrugged the moment off, John still had worry in his eyes and eyed his friend carefully.

"Yeah, fine." Oliver feigned a smile but he could see his friend wasn't convinced. "Just tired." He explained.

"The assignment?" The question confused him at first but then he remembered his excuse from yesterday.

"Yeah." He lied, thinking that being up late finishing a psych assignment was better than being woken up from an already restless sleep by nightmares of enjoying r**e from a kidnapper.

"You gotta stop doing that, man." John let out a small, disbelieving laugh, continuing to keep their conversation just between the two of them. "I know your dad's tough, but no offense, you really look like shit." Oliver's eyes narrowed at his friend, but not really at the insult his friend had thrown, but at the fear that his break down was visible to others. Did he really look that bad? Could people tell he was going through something?

"You wanna pass pysch? Here, I'll give you a lesson." His friend joked, clearing his throat and turning to face him. "In order for the human brain to function, it needs... get ready for it... sleep." John gave a fake gasp in mock surprise, like he had just figured out the meaning to life and Oliver couldn't help but let out a small laugh at how ridiculous his friend looked.

"f**k off." Oliver joked, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder and shaking his head, but he couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"If you don't want my tutoring, then just say. No need for violence." His friend said, rubbing his shoulder. John wasn't exactly smart, but he wasn't dumb either. He was a bit like Oliver in that he had to try hard to get good grades. It didn't come easily to them. But Johns parents didn't really care how he did at school. Johns older brother had graduated two years ago with all A's and was attending medical school. His parents felt that they had succeeded in being parents and that their job was done, so now John could do whatever he wanted and they didn't really care, as long as he survived and didn't get sent to jail. John tried at school for his own benefit. His relationship with his parents didn't depend on it.

"But seriously, dude." John said as the boys stood from the table to head off to their lockers. "Screw homework and have an early night tonight. Good grades aren't worth making yourself sick over." And he disappeared in the opposite direction to his own locker. Did he look sick? Was that it? Maybe he was sick. He felt like he was going to throw up every time he thought about what happened and it would explain his lack of appetite. Maybe it was a good excuse. He'd have to bank it in case he needed to use it later.

He stood outside the door in the empty corridor, peering into the, loud colourful room. The art room was another place that Oliver had never stepped foot in. He hadn't even looked inside before for fear of the temptation he might feel to enter it. Now however, his fear was not what his father would think of him, but what he would think of it all. Art club. What the hell was art club? Do they discuss art? He didn't know anything about art. How was he supposed to get involved when he had no idea what they were talking about?

There were about six kids in there, none of them Daisy and a woman was leaning over the shoulder of a girl who was showing her something on her desk. He watched as the woman frowned at the work before explaining something he couldn't hear because there was music playing from a stereo at the front of the class. It wasn't loud, and it just sounded like the radio or something, but the place was so relaxed that people were talking to each other and laughing and one girl was even singing along to the song playing.

"I've got to learn to trust my gut more often." Oliver jumped when a voice came up behind him. Daisy was shaking her head as she stood behind Oliver and peered into the room over his shoulder. "I knew you'd show up," She explained. "But for some reason a part of me thought you wouldn't. Hm. You're always right, Daisy, listen to yourself." She scolded, before turning her head to look at Oliver who was watching this strange exchange with... herself with confusion.

"Well are we just going to stand out here all day, or are you coming in?" She said and with one swift movement, she whirled around him so that she was walking backwards into the room, looking at him with a raised eye brow and her arms out in question with a large sketchbook hanging from one hand. She was blunt. That was for sure. He hesitated but for only a second, before taking his first step into the room. He had met up with John as soon as the bell went off and explained that he was right, and that he was going to skip practice today to go home and sleep because the brain does need sleep to function. John was all for it and said that he'd let coach know, so nobody was looking for him, however he couldn't shed the pang of guilt he felt at the lie. Daisy smiled at him and turned to find a seat in the classroom, and suddenly feeling comforted by the smile, vet very vulnerable standing at the doorway, hurriedly crossed the room to catch up with her. He was so out of place here, and he could feel the others staring at him. Even the girl who had been singing was now silent.

"Hey." He said sheepishly to the boy to his left who had ceased colouring in a large A3 picture in front of him to watch Oliver with suspicion. The boy didn't respond, but looking at him now, he vaguely recognised the boy from his English class. What was his name? Sam? Shane? Shaun? Instead he decided to skip the name altogether and stretch out his hand towards the boy. "I'm-,"

"I know who you are." The boy snapped and turned his attention back to his drawing. Oliver looked to Daisy, but she seemed to be completely unaware of the conversation. "I believe the locker rooms are at the other end of the school." The boy continued before turning back to him with a sarcastic smile. "In case you were lost."

"I'm not lost." Oliver mumbled dumbly, but the boy didn't reply. He just turned back to his work and continued silently. What was his problem? Oliver shifted uncomfortably and watched as Daisy unpacked her supplies, opening her sketchbook to a half completed picture that appeared to be the night sky. Well not exactly the night sky. It was that time in the evening when the sun was setting and steaks of pinks, oranges, purples and blues intermingled to create a mess of colours. The drawing was beautiful. Daisy was really good. Oliver was suddenly extremely embarrassed.

"Daisy." Oliver's attention was snagged when the woman smiled at the girl and looked over Daisy's shoulder. "That's looking much better than last week. You've figured out how to get the stars in their without over powering the sky."

"They just had to stay small." Daisy explained, examining her picture as well. "And I had to shade over the edges a little to make them blend."

"Beautiful." The woman exclaimed before her attention flicked over to Oliver, sitting awkwardly watching the exchange. "And who is this?"

Oliver's mouth opened to reply, but he was suddenly stuck. He was in the wrong place. These people were artists. He was a football player. He should never have come.

"Ollie." At first Oliver thought Daisy was pulling him from his thoughts, but she realised when the woman smiled down at them that it was his introduction.

"Nice to meet you Ollie, I'm Mrs. Wells." The woman held out her hand and Oliver took it politely, nodding his reply, still too awkward to reply.

"He's good." Daisy said, watching her teacher and Oliver half heartedly. "But he's never taken a class."

"I'm, I'm not, I'm not." Oliver stammered stupidly.

"Oh, shush." Daisy said and before he could react, she had snatched his small sketchbook out from his hands and began flicking through it, but before she could get very far, he snatched it back, not caring how vicious he was. She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before rolling her eyes. "How are you supposed to get better if you don't show her your work?" She stretched out a hand, but instead of grabbing for it like she had before, she waited patiently for him to hand it over. Oliver, however, clutched it close to his chest, his eyes flicking between Mrs. Wells and Daisy. He couldn't give the book to her. She couldn't see what was inside. No one could. The only reason anyone had was because he was physically tied up and blindfolded – incapable of doing anything to stop it. He'd be damned if he just handed over his life to this girl and her teacher.

"Now Daisy." Mrs. Wells interrupted the awkward moment by placing a hand on the girls shoulder which made her drop her arm dejectedly. "You cannot force him to show his work. Art is something that comes from the soul, it is a release. Showing his work is like releasing his soul to the viewer. You can't blame him from wanting to avoid that." Everything the teacher said was so true, in a way that he'd never thought about. His sketchbook was like a diary. Everything he'd felt, everything that he'd wanted to say, was in that book. It had been invaded once. He would protect it with his life now.

"If you want to draw something today Ollie, I can take a look at it when you're done and we can go from there." Mrs. Wells smiled and handed him a few pieces of paper before moving away. Daisy shot up and ran after her teacher saying something about wanting to talk to her about the project, and thankful for the space, he looked down to the blank pieces of paper, picked up his pencil and just drew.

He tuned everyone else out and even Daisy didn't bother him with her constant rambling. He didn't really think about what he was drawing, he just let his hand work the way it wanted to. It felt like no time at all had passed when his name was being called. His eyes shifted away from the page until they met Mrs. Wells' who was squatting on the other side of the desk, her arms resting on the desk and her head resting on her forearms. She smiled at him when he seemed to remember where he was, and he looked around to see the two students on his sides packing up their things and a few students already leaving the room.

"Can I see?" She released one of her arms from her head and held her hand out to him. He looked down at the drawing and took in what he had created. It was a pair of hands chained together by a pair of handcuffs. They weren't necessarily his hands, but they were pulling away from each other, causing blood to trickle down the forearms, just as he had done when George had...

Subconsciously, he pulled down the sleaves on his own shirt to cover more of his wrists under the table before he slowly picked the paper up off the table and handed it to her as she stood up. Daisy had slowly her packing up pace to watch the teacher, and she had a smug look about her, like she was proving a point.

"I presume you're coming back next week." It was more of a statement than a question, but Oliver felt the need to reply anyway.

"I'm not sure." He had football. Technically.

"And you've never taken art before." Again, she spoke in a way that made the question sound like a statement while never taking her eyes of the page. Oliver simply shrugged.

"Well, I have things that I'd like to teach you," She said handing the paper back to Oliver. "But well done." And she walked off towards her desk to begin clearing up her own things.

"See." Daisy practically yelled, after a moment's silence. "You are good." Then she picked up her things and practically skipped out of the room. Oliver was left standing dumbfounded. Mrs. Wells didn't say that he was good. She said well done. As in, well done for trying, well done for daring to show your useless face in a room full of talented artists, but you suck. Oliver began packing away his own things when another voice stopped him.

"She's right." His head snapped to his left to see the moody boy he'd had the weird exchange with picking up the last of his items. "You are good." He said it as though it genuinely pained him to say it before he gave a curt nod and left the room. He meant for a jock. Good for a jock. A talentless, loser jock, who bailed on everything he knows for art club. f*****g art club. He looked back down at the picture and folded it into quarters and on his way out, dumped the picture in the bin.

Good. Really? Even the boy from his English class who was obviously none too pleased to see him invading his art space had complimented him. He didn't need to.

His thoughts flashed back to Saturday

"You're good, kid. And you obviously enjoy it."

That came from a kidnapper who beat him and left him to be r***d. He certainly didn't have to say it.

Was he really good?

As he began his walk home, he shook the thought from his brain. He didn't even take art so why did it matter? His father had made it clear that it didn't matter and if he wanted to try to get back on his father's side, he should probably listen.