Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

A is for asshole

Soft, pale sunlight streamed through the large decorated windows, blanketing the room in a cosy, warm glow. Rows upon rows of tables basked in the pleasant pastel light, spilling out and reaching across the carpet with comforting fingers, swallowing up the messy chaos of bookshelves, and scattered plush toys. Little paper trinkets sat dangling from the ceiling, twisting in a faint dance from the light breeze, cut from various colourful plastics, they bloomed different hues of light, red squares and blue circles crawling across the painted walls.

Snores lifted up from the hushed silence, a few wriggling bodies settling against the laid out floor mats, fabric crinkling as they rolled over in their sleep. Faces buried within the plush material of their borrowed pillows, Miss Applebury's kindergarten class rested peacefully, swept up within the calming warmth, and the wide expense of their dreams.

Except for Tom, of course.  

Hunched over, and eyes clenched, he tucked his flushed face into the nook between his bruised knees, rocking gently as he muffled soft, gasping hiccups. A pressure behind his left eye throbbed, the pulsing ache of the wound thrumming through his features, a building headache hovering heavily around his temples. Biting his lips, he trembled, choking down cries of discomfort as his peers snoozed uncaringly around him. 

Even in a crowd, a person can feel so alone in the world. 

Naptime was always his least favourite activity of the day. Placed between the messy rush of lunchtime, and the calm togetherness of storytime, the sleepy period of the day always left him feeling disjointed; unreal, in a strange way. Seconds seemed to stretch far past the horizon, the empty quiet dragging along at a snail's pace as the rest of the class muttered huffily under their drowsy snuffling. 

 Did bad dreams count as nightmares if they didn't happen at nighttime? 

Tom didn't know- but that still didn't mean that he liked them. 

Random flashes of hot memories would crash within his subconscious, only tainted and over exaggerated in horror as he lay fitfully on the thin, lumpy mattress. Everything was either too loud or too quiet- noises annoyingly inconsistent and lacking any distinct rhythm; overly aware of the presence of others close by, the thought always niggling at the back of his paranoia. 

It also didn't help that he wasn't allowed to bring Tommeebear to school, his knight in brown fur, chasing away the terrors that lurked in the dark. 

So, conscious he stayed. 

Staring at the walls didn't really give him much to do. After several months of blinking dopily at the bright, cheerful posters lining the marked paint, he had managed to figure out that one of them, specifically, noted the letters of the alphabet- each one declaring an object that was associated with the colourful symbol. Countless hours were spent giving them naughty replacements, giggling to himself as he hid his gleeful, mischievous smile behind his cupped hands, small shoulders shaking from mirth. 

B is for... Butt. 

Snorting in amusement, Tom tilted his head up slightly, still resting his hurting head against his folded legs, eyeballing the other pieces of art that clung crookedly to the wall. Cutesy, lopsided scribbles were pinned proudly, various misshapen coloured blobs which could be mistaken for either horribly deformed ducks or lumpy hearts, each one signed with sloppy signatures.

Apart from his, of course.

Tom's Crayola masterpiece was obviously a bowling ball- if he squinted a bit, and turned his head to the side.