Chapter2

#Chapter2

Throwing his weight backwards, forcing his ass back to the seat, Ronan fought against him. Glass crunched beneath the soles of their feet during the scuffle, and a whine sounded, growing louder as Adam introduced more force.

If he'd been really trying, Adam wouldn't have stood a chance. Or, at least, Ronan would have stood an equal one. They were size for size, Adam falling perhaps an inch shorter and a tad bit thinner, but it was irrelevant right then. He seemed to grow, becoming the monster that lived in dormant sin beneath his flesh. /"Enough,/" he shouted.

And just like that, Ronan stilled. His limbs turned to rubber, and when the next yank came, there was no resistance. And for a painful moment, the world slammed on the brakes and came grinding to an abrupt stop, and they were left looking at each other, frozen in time.

Adam was breathing heavily. His chest heaved. His nostrils flared. And for reasons logic was blind to, Ronan Elmore's mind took him on a merry 'ole trip down memory lane. It bypassed all the neon memories, the ones woven with excitement and joy, and surprisingly even skirted away from the sad ones that darkened the corners of his head. It skipped past familiar, and pivoted around the cringe moments.

And the one it settled on, the memory it uprooted, it was a peculiar one. Apt, but odd. One that had him swallowing hard and trying to take a step back from his boyfriend. The grip on his arm shot that idea down.

Mrs Dodd hadn't been among his favourite teachers. She had been sweet enough, but given his age when he taught her, and all the other influences that had come after her, she had faded to little more than a ghost in the story that was his life. But as the fragments of the past did the truffle-shuffle, she was yanked up and spun into high definition.

It had been a rainy afternoon. The sound had been deafening. The windows rattled from the gale force of the wind and the classroom was suspended in a limbo-- it was borderline chaotic, outside voices being used inside, and kids dashing between desks and chairs. He remembered how she looked, her pretty fiery hair bound in a neat bun, and he even remembered what she wore. And as his nose twitched, burning beneath the phantom scent, he swore that he even remembered what her perfume had smelt like.

He had been drawing. That was the important bit of the memory. It was the main focus. Seven-year-old him had created a masterpiece, a terrible beast with four arms and jagged teeth. And he'd been pretty darn proud of it. Coloured it in and stayed all the way in the lines. Scribbled his name across the top of the paper in neat, block letters like he'd been taught. And when Mrs Dodd had passed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes tired as she scolded Mikey Randall for jumping off the table, he had taken the opportunity to present his hard work.

He'd told her all about his monster. He'd named him and given him hobbies. Even let him have a mommy and daddy monster so he was never alone and scared.

Mrs Dodd had paused. Had gifted him her full attention. And instead of smiling and moving on, or throwing an 'atta boy, as he'd expected, she'd frowned. Then she had crouched down so she was level with him, her bright eyes scanning over the picture for the longest time.

/"What makes him a monster?/" she had asked.

Unable to understand her question, seven-year-old Ronan had glanced between her and the picture in unease. He'd found himself wondering if his drawing was not the masterpiece he seemed to think and was instead unidentifiable. So he jabbed at the picture. Pointed first to the ferocious teeth, and then at the three eyes, and all the other beastly prompts.

But she hadn't shown the recognition he had hoped, and he had felt his heart sink as her frown intensified.

/"The world is full of people that look different, Ronan,/" she had said at last, /"But that doesn't make them a monster. You've drawn a monster, but you can't tell me why it's a monster./"

/"Because it just is./" By this point, the seven-year-old was irritated. Hurt, even. He was struggling to see what was wrong with his creation. Struggling to see why she hadn't smiled and proclaimed to love it the way she had all his other drawings.

/"But he shares his toys with his friends. He's smiling. You said he liked to build towers with his brother. He sounds like a nice little boy. He sounds like a lot of little boys I teach. He doesn't sound much like a monster to me./"

She was dumb, he'd decided after she left. He'd kept the picture for weeks after, trying to figure out what she'd meant, but he gave up once he spilt his orange juice over it and ruined it. And that had been the end of it.

Until now.

What made a monster a monster?

/"Come with me now, Ronan./" As Adam spoke, a sinking hit his stomach. Had him thinking that perhaps he knew the answer after all.

The candle-lit dinner hadn't set the mood, as he had hoped. When Adam had said he was ordering take away because he couldn't be bothered to cook, Ronan had taken the chance to try and make up for the poor gift choice. And at the time, he'd sworn he was really, really going to try. But the thing about emotions was they were lawless creatures, and they didn't do well being forced into cages.

He'd tried, but hurt had slipped through the cracks, and unlocked the way for anger to follow close behind. As Adam steered him down the squat, narrow cloak of hallway, up the steep incline of stairs, directing him towards the house's only bedroom, there was a part of him that was glad. A nasty, vindictive streak that was proud that he'd spoilt Adam's dinner. That hoped he was hurting just as much as he was.

Don't cry, Ronan chanted to himself as the bedroom door was opened and he was shoved in. The golden walls, broken up by dark navy, felt more confining than they did the palace of sparkles it had been designed to be, and as Adam stepped forward, his shoulders filling the doorframe and blocking his way out, it only made it feel all the more prison-like.