CHAPTER 2
The Rules of Silence
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There were unspoken rules in his world.
Rules no one taught him, but ones he learned through pain.
Rule #1: Stay quiet.
Silence doesn't invite attention.
Silence keeps you alive.
He obeyed.
Every day, the classroom buzzed with life—footsteps, chatter, giggles behind phones, chairs scraping the floor. But none of it was meant for him. He was invisible, yet somehow still the favorite target.
Today, the teacher was late. Ten minutes in, and the classroom had already transformed into a stage. Desks moved. Voices rose. The game had begun.
He kept his eyes down. Fingers traced the edge of his book cover as if it held him in place.
Then, a pencil hit his head. He didn't look up. Another followed. Then an eraser. A folded paper. Laughter.
"Oi, he's ignoring us again."
"Maybe he thinks he's better than us now."
More laughter.
One of them stood and walked over. His desk rattled as a palm slammed down. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his eyes.
"You deaf or just stupid?" the boy sneered. His name wasn't important. None of their names were. Not yet.
He didn't reply. Just stared.
"Look at that stare. Trying to act tough?"
"Should we remind him?" another voice from behind added. "Maybe he forgot his place."
Then, the chair next to him scraped.
Her.
She didn't sit. She leaned. Elbow on his desk. The same face mask, the same cold, emotionless eyes. Her presence silenced even her own group. She always did that—commanded without speaking. It was terrifying.
She tilted her head, studying him like a bug under glass.
Then she lifted her hand and—
Slap.
Not hard. But humiliating. The sting wasn't physical. It was deeper.
The others laughed again, relieved. As if her signal gave them permission to breathe.
"Fix your posture," she said, finally speaking. "It's disgusting."
He stared at her. Quiet. His jaw locked tight, heart pounding—but not from fear this time. From something else. Something warmer. Burning.
She turned away as if nothing happened. As if he were just a speck in her path.
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Rule #2: Don't cry.
Tears make them stronger.
Tears are fuel.
After class, he went to the restroom. Not to use it, but to sit in the last stall, clutching his stomach, waiting for the shaking to stop.
He stared at the floor. At his bruised legs. At the fading red mark on his cheek.
And he breathed.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
The walls of the stall had carvings and graffiti—some crude, some nonsensical. But today, he noticed something new. A phrase, scratched in messy letters on the door in front of him:
> "No one is coming."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he smiled. Not because it was funny. Not because it was wrong.
But because it was true.
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Rule #3: Remember everything.
Pain fades. Names don't.
Faces don't.
Voices don't.
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He went home alone, like always. The streets were quiet. The sky a dull gray. He passed the same rusted vending machine. The same broken fence. The same tree with the missing branch.
And when he reached home—if you could call it that—he stepped over the empty beer cans outside the door and opened it slowly. The lights were off. No voices. Good.
His mother was likely passed out again. She never asked about school anymore. Not since she stopped looking at him.
He went to his room and locked the door. It was small, cramped, and cold. But it was his. The only place he existed without fear.
He pulled out his notebook again.
This time, he drew their faces—not perfectly, not beautifully. But he captured them. The eyes. The mouths twisted in mockery. The outlines of cruelty.
And underneath each face, he drew a number.
Twelve. Eleven. Ten...
Not names. Just ranks.
Like prey on a list.
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That night, the news played faintly in the background. Another case of youth violence. Another stabbing. Another name on a list.
But he didn't pay attention. He already knew his story wouldn't make the news—
Not until the end.
He stared out his window into the darkness, eyes
reflecting nothing.
And in that void, a single thought whispered:
> "I'll make them remember me."
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End of Chapter 2