The Test

"Cut the crap, Beckett."

I knew I'd resigned myself to shit like this.

I was a passive, agreeable son, and I didn't want to cause my father the trouble of driving me to and from school.

"You better not be ignoring me."

I was just trying to walk myself home. Get home, lock the door behind me, shut everyone out and shut everyone up. I increased my pace a little, keeping my back straight and my shoulders high, attempting to conceal any sign of vunerability.

"Hey," shouted the persistant voice, "You're really asking for it now."

Stop following me. Leave me alone, please leave me alone. I always want to be left alone, alone with my exhausted and invisible personality. Stop caring about me, because you don't, you're just curious and a little too bored.

"You'd better reply to me right now, you complacent little shit."

I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't.

I was screaming inside my head, my ears ringing and brightness flashing on the undersides of my eyelids.

A rough pair of hands grabbed me by the shouldler and spun me around, to face a boy who I recognized as a classmate but did not know the name of.

"I'm not kidding," he snarled, his vibrant blue eyes cutting into the rain, giving him confidence and authority in his appearance, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He kicked me in the shin, not with enough force to cause me any injury, but enough for it to hurt a little, and to prove that he had the upper hand.

I continued to hold intense eye contact with him, hoping that he would suddenly achieve the ability to read my mind if I were to stare long enough.

The plan did not prove to be remotely effective.

"You better start fucking talking," he growled, a dangerous tone laced into his voice.

The grip on my shoulder tightened, his fingertips sinking in and pushing at a bruise on my shoulderblade. I saw his other hand tense, and tighten into a loosely formed fist as his arm raised a little from his side.

"You really better start talking."

Shit. Please don't hurt me. I'm sorry I'm like this. It's pathetic, and I'm sorry I'm confusing you like this. I promise.

I tried to back away, but he had too strong a hold on my narrow, weak shoulder.

I had known this would happen. I hated people, I despised their awful ignorance towards me. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the building fury to suddenly hit.

"He can't."

I felt the hand on my shoulder release me and the distance between us increase a couple of paces.

"What are you talking about?" yelled the boy, who had turned to attend to the voice at the end of the street.

"Ryland, he can't talk."

Sudden recognition hit me like a bullet. The voice was as I had heard it all day, it just took me a moment to process, but when it did, it clicked instantly.

Gabe.

"What do you mean, he can't talk?"

"He just can't. Please, listen to me. He really can't."

Ryland suddenly looked away from me entirely to jog several metres down the road, coming face to face with Gabe, who was waiting lazily beside a crooked lampost.

"So, he's fucking retarded," Ryland yelled, his voice ringing out in the otherwise silent afternoon, "I don't fucking understand."

I saw Gabe shake his head slowly, emphasising the motion.

"No, he's not. And he can talk, only not the same way you or I do."

"Well, how the fuck does that work?!"

"He talks with his eyes. Stop listening and start looking."

"That bullshit isn't talking," Ryland began to step away to leave, but Gabe caught him by the arm quickly.

"Ryland, he makes more sense than you do."

Ryland spat out a quick, bitter comeback before wrenching his arm free.

"Defend him all you like with your sentimental, emotional crap, Gabe. You've been assigned to look after him, sure. But you don't need to give a fuck about him, you don't need to understand him. There is nothing to understand, he's just a kid with issues that make no sense and an attitude that would wind anyone up. Show him his fucking classrooms in the morning, and quit getting so emotionally attached."

Ryland paused briefly before continuing.

"The kid can't talk. He can't communicate, he's useless. What the fuck do you see in him?" he muttered as he walked away, expecting no response

I saw Gabe mouth a word to himself, an internal reply, but I could not lip read fast enough to process it.

I waved my hand in a thank-you gesture, trying to catch his attention. I saw him nod and smile in response.

"Sorry about Ryland, he flips out sometimes."

I grinned again, rolling my eyes.

"He's one of my best friends."

I was confused, and raised an eyebrow.

"He goes mental sometimes, and I don't get it. He just lashes out and gets really fucking angry. It doesn't make sense, and I can't make sense of it, but he's always been there for me, so try and put this behind you."

Oh, so one of your best friends is a psycho. Great.

Why do you put up with this?

I nodded slightly in agreement, trying to force a hopeful smile, as if to say I'll try, but only because you're asking.