henry “vecnussy” creel. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vecna) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2022-11-14 08:35 am
vecna) wrote in finalflight2022-11-14 08:35 am
Entry tags:
PSL; [TERRIBLE THINGS WE HAVE DONE]
[It's difficult being the new kid at school, the new kid in town, everyone a stranger, every setting a readjustment, a fresh (and always failed) expectation to fit in hanging over one's head like a knife. It's even harder when your name is Henry Creel; a twelve year-old boy who is a little too lanky, a little too quiet. Who would prefer to keep to himself and not always look someone in the eye, finding more companionship in books and his collection of drawings than any of the kids his age. Who doesn't look like he wants to try to fit in—and struggles with every teacher’s gentle encouragement—even if he’s hardly a rule-breaker. Always punctual, always presentable, good grades, a nice new home to return to at the end of the day.
But his faith in his own integration is low. He had never flourished in his old town — why should he in this new one? As if moving would change how the world is, how he is, but he tries so hard not to linger on these thoughts today. They make him indescribably—
Well, he doesn’t know.
School lets out. The weather’s nice. It’s time to walk home, detaching himself from the excitable crowd of his classmates as swiftly and quietly as he can, his backpack slung over one shoulder and half-unzipped. He tries to stuff a book into it with one hand, paying no attention to where he’s going, and stumbles right into someone in an utterly ungraceful showing.
The book, of course, goes flying and lands splayed open, pages-down. Blue eyes flick up, out comes an automatic:]
Sorry.
But his faith in his own integration is low. He had never flourished in his old town — why should he in this new one? As if moving would change how the world is, how he is, but he tries so hard not to linger on these thoughts today. They make him indescribably—
Well, he doesn’t know.
School lets out. The weather’s nice. It’s time to walk home, detaching himself from the excitable crowd of his classmates as swiftly and quietly as he can, his backpack slung over one shoulder and half-unzipped. He tries to stuff a book into it with one hand, paying no attention to where he’s going, and stumbles right into someone in an utterly ungraceful showing.
The book, of course, goes flying and lands splayed open, pages-down. Blue eyes flick up, out comes an automatic:]
Sorry.