What is the criteria for F50 01?

(F50. 01) Restricting type: During the last 3 months, the individual has not engaged in recurrent episodes of binge eating or purging behavior . (i.e. self-induced vomiting or the misuse of laxitives, diuretics, enemas).

Which description best defines anorexia nervosa?

Anorexia nervosa is defined by the restriction of nutrient intake relative to requirements, which leads to significantly low body weight . Patients with this eating disorder will have a fear of gaining weight along and a distorted body image with the inability to comprehend the seriousness of their condition.

Which is a major characteristic of anorexia nervosa?

Key points about anorexia Anorexia is an eating disorder that causes a severe and strong fear of gaining weight . You may have a distorted view that you are fat even when you are dangerously thin. You may use extreme exercise, calorie and food limitations, or binging and purging to control your weight.

What is the simple definition of anorexia?

Anorexia is an eating disorder that causes people to weigh less than is considered healthy for their age and height, usually by excessive weight loss . People with this disorder may have an intense fear of weight gain, even when they are underweight. They may diet or exercise too much or use other ways to lose weight.

What is diagnosis code F50 2?

ICD-10 code F50. 2 for Bulimia nervosa is a medical classification as listed by WHO under the range - Mental, Behavioral and Neurodevelopmental disorders .

F50. 00 is a billable/specific ICD-10-CM code that can be used to indicate a diagnosis for reimbursem*nt purposes.

Which is most closely associated with anorexia nervosa?

Some of the most closely linked psychological disorders include anxiety, depression, OCD and ADHD .

What is the most important personality trait found in cases of anorexia nervosa?

Individuals with anorexia nervosa are known to have high levels of harm avoidance , a personality trait that is characterized by worry, pessimistic thinking, doubt, and shyness.

What is highly associated with anorexia nervosa?

Psychological signs can include: being preoccupied with eating, food, body shape and weight. being extremely dissatisfied with body image and irrational ideas about body and weight. being anxious, irritable or secretive at mealtimes.

What does a person suffering from anorexia nervosa typically suffer from?

Having an intense fear of gaining weight. Being unable to realistically assess your body weight and shape (having a distorted self-image). Having an obsessive interest in food, calories and dieting. Feeling overweight or “fat,” even if you're underweight.

What is the DSM code for restrictive food intake disorder?

Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder DSM-5 307.59 .

What is the ICD-10 code for adult failure to thrive?

2024 ICD-10-CM Diagnosis Code R62. 7 : Adult failure to thrive.

What is the ICD-10 code for anorexia nervosa restricting type?

2024 ICD-10-CM Diagnosis Code F50. 01 : Anorexia nervosa, restricting type.

What is the diagnosis code range for mental behavioral and neurodevelopmental disorders?

2024 ICD-10-CM Codes F01-F99 : Mental, Behavioral and Neurodevelopmental disorders.

Anorexia Nervosa - Chapter 1 - emodialisse (2024)

Chapter Text

This has been going on for about, what, two months? Let's see, this time he had felt a peculiar fragrance of oxidized perfume, a strong vinegar aroma, as if in a chamber full of a formaldehyde mixture. Burning. What a willingness to sneeze overcame him, the smell was very strong and kept invading his nostrils without pity. In fact, what's more special, it was impossible to move around.

What an inoculum situation! In his mouth the lips were so dry, drier than the air felt back in Barton's Summer Decathlon; too much that if he tried to pass his tongue to moisten them, he would first taste around the palate a sophisticated flavor of hematemesis, so he soon misses blood running through his muscles, palidity certainly painted his skin in a cadaveric tone.

Someone please call the ambulance, please, the phone is outside by our fire exit!

No it isn't, what is he saying? Inquired in a hissing manner, but no sound came out. And who would come? How could he think of asking for someone, while his entire body tried to contract to the maximum to regulate his temperature. Cold sweating. Perhaps because he erased his conscience in a restless nap, without the soft, inhibitory sensation the covers gave him– and still wearing his dark brown Jarman shoes from yesterday.

There was this brief moment of lucidity that he almost threatened to pray for any saint available to serve him… but gradually it dissipated, dissipated… Until the will diluted like sugar in water and a seasoned trumpet soil marinated his eardrums. He managed to grab the covers firmly.

A sudden impulse awakened and Paul reacted. He managed to blink to ward off the droplets of tears accumulating in his carunch, the man's mouth open and so dry managed to breathe a few times, but hyperhidrosis is a horrible drawback in this climate, making it cold everywhere in his skin. Paul remains sitting for a moment, leading his hand to his forehead and letting it slide to cover the lips wearing a poorly trimmed mustache.

Stock-still, Paul closed his eyes and sighed, the pulse running around his trachea region. Taken by intense and fatigued desolation, he rubs his eyes lazily, an agonized sound escaping his lips. Given his peripheral vision is the wrist watch he took off before bed, marking the exact time of his next moment of morning reflection. In one, two, three… infinite.

He tries to recover his breath in sync with the action of his ocular nerves, trying to get used to the diffuse yellow light of the morning, before lifting finally, rolling his eyes to himself. An urge to look at the calendar overtook his early morning confusion, trying to situate himself in what year exactly he was existing now.

Ruminating to his elbows, the memory of that blazing agony never felt before kept coming back. He recollects the sensation several times, trying to look at it through a logical point of view. Which was more terrifying, because after it ended, he stared at his fingers and hoped they were in pure gangrene of dead tissue, huge air bubbles scattered throughout his skin and distinguishing a singular fetid odor.

He checked them anyway and felt so betrayed.

My God, why did you give me such a frightened loser? A voice of the past whispered in his ear. Not today. He shook his head, as if that were enough to scare his memory.

Eight hours of sleep in one night, the closest to the nirvana a man can get, right behind winning a concise putt with a shot in the green.

The second thought that came to mind was a banister before his retinas that hurt to face him, creating shadows:

I didn't write anything yesterday. Any word. I haven't gone anywhere as usual! But I'm stagnant in… something. Something tingling.

And it was this pruritus that really made Paul Hunham open his eyes today.

Stagnation was not a foreign word in the dictionary of a writer, sometimes preferred to call constipation, the way ideas begin to retest within the gap of his mind and when he feels that he is about to evacuate them, they just don't come out complete. It was hard to make the daydreams inside that wide room have good lighting, his salary managed to pay for the flashlights inside the lampshades that nowadays resemble old stars with one foot in the supernova.

Any indication of incentive has become a traffic jam in an infinite roundabout. For any kind of creative enjoyment required a sacrifice, oscillating the stairs of his mind approaching the yellow of the thin curtains in the window, which was precisely forced to leave the room lit; but as the days gone by, it just served as an excuse to the sun to avert its gaze, giving room for more humidity to take over the concrete of the walls.

However, he must have left the window open before overturning, so the smooth wind at dawn was able to push the curtains away. One or two resolutions lie down in the ipe tree desk, words blurred by a mug leaking coffee spots, a lot of coffee, organized in a binder. Last night he remembers that they took shape, becoming clearly something closer to coercions, poorly measured words that seemed even more oblique than normal, as if he had unlearned their meaning.

And this has been so, the corridor continues to expand, there are doors and more doors that lead to nowhere in particular, Hilbert Hotel style. In this case, the residence complex of High Class and High Chins Barton Academy teachers.

A slight yawning escaped from him as he tried to get used to his own weight being supported by the spring bed, which rings a cursed noise directly from the factory-to-the-consumer and that became lousier as he moved to approach the window next to the single mat.

Struck by an impassive sensation regarding the weather conditions of this season, Paul spies on the outside world between the poorly washed glass, which did not help at all by refracting the snowflakes as white as the color of his sclera, which were being sifted like flour under the pavement of the Residence sidewalk and the drilled roofs of the little houses located there across the street.

Hunham purposefully chose a stiller to fool the patterns of the well-located Gothic architecture of that immensity in the medieval fiefdom of the campus, and far away from the parking lot.

His morning yoga routine followed by a hot bath, the water was very welcome in his naked scapula, cleaning his pores ... No tension pulled his muscles tightly as usual, not even his arthritis prevented a stretching session while Paul prepared to practice bolder positions. In an audacious touch, he managed to hit his record and arrived at a Virabhadrasana III!

Another yawning wrote his energy for that morning in a chronicle of oatmeal porridge with fried bananas, fresh coffee and a newspaper. Paul was astonished that this whole sequence of events occurred unpretentiously and so casually, with no sign of an excruciating migraine in the footnotes. Heavens, he felt a new creature and his lips trembled for the lack of a Kafkaesque metaphor behind this notion, usually quite delicate as it were.

Thrilling by following the score of Davis's show in Call It Anything , Paul rummaged through his wardrobe in search of his custom made mustard-colored Corduroy, a fervent green pullover, all over a white social long sleeved shirt that he filled with colony before showering.

When he looked in the mirror to set the final piece, his beloved butterfly tie, he noticed that the muscles and especially the largest zygomatic were very relaxed on his face, no remnants of a posthumous scowling of the previously misfortune episode. Look at that . It isn't him controlling and repressing, he feels good. How unusual, it was almost like staring at a demonic possessed, energetic individual, perhaps that would explain the tingling.

Giving the final knot, his hand began to tremble while at it. In place, a fast smile blinked, like a last minute nervous tic. Usually before he steps out, he would have sought in the refrigerator a last humor inhibitor at the right point, a narcotics for melancholy which isn't yet sold in pharmacies. The notion passed almost unnoticed, and he followed his course.

Finally he took his keys into the bedside table’s drawer, the briefcase with his papers and books he prepared on the bed and with a tablespoon of uncertainty, with no expectation, he left the door unlocked before leaving.

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

Paul was trying to write in his notebook, halfly aware of the unfolding scene. But at the end of the recitation, he quickly raised his gaze toward the center of the room and waved his head to where the student was.

"Are you done? Great."

He saw the tall and skinny boy sketch a nervous smile, stirring it in the beige jacket lapels and his red tie to have his hands occupied, facing the silence in the classroom.

He was certainly anticipating any sign of the teacher's approval by the rhythm of his eyes going through his colleagues, sitting on the old desks that everyone managed to align to form a circle – like true scives gathered to observe the gladiators entertain them in the Colosseum.

If he were someone else, that's where Paul would like to say to soothe Wilbur Agnelli's affliction: I must say, sir, it was a great demonstration of shape in front of a stage. The emancipation, the drama forging this mise en scène! You will definitely go far, for sure. That would sound so good if he had a pulpit, maybe if director Hardy Woodrup's stingy ways met this simple demand, after all, Paul knows he never asked him for anything.

Paul rubbed his eyes with his indicator and thumb, straightening the glasses that fell on the bridge of his nose to focus on the slender boy, with a straight black hair hairstyle to the side. Paul began a quick scrutiny of Agnelli: crumpled t-shirt, doesn't seem to recognize the warmth of a good ironing for years, less the pants. And shoelaces? Let's say the risk of kissing the floor is high.

"Stupendous, you can sit down, boy." And it turned out that Paul decided to light a match in order to fire: "Can anyone tell me what Mr. Agnelli did wrong?”

One more wave of gleaming silence. Paul could see the gears inside their little heads try to turn and cranking it up. He was not at all interested in lending penetrating oil.

“Well,” Paul rubbed his hands on each other, heading for Mr. Agnelli, “I suggest you check the source of your research because Edgar Allan Poe was born, let's see… In the 19th century. This is not what I asked.”

“B-But, sir, Mr. Hunham! Everyone wrote about Virgil, Plato… I wanted to do something different. ” Counterattacked Agnelli.

"Don't insult my didactic material with your contemporary blabber, sir!" Paul laughed, the sound sharpening his gaze even more. “We could touch this subject later this semester, but I made it clear you and your flounder should've invested on great poets from that time--”

"Sorry." Stamped Agnelli. "I just ... I like his books."

“So I suggest you take these poems to your English teacher, see what she thinks about them. And with these spelling and syntax errors? ” Paul stopped a little, pretending to think deeply about the subject. Decided to appeal: “Why! Great philosopher Homer, or even short-term emperor Maximinus Thrax, for example, were illiterate. Maybe you will go far after all.” He concluded with a small smirk.

The best idioms in this case would be to say that the boy's chin was on the floor, something that pleases Paul immensely, because pulling the rug under those delinquent, effervescent boiling hormones apathetic teens was the best way to make them understand what the real world is – a land of no remorse and that will not remedy forces to see them in floating away by gutter like dirt.

“You can sit down now, please, Mr. Agnelli. And close your mouth or you'll start drooling on our clean floor. ” Said Paul, shaking his hands in the air emphatically.

Paul dropped one more sigh of his pocket, tried to gather it and with an emphatic beat on the table, kept his relentless expression before the perplexed semble of his students, who wisely chose not to comment on their teacher's conduct. At least not this time. Small miracles.

"But I salute you, Agnelli, for being the only one to have the cojones to voluntarily read his text." He addressed the room again after a thick period of pause.

“Maybe we should fix it in the form of a small questionnaire, hm? Or maybe a thousand word essay.”

And of course the false cries came, some grunts of frustration written in extent left and right, " But we got only one hour left to finish this class and go home " and " We need to go home! " Turning the room into a buzz of voices that began to add Paul's aggressive passive humor to an amusing level.

“Come on, enough, you deforming, pubescent minds! I want this room tidy and the pens ready for action. ” Paul ordered, he had no right to take joy out of the situation, but giggled out of derision to the boys as they murmured softly.

“And please, Mr. Kountze and Agnelli, tie these shoelaces! I advise you two to go check an ‘Iyalorixá’ after class, because this is a strong sign of bad omen in the Umbanda religion.”

“Un-band ? What, when did this turn into Spanish class? ” Reiterated Kountze, arranging the blonde bangs of his eyes with his usual insolence towards Paul. The teacher gave an enigmatic look toward the boy, who returned with an anarchic smile, noticing the teacher's red face.

Your orangutan face breed-mixed with a pug doesn't scare me, bald asshole.

“Give me patience, you brute. And the correct form es una banda.You would know if your frivolous brain paid attention to more important things than your own reflection.”

In this a low of stinging laughs from the kids broke in whistles, finding fun in Kountze's embarrassment, who decided to blow the hair away with his mouth as he tried to settle in his chair, a true bad boy in his own perception. Kountze knew how to pretend to be indifferent to his colleagues, but an alien sensation took his chest. How dare he. Does he know who my father is? reverberating by the kid’s mind in consolation. Paul squeezed his lips so as not to smile between his teeth.

But what stunned Hunham was Agnelli, who resorted to the last desk of the room, a very uncharacteristically shy attitude, because it was usual that the boy always sat in the horizontal front row, especially because of his ophthalmological problems.

An idea blew Kountze's anguish, he had to share with someone. Who best if not this Angelli loser after the slaughter to his person orchestrated by Mr. Hunham. He came closer to the boy beside him and whispered, “Want to stay here after class? I have a plan to end this pretentious fat f*ck's career for good.”

But his only reaction to Paul's comment was sneaking down Kountze's side, a shadow covering his face as he let his head decline, too afraid to even face the teacher.

"Leave me alone, man." Agnelli replied, his voice failing in the static a little. Kountze rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the task in hand.

During the rustle of pens and notebooks, the noise of the room was dissipating. Paul opened the page that he was scribbling minutes ago, but could not see the ideas clearly. A sketch of Agnelli's expression disturbed his senses. Where has he seen that before?

He noticed procrastination in the way it doesn't edit the words of his draft. His eyebrows are at the base of his nose, squeezed in introspection. Suddenly one of the lights above him blinked, and he directed his good eye to the final row on the left side, which was not occupied by his owner.

A flea behind his ear pinched Paul and he shrunk off his ego to ask, "Kountze."

No immediate answer, Paul tried again, with more poison: "Mr. Kountze ."

"I have a name, you know? Wouldn't hurt you a lil bit to actually learn it.”

"Oh, pardon me, but it turns out that we are not familiar enough for me to make use of your praenomen." Paul returns, losing the little patience he had left. "Tell me, mister Tully didn't come with you today?"

Kountze deadpanned to Paul's seemingly innocent question. The teacher curses the day the principal decided to suspend the call sheets, a total carelessness of a perfect blackmail weapon for Paul, it was simply not fair that he had to put up with this kind of behavior and not to punish them in a way.

“Which planet are you on, ‘teach? Anus has diarrhea, couldn't come.” He answered very proudly, as his tone carried nothing but mockery, and waited for applause from the audience with his upturned nose proving what Paul already knew.

I should write a very voluptuous note for your moronic parents. Maybe I should point you to an expert and check your brain inside and out, my dear. Think about what your colleagues would do if they saw a snobbish and despicable boy like you with a history of mental illness… not a day of peace in your life whatsoever.

"I just asked you a question, Theodore , try to hold your tongue or I swear ..."

“And why do I have to know where that mutt dog is? I already have a pet, thank you very much, take care of yours. ”

Krishna's words were a comfort to Paul's soul if the circ*mstances were correct, the Sanskrit verses convey good faith about the importance of finding peace of mind and courage to face adversity. Here he felt a special appreciation for “ Kaalo asmi loka kshaya kritpraviddho ”, asking for strength around him so someone could come down, take the cup of his faith and fill it with poison.

"That's enough, Mr. Kountze, oh how it always cheers me up listening to your anthropological perspectives." Paul said, producing the numbness of a dreamer sigh.

The term went blank in the boy's limited dictionary for sure, the confusion in the way he looked to his sides reaching for an explanation was visible, but Paul ignored him completely.

A distrust permeates the man's thoughts following his pencil nervous beats above the table, trying to permeate some sound that arouses clarity and understanding. The lights stopped flashing, but they were not well lit.

And I didn't see him on Monday nor Tuesday…. What happened?

Bah, no, forget it! It is fruitless to focus his time and effort in an empty chair, especially when the notebook pages are nothing more than unintelligible scribbles right now. Paul straightens the collar of his shirt, and tries to tune the graffiti in the pencil sharpener to redo his writing, using the following first topic title: Brazen Bull.

Five o'clock in the morning, he could no longer sleep, but the regurgitating of words on paper filled his chest with stillness. In the background, Bolero by Maurice Ravel was playing very quietly on the record player, as hee didn't want to hear any complaints coming from the other apartments. Sitting on the mattress with two pillows neatly placed against his spine, Paul smoked his pipe while reading a poorly preserved edition – dog-eared and with a library card crossed out with names in blue pen – of a detective novel written by Anthony Berkeley, Before The Fact.

Well, he didn't want to admit it out loud, no sir, but part of it – perhaps he should have sprinkled a tiny hint of modesty into this confession – was the lack of the scratchy taste of wine on tongue, or the cardboard of aged beer, which always said good morning to him before he heard Miles Davis grace his ears through the old portable radio he found at a garage sale in the 60s.

The recollection of that night's dream was somewhat broken, especially sensitive to the touch of depersonalization that Paul felt when he stroked the back of his head after hitting it too hard on the wall by accident.

Paul knows he flounced, but his wrists and feet were tied firmly to a very wide and straight wooden railing, which matched the structure that supported his body weight… over a lake. A permeable, aged raft. Paul marveled at the stickiness of yeast and mold rubbing against his back.

He deduced that it was a lake, because there it was: the sound of water and a typical swampy smell in the air.

What he noticed most vigorously was an extraordinary burning sensation, and he thought, great. Cooked alive on a closed furnace, now he's been treated like rotisserie chicken in the open.

Afterwards, he instantly opened his eyes and saw that the goosebumps chasing his movements were actually small larvae chewing on his carcass.

And that acidic burn was due to the fact that much of his flesh was surgically cut, every piece from his arms to his legs was exposed to the sun in what seemed like hours in the relativity of the dream. Time was no longer a real concern, and pain was a largely absent element in this experience in question.

Faced with this notion, the man also felt that burning in another unusual place, his anus. How it hurt, and something viscous had come out of there, probably very liquid feces.

Paul was bemused as he stared at his torso.

Some had ignored most of his orifices, preoccupied with feeding on his peritoneum until reaching the intestines. The putrid smell of exudate was everywhere, a residue left by the worms, in the sagittal cut of his belly that allowed them to enter.

Paul thought about words blurred by acrylic ink, they’re tasting honey and milk , that would explain the diarrhea, and when he woke up, he tried to reproduce them in a legible way, making use of his notebook well covered in black leather and bond paper. It was much better to do this without the roar of twenty teenagers cackling in his ear.

He kept the reflection with him in his work briefcase and locked it. There was no reason to be pessimistic, so why did he have to torture himself like this? There is certainly some logical explanation for the occurrence of his imagination falling into this meat grinder and expelling so many minced scenarios.

As Paul digested this information over breakfast, he couldn't help but catch the sound of footsteps following him down the hall.

Suddenly, a nasal voice filled the atmosphere of solitude he was so accustomed to, shouting: “Mr Hunham! Hey, Paulie! Wait a minute."

Paulie was certainly disconcerting to listen, it felt like the worms were still crawling through his belly triggering the chills.

Going down the stairs, one of the tenants was probably following behind. With long steps he tries to get as far away from the approaching individual as possible.

“Geez, you a shorty but you walk damn quickly, be careful not to trip!” The figure joked.

Counting to ten, Paul kept looking ahead and replied: “Tsc! Please identify yourself because I feel like without my glasses I can’t recognize your voice.”

“And I didn’t recognize your typing last night, Mr. Hunham, what happened?” By Jove, not even the assistant teachers at 220-A were as gossipy as this one. “After a whole month I finally managed to sleep like a baby inside my mother’s womb!”

Paul stopped on two steps of the staircase, stupefied as he was fuming with frustration at the simple comment.

How great, a reminder of the frivolity of my attempts to do something with the time I still have left on this godforsaken Earth, coming from the mouth of a scoundrel wasting his master's degree.

“Doctor Herbert Foley!” And yes, PhD. He forced himself to say, surprisingly managing to greet the interlocutor and maintain a vague expression of friendliness even though his back was turned, “To what do I owe the pleasure and honor of your presence?”

“No more of that doctor nonsense, Paulie, do you know the last person who called me that?”

“Some convicted criminal on death row? I’d love to know later, but I’m on my way now, Foley.” Paul tried to interrupt.

Herbert snorted a laugh through his nose, “I’ve told you this before. My ex-wife blossomed in bed with a retired prosecutor from the Southern District of Boston. And remember, my father said it couldn’t be, if he had known he would’ve asked for a guarantee fund.”

Paul finally turned to look at Foley, "I know this has no relevance to the topic at hand, but don't you have a second period to catch?"

The man's face seemed to be covered in sunscreen or perhaps some poorly applied foundation, it looked like the ridiculous makeup that Paul witnessed at ambitious prestigious Parisian dinners, something that he thought was essential in this century, for sure. And his cheeks were swollen, probably from sleeping too much.

"Oh, don't even get me started. I swear, the reason I won't leave this sh*thole 'cause it's the only way to reduce work journey hours without help from the government.”

How fastidious, he tried not to roll his eyes. Paul never understood people's eagerness to tell him things. Seriously, small talk could cause an unnecessary uproar. It wouldn't even be on the news, an outbreak of chit-chat could trigger an epidemic throughout the entire city and no one would be aware of the situation until millions were dead.

Amidst an arbitration of pure cordiality, patience and nostalgia, Paul nods his head in greeting to the tall man, full of warts and curly hair like serpentines on his forehead.

A robotic laugh covered Paul's passive expression, “Every day I see more and more of Dick Paddy Wagon's snout on you, boy.”

Foley widened his eyes in agreement, partially strutted by the use of the cognomen. Paul took this as a good sign that he had scored points for his socialization chart.

“He hated that, there was an even worse one, 'Fumbly White Dick'.

Arriving downstairs after Hunham and measuring their height with his eyes, perhaps overcome by emotion, Foley extends his hand to shake Paul's. Somewhat stunned, Hunham lets his body act before his mind thinks. And it was a strong grip, which reminds him of what his grandfather would have said about it, a good grip is not just about pedigree. Foley stuck his nose up like a pompous equine, but there was a spark of mischief in his blue irises.

“Now that the formalities have been exchanged, I almost forgot! I have something you will dig.” Foley said as he returned Paul's attention.

“Is it to make me excited or afraid?”

“Paulie, the fun of life is in both!”

Within all his options, he decided not to encourage future sarcastic comments. It was a rare occasion that someone stopped to talk to him.

Paul cleared his throat voluntarily, still wondering how he could strain his muscles and suffer a convenient cramp to leave if the subject was impertinent. Maybe use fire against fire? The idea of sowing small talk was terrifying, difficult to get used to when you don't have all the clues of what the person expects of you.

“I don't feel like asking without an invitation,” Paul tried, “but what did they put in the coffee grounds today? Just now I bumped into our empress and she greeted me with a hospitable 'good morning'.” There wasn't a shred of truth to it. That was usually what someone demanded, pretense. It's a good foundation for dealing with anything.

He was referring, of course, to the Dantesque spirit that ‘haunted’ this Residence: Olivia Szklarz, one of the veteran teachers, who many speculate was built in layers of papier-mâché to resemble a human being. This probably explains why Paul finds it so easy to talk to her. In fact, if it was Olivia bumping into him today, it would make his day even better. Tremendously knowledgeable about Elizabethan poets like Edmund Spencer. The conniving teens of her course can never set their minds to the same station as hers.

“Well, Hunham, it’s not just f*cked up for you. I’ve been trying to shag that one for years and so far with no success.”

How lovely.

Paul shakes his head with wide eyes, pretending to fix his mustache without knowing what to do with the itching on his fingers.

“I must say that it is a rather inhospitable image in my mind. Unlike you, she has a great sense of humor for a psychopath.” He said, amicable finally, the dimples on his cheek showing.

A hoarse laugh from Foley replaces Paul's squeaky smile as he shows what he had taken out of his jacket seconds ago, “And with this, your criteria goes to the Netherlands.”

With an arched eyebrow, Paul communicated many things, but the most evident characteristic right now was a blush that rose to his cheeks when faced with the object that Foley placed in his hands.

“Ahh .” He released it slowly, the mesmerizing tune of onomatopoeia reverberating through his throat. Foley without even a single thought handed him a magazine and Paul slowly slid his fingers under the coated paper.

“I know, did I just choke you by the balls and stuff?”

The curve of his mouth was certainly distended downward, Foley covered his with a fist and let out a short cough. “That’s what my father said right after a hot session at the Massachusetts orchestra.”

“His musical talents were barely offset by the lyrical poetry that man spat out from time to time.” Paul quipped.

He inspected the cover. He didn't know that girl, but apparently she was nicknamed “Miller, Avis" that month's playmate. A young brunette, with a beautiful pearl necklace and her delicate hands holding her breasts, smiling shyly at the spectator. Paul swallowed the sudden repulsion, not for the woman, but for the other man's abominable poker face.

“And nothing is said about the contents of his trunk. This is a recent edition of the pile he collected, I canceled my subscription weeks ago.” He said, taking Hunham's pause as encouragement to continue.

“Cum omni vita atque victu excultus atque expolitius …” Paul hissed in bad taste, still leafing through the pages as if it were the Codex Gigas itself.

“So you tell me. This is the inheritance I leave you in the name of Dick Small Cap’', make the most of it.” Foley said, patting Hunham on the back, imbued with profound playfulness. He knew Paul would be stunned by this universal favor to bond a friendship.

Who knows, maybe I'll invite him over for drinks later as well, Foley thought.

“It’s very much his type.” Paul flips through the pages some more, sees a section he's not very familiar with. “I don’t know if it’s mine.”

“Sex in Cinema is what we have for today, love, you can choose a better one later,” Foley shrugged. Suddenly, he opened a malicious smile, the effect of an overdose of nostalgia. “Remember that cutout of a Bond Girl he stole from the theater?”

"I do remember. I heard Dick play his bassoon all night after that.” The memory did not bring any bonfire pride.

With that, Foley felt the urge to stretch his neck upwards and let out a short, punctual laugh, very high-pitched.

He's always been a winery man, lucky I have some Merlot stocked in the pantry.

“Well, I must say gentleman, I thank you and Dick for thinking so fondly of me.” Paul said through his teeth.

Foley rubbed his index finger over his eye, but Paul read his posture, laughter wasn't the only feeling subdued by the broad – and quite synthetic, of course Paul won't mention it – demonstration of appreciation for his father.

“That sly, shameless old man who couldn't even control his own bladder! I miss him so much.”

Paul said goodbye to Foley as he continued to go on his path to Barton, finally giving up on making conversation. If the man had asked him to come along, Paul wouldn't have been able to hold his tongue.

Another strange placement, he was sure he would have expelled something a long time ago, even before bumping into Foley on the stairs. Certainly, the young lawyer would never look at his face again if he had taken out of the archive a few interesting things that Foley's father shared with him when the two of them were last in a game of pool years ago, peanut shells scattered across the counter and whiskey running down their bellies.

In his hand, the magazine was rolled into a cylindrical shape, and Paul took it with him to the car. He needed to run some errands around the city and he didn't have time to spare, the boys would soon leave mass.

Yes, yes, they would return as renewed souls into the arms of society, washed by the sanitized hands of the father, the son, the holy spirit, who every day observe these same souls perpetrating heartbreak for their parents and school community. Worshiping religious patrons like Augustine of Hippo, preaching the filth of Christianity to their “Hyppocrite” minds.

A scream from the wind scares Paul, like a civilian in the Victorian era where society was terrified of the evil spirits that hid in the breeze, which makes him huddled in his gray coat to protect himself from the ineptitude of shallow reasoning that threatened to spread. He could leave this question in the capable hands of members of the school who went on expeditions into philosophy seminars.

How had the weather gotten worse during those few minutes that Foley spent talking to him? Unprecedented! He couldn't let even a crack open too wide in his roof, he ran the risk of leaks. Dreadful small talk.

Paul arrived at his car, the door creaked as it opened, the dashboard cracked because of the rev counter that urgently needed to be calibrated, as well as one of the front wheels, which deflated every time he drove a few kilometers. He had to visit a tire dealer on the way home later in the day. Or tomorrow, maybe next week?

He sat for a tangle of conflicting seconds, with the magazine in his hands, finally observing clearly Mrs. or Miss Miller staring back. A serenity sweetening these sour worries. It was a familiar balm, the one that came embroidered with false promises every time alcohol started to take effect on his system. Just this time, it was the voice of the present whispering in his ear.

Heracl*tus said that religion is a disease, but a noble disease. Paul puts the magazine in the glove compartment and keys the ignition.

Despite his questionable sense of humor, Paul has visited the court on one or two occasions when Foley was still active. His speech always came with all the charm and bonanza that a man of justice can filter without wasting or saving saliva, thinking about their next duct tape rhetoric.

However, make no mistake, he now lives only on pulp and not on magistrate juice. Foley is now a – respected and feared, of course – teachers union lawyer, who during a period of drought and chain smoking jobs persuaded the principal to let him teach “aspiring” younglings based in Massachusetts, with as little compensation as possible.

We can digress into conjecture as to why no other school were 'qualified' for taking him in.

Paul by chance met his father, a peculiar man, back in 1941, who was also unable to enlist in the armed forces.

His reason was osteoarthritis derived from another disease, Legg Calvé-Perthes, from which he has suffered since he was a child. The bastard could barely move his left leg on weekdays and it got worse in winter, he was chronically lethargic because of it… But it wasn't until the weekend arrived that he completely transformed, usually in the only bar Paul was familiar with at the time.

A petty and merciless guy, Richard Foley was a dominoes champion at the height of his career.

Paul bumped into the door to open it easily, as the remains of several hours of writing in chalk on a blackboard had left his fingers catatonic. It was late, close to dinner, he would have to go down again to eat what Mrs Lamb prepared today – there was no restaurant in the world that could compete against her dishes, and that's why Paul considers himself a bit of a snob when it comes to food.

But these ramblings about the menu were clouded by the darkness of his apartment, where he forgot to open the curtains again. However, his eyes, which were passed down from generation to generation, were almost clouded with tiredness, at least in that case the absence of light blinding him was welcome.

He let out a sigh that came from his grandfather every time his wife complained... his father's habit of taking off his clothes and folding them in the basket instead of throwing them in anywhere... all while whistling a song that his mother loved listening to in the radio when Paul brought his toys and magazines to the living room carpet... In short, a trunk of junk that he unfortunately couldn't get rid of, burying it.

Speaking of literature , Paul thinks when he sees that he brought Miss Miller along with him in the suitcase. Strangely, he didn't remember opening the glove compartment before disembarking. Maybe he was really enticed by sleepiness.

However… he stared for a moment at the thinness of the woman's lips on the cover. A question punctuated under his head as fingers fumbled nervously stroking his chin.

He didn't need to work much, he was already practically undressed.

No, no… it would be a total lack of hygiene. It's an unnecessary mess, after all, he wanted to wash away the slurry that the classroom air accumulated under his skin, a layer of rot that only the voices of his students could provide.

And there was that empty chair once again,an intrusive thought slapped Paul, or more likely, stubbed his toe on the corner of a piece of furniture.

This was definitely a game changer for the connection Paul could make with his neurons using objects as far fetched like stored lubricant and a p*rn magazine. In sinuous steps, he walked to the bathroom.

After choosing his attire for dinner, Paul went to the small library he had collected for years, compulsively buying books. He picked up the copy of “Before The Fact” that he was reading the other night, looked at the cover with a small smile at the intention. He didn't know if Mary even cared about books like that, so it would be a great way to surprise someone he'd like to get to know better, Paul only hoped.

With luck, maybe she watched the Hitchco*ck film because of actor Cary Grant. He put the book inside his coat. Better than the seventh book he bought this week from a used library, an edition of Jenseits des Lustprinzips.Believe him, it would certainly send the wrong message.

Before turning off the lamp, Paul left the Playboy magazine on the table along with the ornaments he collected in the old house where he and his parents lived. He had a very old trophy from participating in a swimming competition at his school, a porcelain elephant that his mother kept on the living room shelf...

He didn't like to affectionately call them memories, there was no emotional connection between him and the objects in fact, Paul just liked to compulsively accumulate items. And sometimes, in the right cold weather without his covers, sorrows.

The young man arrived later to eat breakfast, his parents had already packed their bags last night, so there wasn't much concern about waking up early. Because let's face it, he spent these past days suffering and falling out of bed around five in the morning, which was when that damn rooster started to crow like nature's alarm clock. Angus imagined cooking the animal in a pressure cooker with tomato sauce and serving it with pasta, potatoes and vegetables.

But he found the best delicacies from the farm on this table, such as colonial cheese with guava paste, homemade bread with salami and cornmeal cake. His only complaint? The boy's stomach wasn't exactly ready to handle the pure milk that he and his grandmother extracted from the cow’s udder together. Regardless, the smell of coffee in the air was enough to give him courage, he drank two whole cups just like putting in flavorless saline solution to treat a tummy ache.

When he was done, Angus wiped his cake crumb-stained hands on his brand new t-shirt, and entered the guest room he was inhabiting today for the last time. A small but cozy space, protected by recent painting on the walls, in well-finished maçaranduba wood.

He pulled a camera from one of the drawers, and put his hands in focus while preparing the object on the table – made of angelim, after all, Marcus Tully liked to brag about his work as a carpenter – he picked up a film cartridge that Stanley had bought for him before the travel, a small gesture of peace between them. As he closed the compartment, he could still smell that characteristic aroma of coffee that had permeated his fingertips, even after he had washed his hands thoroughly.

He remembered his grandfather showing in general how the grains had to go through an extensive process that required a lot of patience. Angus laughs, warmed by the comparison.

Instead of developing, they should call it roasting of the film.

He should remember to write that down for a comic.

Soon his mother would call him when it was time to leave, so Angus might as well take one more memory home before it was taken to the grinder and boiled in hot water.

The sun was slowly disappearing, fantastic, as he had been standing in the same spot for over thirty minutes, waiting for a big difference in lighting to occur. He waited anxiously all this time with his new Canonflex R2000 mellowing on his hand, ready to capture the magnificent composition that gained density due to the primacy of shadow action behind the large maze of plantations. If he could glimpse the scene from the sky, he would snap an even better picture.

Angus took a few steps back and knelt in the wet grass, taking his time, making the most of the view through the lens. He became aware of holding his breath. Medium aperture f/8. Shutter speed at 1/500 . With his left hand he pushed the small trigger under the machine and with his right hand he pressed, listening to the click of the button, the half-open lens clearly consuming the image.

With the feeling of a mission accomplished, the boy took the camera to his bag and stored it carefully. Satisfaction was not a recurring feeling in the morning, perhaps some things were awakening within him, he felt this happen much more here when he was not buried in the sameness of Massachusetts.

Oops, almost forgot!

From inside his bag Angus took out his composition book and wrote a note to himself: Show it to Danny.

“Oh! There you are, you snake louse.”

Angus wanted it to be the scarecrow's voice, but it was just his stepfather stomping around in the ridiculous leather boots he bought as souvenirs on their trip to Texas last year, rattlesnake's flap hissing at Angus every time he looked down.

“Come, your mother wants you to take some photos of us with Marc and Emma before we leave.” Stanley said, using his grandfather's nickname as if he were already part of the family.

How Mom stomachs waking up and seeing that at the foot of their bed everyday is a mystery. It must be the effects of f*cking Stockholm syndrome.

He and Stanley left together, a strange shock always repelling the two from coming near each other for long, Angus always a meter away. But he soon saw his grandparents and mother waiting in front of their house.

“Hey, kid! You won’t get away that easy.” Emma Tully jokes, her long nails pressing the boy's pale cheek lightly. Angus let her give him a peck on the spot, he didn't want to clean up the lipstick stain in front of the woman, so he smiled cluelessly at her.

Emma held the boy's thin face in both hands, reciprocating. “It's cruel to leave this hole in my heart, boy. Make sure you come back here whenever you can.”

“Ah, I–” Angus couldn’t think of anything to appease such sincerity in the comment. People from the countryside must be like that, very intense.

“Mom, you're gonna suffocate him.” Judy approached him, taking one of her arms to wrap around the boy's shoulder and pull him to her side, a firm grip. Angus, still stunned, just closed his mouth.

"Stop!" Emma rolls her eyes, an appropriate smirk on her lips, “He has to know how much I love him.”

“We’ll come back in the summer, Mom.” Judy pushes Angus into the car, but doesn't stop hugging Emma. “And how much do you love me, huh?”

“I only have one daughter, right?” Emma sighs, her tone set as if she's asking an imaginary audience.

“I, on the other hand, won’t miss that old bull face of yours, Marc.” Stanley butted in, honking his car, which got a laugh from Marcus.

“Then do me a favor and get out of here, Stan!” Marcus fought back. “And let my daughter drive, for Our Saint Mother's sake! Don’t think I didn’t see you stealing from my cellar.”

“Wow, Marc, what a serious accusation.” Stan replied, showing his lip. Judy got into the passenger seat and Angus closed the back door trailing right after.

But as soon as he was ready to tune out from there, Emma approached the vehicle and knocked on the window gently. Angus didn't understand why, but the gesture woke him from his imperceptible trance. He rolled the glass down, leaving just a crack.

Judy cleared her throat in emphasis, noticing her son's hesitation. Angus remembered his good upbringing – which was not his best social tool on any occasion.

“Grandma Em… thank you for having us.”

Grandma Emma didn't say anything, just nodded. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils smaller than normal, her vision disguising a creeping realization. Angus knew it was something else.

“The next leap year is in ’72, did you know?” Emma commented.

Angus' mouth went dry, the cold of the mountains was unbearable.

"No." The boy responded, but he knew it was in vain. Angus doesn't remember seeing anything in the newspaper about it and he noticed his grandparents didn't have a calendar. Grandma Em couldn't control these things, or even explain them, she just felt them. At least that's what his mother told him.

“Hm. Always make it clear how much you love someone, okay? See ya.” The woman concluded, kissed the tips of two fingers and let them touch the glass. She stepped away from the car as soon as Stanley started to move it. Angus shot a sharp look at the back of the man's head, hoping it would spurt blood.

The youngest Tully observed the two figures of Marcus and Emma getting smaller as the car continued its course towards the exit. If he took a photo, he could place them both as ghostly apparitions, isolated from the outside world beyond the farm gates. There was no wind blowing in his face, but Angus felt a breeze touch his skin, a shiver.

He suddenly looked ahead again, dazed by these thoughts, instead deciding to focus his interest on the hills and open fields.

Stanley's comments were like degasified co*ke, it doesn't attract anyone but bees. In fact, his craving for attention was like flies zigzagging over people, the way it comes to mind instinctively, an irritating buzz of neediness.

“It was fun, right?” Stan asked anyone who would listen.

And Judy's responses welcomed the man out of pity. "A bunch."

Angus never chatted with Stanley, he was afraid the expired sugar in the fizzy drink would cause cavities in his teeth. So he huffed and crossed his arms, trying to disappear between the seats.

“I liked that my father-in-law is… quiet. Reclusive, in his natural habitat. He wasn't like that when he first visited us back home.” Stanley smiled and scratched his fingers on the steering wheel.

Judy weakly answered: “Maybe it's the city air. You get drunk by it... The pollution.”

“Wait, that didn’t mess up your childhood, right?”

"Of course not!" Judy said, biting the inside of her cheek as she fixed her hair into a ponytail, “We get used to these things. Country folk are like that.”

Stanley nods absentmindedly, “Country folks.”

A lazy smile settled on the man's features for a few seconds.

“You looked beautiful getting your hands dirty like that.” Stanley speaks in the least sensual way possible, He probably can't hear his own voice.

Judy let out a well-calculated nasal laugh using a cordiality measuring tape at the cheesiness of the comment.

“But Mrs. Emma has the style of someone who tells the story of the bogeyman as if it were a real guy, right?”

“Ever since I was a little girl, I never get tired of it.” Judy's mood changed drastically. She turned her eyes to the window, as if she had heard something in the woods.

Angus resents this, after all, he was afraid that his grandmother's 'gift' was something hereditary from an early age; his mom told stories about accidents that occurred to the ancestors of the Tully family that kept him awake many nights during his childhood. Being in the same house as the old woman made his nerves even worse, which translated into a fear of staying inside for a long time.

“And what a blessing, huh?” Says Stanley, pointing his thumb at the box that lay resting beside Angus, “Nice vintage.”

“Huh, kid? Have you ever tried Pinot noir straight from Burgundy?”

Angus squeezed his face as if he had sucked on a lemon, confused by the implication. Stanley was not a man of criticism, he preferred heavy tasting. What did it matter to him to know where it came from? So it's likely that he was channeling a perfect impression of one of the friends who frequented the same gentlemen's club that Stanley was a member of. His stepfather was a world-class talker, he knows how to impress someone using clever terms masking his virginity.

“It’s Walden’s favorite, I think I’ll invite him over to open this bottle.” Stanley looks proudly at Judy, hoping that she will vigorously support the offer.

But Judy's eyes widened, her lower lip trembling with certainty: “No way! He’ll say you don’t have the right glasses or some nonsense like that.”

A genuine laugh surprised Angus, and he continued the provocation: “What did Walden say again? Something about putting your finger in your ear. Yeah, I can see you buying that, Stanley.”

“He will consent like a little monkey doing tricks to please his owner.” Judy said conspiratorially to finish, the timbre of a provocative laugh lighting up her expression for the first time on this trip. Angus would like to return the joy, but he never got that far.

Stanley was not discreet in showing his indignation. Angus would find it comical if one of the veins in the man's forehead were swollen.

“We have no reason to judge this community, especially Walden, which is one of the best in the business. He has the right to think so because he worked hard for it.” Stanley defended.

Wow, watch out, the Pitbull is off his leash!

“Guard dog, huh?”

“I worked so f*cking hard too! Just like a convict… and what did I get? My legacy on a coffee farm?” Judy said exasperatedly. Angus sensed she wanted to stay silent after that.

“Damn, I'm just fooling around, Jude.” Stanley backed away, clicking his tongue between his teeth. “Jesus.”

The man driving gave a sign of defeat in the form of a single nod. And finally, he whispered to himself like a rhyme from Dr. Seuss' ridiculous stories: “Country folks get no toast.”

Angus liked forest paintings, whether they were well done with vibrant colors and dried on an oil canvas. For example, he loved that exhibition at the Oxford museum, with a painting by Piero di Cosimo depicting burning woods.

Well, not more than he liked that art piece at the French museum his mother took him two years ago! The painting of a beautiful woman with her breasts on display. But... it was also a devastating painting, he couldn't take his eyes off the model with that snake around her neck biting its own tail.

Nevertheless, it's easy when you find something to identify within art, but right now? Angus wasn't sure how to react when he saw the familiar Boston pines through the car window. They are all very similar, the familiarity breaks the immersion. Nothing happens, it will be the same pine trees twenty years later.

Well, unless someone cuts them down, shattering their trunks with huge basalt blades, the sound of them hitting the wood as a horrendous noise of a neck being broken. Squirrel moms and dads covering their children's ears so they don't get traumatized.

Angus shook his head quickly, his gaze returned to the interior of the vehicle in which he, his mother and stepfather were. It wasn't claustrophobia, but he hated being in this zone.

He thought for a moment, with his head turned towards the horizon. Deep down, it hid the sun behind the mountains covered by an extensive white blanket, claiming the landscape for itself and radiating splendor and care for the insignificant things that lived down there. The trees obscure a clear glimpse, but that doesn't mean it's not there.

If Angus closed his eyes, his stubborn mind could clearly visualize the rays of light consuming his face, burning the threads of tapestry in his skin.

He couldn't stand listening to the sounds of the car tire running down the road any longer, just as he was tired of the silence inside him. His mother was also looking out the window, but her eyes didn't soften with any of Angus or Stanley's attempts to make conversation. At all times she had a concise expression and uttered agreements with her mouth under lock and key.

Maybe she wants Angus to beg for some attention, but he won't give her that taste. Not when her face was stoic since they arrived at their destination about five days ago.

But his muscles were threatening to falter a little. Today he was going to fall into bed dead, he didn't have the chance to sleep during the hours confined in that big house, and not even now during the hours inside the car. The lack of music was simply excruciating and distracted from his slumber.

And Angus predicts that as they get closer to home, he will get even more tired of breathing the outside air. It's the same oxygen he breathed into Vermont, because no one wanted to cross the line that separates New England from other regions this year. That's irrelevant now, he didn't have much choice but to accept it with good taste.

And what's more, Angus liked to move abroad, even within his own state, because he would still be several kilometers away from Barton, the sandbox of the kids with no future who lived in mansions in his neighborhood.

Turning to his left, he couldn't judge Stanley, not right now. Thank goodness he didn't want to talk to the boy anymore, not even to ask if he wanted to eat an afternoon snack or if he needed to go to the bathroom. He doesn't have many warm memories of the place his grandparents bought in the Vermont hills, other than those minutes sitting at the table eating, or watching the field of coffee beans. The thin air did nothing to help except worsen a possible attack of bronchitis.

His grandparents had few animals, and the horses were his favorite, very well prim horses and Angus had fun galloping over the hills as if he were in those old timey western movies.

However, Stanley had to ruin everything by inviting the boy to hunt in an area far from the house. Angus had the worst aim in the world, unlike his impeccable handwriting, but he couldn't admit it out loud lest he sound gayer than he already did. And Stanley's insistence was frightening to say the least, as if he could smell Angus's insecurity about carrying out any activity considered "masculine" from afar.

The fascination that his stepfather had in "improving" Angus was puzzling, as if he were a broken doll or a blank sheet of paper. He didn't enjoy a second of the time he had to listen to Stanley's opinion when Angus returned home empty-handed after failing the striker's test for Barton's Tigers team.

Washing away Stanley's shame and petty comments in the shower didn't help, as he spent an entire week brooding over the fact that he was being a disappointment to someone, but not his stepfather and his mother.

Suddenly, his reverie was interrupted by the sound of the radio turning on. The station announced the next song, the biggest hit by his favorite band Jefferson Airplane. His mother looked back, checking to see if she still had a breathing child in the seat, and turned her attention back to the road.

A sudden urge rose, Angus's breathing changing drastically.

Look at me for more than five minutes, please!

It wasn't a cry for help, it was more like a request for a refill for his empty coffee mug at a cafeteria.

“Can we stop somewhere? I'm hungry." Angus lied, and his mother noticed it, so much so that she didn't even make a point of responding immediately.

“It’s just that my stomach is growling, you know? I feel like I didn't get enough nutrients… my head…”

“There’s snacks inside your backpack, we still have plenty of road time ‘til we get there.” Judy coaxed, one hand massaging her temple assiduously.

Emma’s voice joined his mentally through the prism of resentment.

“What about a bathroom? We could ask the guys over there.” Angus pointed his cold hand at a spot in the landscape, touching the windshield of the stuffy car, more specifically at a massive building made of brittle orange bricks, which everyone knew was hidden within the knowledge of the local hospital.

Four years ago. It hadn't been long. It was her ex-husband's last birthday. Judy only remembers February 29th when it is about three months away from happening again. That was the agreement between them.

Judy heard the footsteps of Angus's silent hesitation in agreeing, like when he tried to manipulate her emotions by making up to stories about dreams with werewolves, vampires – and other monsters he saw in reruns of horror films on television, while high on sugar – when he was younger and generally, when he just missed sleeping with her.

Younger? It got worse when he turned fifteen.

"Do not start." Judy spoke, as if the radio had stopped at a station that only played songs from cheap commercials.

"Why not?" Angus asked and tried to keep his tone reasonable and his eyes on the horizon, but his cheeks were very red. A buzz of sensations accumulated inside his chest, the biggest of them reminiscent of the situation on Wednesday, where he had lost the reins and had almost been kicked out by the horse. For very little.

When he went to bed, it was midnight, he heard a loud whinny coming from the stables, followed by the grating sound of a whip hitting flesh. Angus felt like crying, but not out of pity for the animal, he just didn't want to be so close to hear something like that. It was unfair to him that he could no longer sleep properly because nightmares involving premonitions of the present and future, proclaimed by a seventy-six year old lady, kept him alert.

He knew that bringing up the subject involved a variety of situations, but the most plausible was if his mother exploded and lost her reason. He was looking forward to seeing this path she would choose, premeditating his reaction.

Judy, obstinate, was careful not to misstep: “If your concern is that he isn't being taken care of, I called there a few weeks ago. And everything is fine, I promise.”

“Hm, I don't know, I kinda doubt that. Unless there are some hot fat ass nurse making sure of it, right?” Angus commented thoughtfully.

The car passed too quickly over a bumper. Stanley heard it too. A morbid curiosity took over Angus, he wanted to see how far he could go this time to the point of making the man have to intervene, which was simply fun no matter how pathetic Stanley sounded.

The car entered a tunnel, his mother's face was hidden for a few seconds, and as if a curtain had covered her true emotions, she didn't say anything else. Frustrating.

Soon, they emerged into a region completely covered in pine trees, more isolated than the small psychiatric hospital in Boston. There was not a single sign of life behind those trees, the barren smell was intense, which is why Angus' senses were petrified cataloging the aroma. But an intense sigh coming from Judy cut the thread.

"Do not start." Judy counters. I won't ask again, she said as a smoke signal before the fire.

“I haven’t started anything yet.” Angus said, placing one of his feet on Judy's front seat.

“Kid,” Stanley interrupted finally, eyes trying to focus on the road, “Don’t upset your mother.”

“Upset?! Upset in what way? I’m just fooling around, right?”

“No! What I see is you bothering me by asking to do something that you know very well we cannot allow. Oh, I swear to God, Angus, I don’t deserve to put up with this kind of bullsh*t!” Judy shouted automatically, a synonym for self-pity in Angus's dictionary when it came to these discussions, which basically could trigger a battle of egos.

Angus never commented on the shame Judy felt for being Emma’s daughter, the disgust that took away any feeling of appreciation for the woman. She must have been thinking about it throughout the whole weekend, sitting next to Emma at the head of her bed, holding her mother's hand in the middle of the night, or when Angus accompanied the two of them on a trail.

Well deserved, Angus thought bitterly.

“I must remind you, dear mother, that you dragged me to that place by force! I could be at school right now, socializing, doing what I do best–” Tully tries to say, but his mouth is too dry to handle the rough aspect of his words.

"How? Nothing gives you pleasure, Angus! Huh? Tell me something you like to do at school, because quite the opposite, your grades tell another story!” Judy said with an emphasis on pleasure. Tully questions her sanity, because that word was as alien to her as anything.

He thought about visiting the stable the other day, given the trace of hesitation he felt about seeing the animal again. He wanted to check if his grandfather left marks, after all, he and his mother liked the same type of leather.

Angus stretched out his foot, digging the sole into his mother's seat. If the car turned at the right time, it would be a great position for a last-minute escape.

"Hell, I agree." Stanley nodded, scratching one side of the sideburns that he called facial hair. Angus would like to trim all that stuff in the middle of the night while his stepfather snores. He was too reminiscent of those disgraced Roman emperors in Professor Hunham’s class which he loved to use for surprise essay topics.

As if that wasn't enough, Stanley wanted to try his hand at a strong mood appetizer: “What about friends? Because I never saw you invite any of them over to your house.”

Good, Stan, and how much did you take in the ass for dear Walden to put up with you? Angus held his tongue so the thought wouldn't escape, he just sniffed at the dry air inside the car to contain himself.

Judy took the ball back: “Don't make me lose my temper, Angus, because I've had a busy week looking after your grandmother… who you know is falling ill with her heart. I didn't have any leisure time on this trip! None!" Her index finger waggled in the air as she spat out her outburst.

Angus wanted to scream, but his voice went down a few steps: “If Stan's dirty dick isn’t satisfying you, don’t take your frustration out on me, okay?”

Not that this was some kind of scam, Stanley was very willing to take a photo of the woman he is f*cking and keep it in a box with other polaroids. He knows, he messed around their drawers. Angus shuddered, imagining that his mother's expression would be much more stoic than usual – blue eyes untrained to the shine, mouth open like a fish that's been out of water too long – during a f*ck, even if she was on the verge of having her third org*sm of the night. Doubtfully.

“Angus!” "Son of a bitch!" An unison scream right when the guitar riff on the radio started, he couldn't distinguish which from which, because he glanced worriedly in Stanley's direction, who apparently turned the steering wheel in the least safe way possible, and the car began to move in the opposite direction.

But that wasn't the only thing that alarmed the family, because a really unusual jolt jammed one of the front wheels.

It certainly wasn't a stone, because from afar Angus heard a terrible noise. A cry.

And Grace Slick's voice continued to haunt the car, singing:

One pill makes you bigger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice

When she's ten feet tall

Breathing in installments, desperate to find comfort in the trees, Angus turned at just the right moment to notice an animal running into the woods, limping, a trail of blood following its tracks.

Angus sobbed loudly because no words would come out. He tried again, this time the screech came from his core: “Stop the car!”

If he had been in the mountains, his feet sinking into the snow, the sound would have echoed and scared some birds away. But the only one who had his feathers ruffled was Stanley, who grunted with effort as his foot slammed on the brakes as if it weighed tons.

Judy wasn't paying attention to this, though, because: "Angus, what the hell– where are you going?!"

And she was right to ignore Stanley and his efforts to take control of the vehicle, because Angus unlocked the door and jumped out.

When his feet reached the ground, a small smoke passed through his heel, which came from where the tires had slid due to Stanley's brutality with the brakes. And as his feet disturbed the ground, he slipped, landing with his elbows exposed on the concrete right next to the tire.

He raised his head, stunned, and saw a bloody paw lying on the ground, the bone and flesh exposed.

“ANGUS!” The adults' voices called again.

They run over a dog.

Angus sprinted… like, really. He bolted.

He would be the envy of the tracking team at this rate, but this wasn't a test, and his long legs are good for something after all, but he couldn't think about that now. In fact, he couldn't think of anything other than following the animal as far as he could, until the sole of his sneakers wore out.

He ran towards the pine forest, which was deeper than he imagined, soon finding himself at the descent of a hill. Without much thought, he ran over the sloping ground and tripped over a huge rock on the way up the slope. He had to spit out a lot of dirt from his tongue. His sweater and pants were ruined but not completely, after all, the cashmere fabric was easy to sew.

He had to stop for a few seconds and try to catch his breath, listening carefully. He wanted to see if he could hear the dog's agonized cries to localize himself. Anything. He tried to call: “Shh! Toto, come here!”

Angus gulped air into his lungs like a man in the desert, looking right and left, trying to find his way with no north to guide him.

He decided to keep running wherever his feet took him. He just needed to get away. Get away from the car, from Stanley, from his mother, from the rest of the world. That dog became his only constant on this entire trip. He needed to do something.

"Hey! Come here, come here little buddy!” He screamed. “I’m so sorry! We didn't mean to do that, my stupid step–”

The burning in his lungs declared Angus sedentary, he swore he heard the dog whimper nearby. He swallowed hard, his eyes watering from the cold breeze that stabbed his face, the hair on his forearms stiffened. The dark green of the pine trees began to make him dizzy.

A wristwatch ticked and tock inside his head, a projection of anxiety for sure. He had to get closer before his mother decided to come after him. His eyes hit a trail…

The problem was that he didn't know how to move away.

He held his step firmly on the ground, waiting for some sign that would change his mind.

Anything.

If he wanted to, he could be aware of what awaited him inside the forest like a small, daring child, exploring the surroundings with a defined purpose. But it turns out that Angus has grown up – without consent – and the desire to chase down wounded animals disappears when you reach that stage. When he didn't know if there was someone out there ready to come after him.

An urge to cry soured his mood completely, like a true sissy, like Stan's boot stepping on his face. There, standing in front of the pines, Angus saw the trail turn away from where he had left, like an infinite labyrinth.

He hated when that happened, it was definitely puberty. A simple injured dog managed to open a barricade of impulsive actions, that cluster of hormones controlling his every movement. Maybe he really was a doll in pieces.

He rubbed his skeletal fingers over his eyes as the demerit of allowing himself to be carried away by these conjectures about goodness and self-pity. Why didn't the dog just fall dead on the road? The probability is so f*cked up and it makes it a right to practically null any decisions.

Angus kicked the dirt hard. He didn't know why, but a light drizzle fell on the ground and, consequently, on his body. Probably from the dew moisturizing the pines’ leaves. The boy's hair fell on his forehead, and he looked up, quite furious.

f*ck you too.

Paul knew he was lying down, and accompanied, because he felt someone else's hands grab his legs and arms tightly, pressing his body onto the hard surface of the mattress that he remembers feeling before blacking out. He couldn't open his eyes.

Then, he realized that they were taking off his clothes, piece by piece with disrespect and voracity.

Right after the tumult of rapid movements, he felt something in his stomach. It looked like a figure pulling his intestines out through his rectum. He knew he was still dreaming.

First, he thought he was stuffed because of the roast chicken with potato mayonnaise that Mary prepared for dinner yesterday and the result was gas.

Secondly, it could be a parasite caused by some spoiled ingredient in the food.

And finally, a panicked sob rose in his throat, as he remembered that book by Sigmund Freud.

Am I fingering myself?

Because it's not possible that he was faking, he or someone was inserting something back there. And it didn't stop! It could only be something very rigid and uncomfortable... his subconscious thought of nothing else but wood, cut precisely to cause agony.

However, a heated attack hit the region below, as well as his destiny, and Paul tried to maintain an impassive expression in the face of humiliation.

The ardor did not erupt gently, it spread mercilessly through his most sensitive area of his groin. Paul could move his hands, so he took one of them to cover the spot out of instinct. But the gesture was a great encouragement, because he smoothed and squeezed the bulge as if he were trapped in a trance.

The warm atmosphere was so exhilarating, a feeling he hadn't seen in a while, and it didn't stop. Please don't stop now.

A grotesque sound came from his vocal folds as the touch itself became firmer, now his fingers were shamelessly caressing. He tried to keep his mouth shut as he rolled onto his stomach. If only he could have more friction…

Despite dearly wishing he could move his hips and chase the wave of pleasure that threatened to wash away from him at any moment – he would never have another opportunity like this – Paul found himself pulled in the aphrodisiac delirium that the wooden pole gave him. He felt the object push past his anus, the walls of flesh contracting against the untreated wood.

At this, Paul could contemplate whether the object was trying to pierce through, but the sensation of the mast so deep inside him quelled some fears substantially. He squeezed his glute muscles tightly, hoping the wood would lodge at the right angle.

Amazed, Paul encouraged his hips to move with all his might, and successively the pole managed to hit his prostate, erupting brutally through the organ. His legs went wobbly from the sudden spasms, and Paul couldn't contain the pained groan that escaped.

That stake finally snuggled in, making the man whimper and completely unravel, he felt the front of his pajamas being very damp.

But the way he entered the frenzy, he left, completely unprepared, and that gave way for despair to take over his senses.

Oh God, someone take this away from me! My ass is full of splinters!

Paul tried everything, kicked, tried to move his arms, turn sideways, but his muscles, as always, did not respond to the desperate commands of his dormant brain. It was worse than the numbness he felt when he was drunk.

The sneaky hands went back to feeling his legs, and Paul finally managed to see what he was dealing with, however, it was too late. He had been followed.

When he looked down, Paul just had to scream because he had so many meters between him and the ground. The man's body swayed on the stake in the middle of a location he couldn't quite make out on the map. It didn't help that there was no one around.

He saw dark blood pouring from his anus until it dripped onto the ground, a puddle forming.

An interesting fact about straight wooden stakes, not sharp ones, is that they go through the abdomen little by little, very slowly, making it much easier to cause bleeding.

But to him it seemed immediate.

The pole was already reaching his intestines, in a few minutes Paul's mouth would be wide open.

And he slid… slid…

The stake had definitely broken his ribs, because Paul heard the crunching of bones coming from inside, and what was worse? No sound came out of his mouth. Before he wasted away in moans, now he was sliding mutely over that pole stuck in his crevice, frightened, mesmerized and always looking down.

The closer he got to the ground, the more he felt the wood brush against him, taking parts of his organs along the way, painting the mast with blood and raw pieces of his being.

For any spectator who had the chance to witness the scene, it would make for beautiful cinematography: the sun cracking the earth on which Paul would land in a few moments, he could imagine a camera filming his distended body beneath the stake, an offering to art. He hopes they use all the recording, it would be a shame to waste hours of work.

Hunham woke up. He felt weakness, killer wasps in his stomach at the fragments that passes through his eyes. However, his comfort about the event did not surprise him, it was all part of his psyche, it was not intended to threaten him or cause any harm.

Maybe… It could be a warning.

But now? He had to take a shower urgently, because his underwear was in a repulsive state.

Paul rambled, feeling the cold water wake up his muscles. Normally he would have dived into the school pool during the swim team practice, but today he didn't have time. And he couldn't stop thinking about those dreams.

Maybe that's why these scenarios are happening. Well then… it would make sense to continue cataloging. But what good is writing ideals when you only use them to validate yourself? None. He needed something with purpose, a side of him not faded with time like his gray hair, the one that wants to connect with people in any way.

Breathing heavily, he ran to get his notebook.

And not only because of that, because Paul sank so deep into the level of psychological reasoning, he couldn't hear the alarm clock ringing or even Miles Davis talking to him through the notes, not following the ideal schedule to start the day well.

As he dried his body before putting on his clothes, Paul thought of other reasons to justify whatever those seeds were germinating in his mind, ready to be born on the keys of his typist.

A feeling of ominousness enveloped him, especially because such rains of inspiration rarely fall under his desert, they were more like very lucid mirages.

Under the bed he retrieved his suitcase, throwing it on the mattress to organize his things more easily, without tripping over himself while putting on his shoes. He had already laid out the books and notes on his bedside table. In his haste, Paul bumped into the furniture, causing many objects and papers to fall to the ground. Bah! Never mind.

Staggering, Paul slid his arm above the bedside table and let his books fall willingly into the neatly positioned briefcase so nothing else would make a mess. Well, more than necessary.

Paul didn't know how many kilometers he could manage in a marathon based on his post-modern sedentary lifestyle, a movement of his own that he wanted to make fashionable – which meant not doing sports for years and only returning to exercise in middle age through yoga.

But in the midst of his nervousness, Paul suddenly stopped. He gave a brief shake of his head to try to rack his brain, because he had the feeling he had forgotten something. However, nothing occurred to him, no matter how much he headbanged enough for something to jump out at him.

Arriving in the classroom, he went straight to his desk in an upright position, away from the board and the newly installed lectern, but still right in front of the side desks. So, wherever his students' eyes go, thinking about how they can procrastinate during class, they would always collide with the teacher's again.

Except only one person didn't hide his gaze back while the others ran in fear. He has noticed that for some time now, and with the absence of it, it was like something wasn't quite in place.

Paul coughed to answer the silence's questions, a habit he had brought from his apartment since he set foot in Barton. Maybe it was the after hours, the days he spends mumbling about his students idiocracy attempts at discursive essays. The astonishing autophony, whether while he was chewing something or listening to his own voice, in the presence of others was his greatest comfort, just him and the noises that his body produced, a communication that he could not have with any living soul.

Carefully removing the contents of his briefcase, Paul hunted for the notebook he anticipated using until the familiar little demons strolled back, returning from their break.

But his fingers touched something less familiar to his creativity. In fact, it was something completely disconnected from everything Barton represented. A cursed talisman, which appeared at the most inconvenient time of his day.

With pale lips, Paul held tightly to the Playboy magazine, which was supposed to be under lock and key on his bedside table, but for some reason beyond his understanding, it was there burning his digits.

If anyone walked in there now, Paul would disintegrate in a snap of his fingers, so in an impulsive movement, he opened his desk drawer and threw the magazine in there, closing it with all the force he could muster.

Turba mirum spargens sonum

Per sepulchra regionum

Coget omnes ante thronum

Mors stupebit et natura

Cum resurget creature

Ludicanti responsura

In a gesture of conscience, Paul clearly succumbed to visualize a pamphlet that would be at that very moment as evidence for everyone of his stupidity. No, they would only see a rehearsal notice for the student's choir in the first two periods. He could even hear the sound of a baton hitting paper, leading the melody. Paul would like it to be a needle to perform a good lobotomy on himself.

The silence was shattered with a nice jab by the choir of voices that were carried to the teacher's room by the dry December breeze, bringing a youthful chill inside the large school like a hurricane.

As if Paul wasn't trapped in a whirlwind right now, holding his bare forehead with two old, useless hands that had worn away from their vicious grip, his digits smeared with black ink and calluses from trying to carve out knowledge – something that was all the professor craved to leave as legacy on this cursed Earth, he swore by everything that is most consecrated by men.

No, not by ordinary men, because like Foley, the magazine hidden in that drawer was one of the worst escape valves from the insignificance of this reality that they were doomed to, whether growing or perishing. It takes almost two years for a human corpse to decompose, while plastic will still be here for another four centuries.

Paul rapped the table repeatedly using his knuckles vehemently, This! Is this what we will leave behind in the end? Send in a bombardment to blow everything up then!

It was stress clogging his blood circulation, because his head was throbbing and hard . Excellent! That's all he needed, what on earth did he have at hand to distract himself? Nothing, he will think about the item until the end of the day, and as a result, he will never forget this day.

Normally, if he was in his tiny hidden apartment, far away from the parking lot, two bottles of cognac would be with their legs open and ready to be savored, of course, in an intellectual and vain way, when the silence wasn't enough to keep him company.

A notion suddenly massaged his shoulders. In Barton it was extremely viable to move around a "blessed" bottle. Paul could come to the high school class and pretend to escort them straight to the dungeon, better known as the principal's office, and confiscate the kids' “stuff” without needing much effort. God, his mouth waters just thinking about actually doing this.

THUMP! thump! thump! His fingers tapped on hard wood, demanding.

His joints hurt, Paul jumped out of the chair and assumed the posture of a man who didn't care about appearances, letting his tie get crooked and his hair really clumsy, heading out the door. The objective was exact, he wanted everything to be played out like a game of chess, not like his eyebrows were twitching from addiction.

The longer he walked, the denser and narrower the corridor became, as if the walls tried to compress and wanted to crush Paul before he threw down all the progress he had made during these months, buried in gravel.

For the second time that week, Paul's well-trained ears – which involuntarily could recognize the sound of anyone's footsteps in his house, be it the slide of his father's slipper that didn't fully lift his foot to step on – picked up the second person that week chasing him. Should he be worried about this occurrence? Who else was trying to reach him?

“Oh, Paul! There you are!"

This time, he really wanted it to be Foley.

“Er- Yes! Good morning, Woodrup.” He regurgitated a greeting.

Paul saw his tone go down a drain as soon as he noticed the director wasn't alone. Hardy Woodrup made a point of shaking his hand, but the other man, in his forties and wearing a gray suit like his personality, only greeted him with a cordial wave, Paul barely recognized respect in the gesture.

“Mr. Endicott and I were talking about our Monday assembly.” The man began, and another pamphlet, this time inside the teacher's notebook, was plastered in front of his face. Paul probably stepped on it before leaving the apartment.

Sliding his hands under the lapel of his Corduroy, Hunham encourages the director to expose more details that he missed in the rush.

“But of course… This old ludicrous head, I have to order a new one by mail. There was a teachers assembly this week?” Paul tries to divert attention from his less-than-presentable appearance in Barton's parameters by straightening the remaining strands of his hair.

It was the perfect disguise a few acres ago, if only he'd caught the older boys on the way to the rehearsal room, hiding in their holey jackets the cure for any regret Paul might feel from then on. Unfortunately, his only contingency plan for the rest of his life, better than any retirement they could pay him.

Damn, he was doing so well. But what is another equivalent alternative to a self-flagellation session? Well, put up with more than two minutes of listening to someone pretend to enjoy your role in a low-paying profession.

Woodrup knew that Paul collected delays for such events and honestly did not recognize the problem Hunham had in coming up with good justifications, because Hardy is a man too busy up his own ass and kissing pictures of himself and eating from his ashtray by the table in his office, to even worry about passing on the topics of a meeting. He expected that many teachers would be present, except for poor old Walleye.

“Uhum, that you missed. Again." Endicott interjected, he seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth, visualizing Paul from top to bottom with his lip out.

How beautiful, he explains the obvious, as he was trained and castrated to do.Hunham made a face, his good eye was still focused on the director.

"Seriously? Oh dear, I'm so sorry.” He said of maximum effort to continue the gerundism of this conversation, “I’m sure it must have been a really important meeting this time.”

Otherwise you wouldn't even be tormenting me right now, he mentally concluded.

“Very insightful, sir, it is a subject that concerns you a lot from what we’ve discussed on several occasions. I like getting your angle on these things.” Hardy replied willingly, apparently he had barely caught the scratchy sound of Paul's sarcasm on the vinyl record.

Professor Endicott, however, continued to stare at his colleague's lazy eye, trying to see behind the translucent cornea. Thank goodness that's not the real case – those angles of yours would form a scalene triangle, Endicott thought between a weak laugh.

Paul realized that the director's companion was staring at him in deep thought, he couldn't help but feel a shock, as if he had touched a live wire, labeling this spasm as something bordering on paranoia. A dangerous word in his position, which is why Paul didn't like being too exposed around such arrogance.

He was obsessed to the point he forgot about the director opening his mouth several times to make sounds, and was really worried about talking to Hunham. But he managed to capture an excerpt from Woodrup's monologue:

“...We forwarded the project to coordinate activities that support students in remedial classes.”

“Excellent, excellent!” He snapped his fingers. Either to wake himself up, or to swat Endicott away.

“Because we did some research and your class has among the highest rates of students not being able to recover from bad grades! I mean, not the highest recorded in the history of Barton but...”

“Oh? Don’t tell me…” Just like every other school in the history of these United States! I am not responsible for controlling how much the government will invest in education, a large part of it always goes to support political dictators in foreign countries. Endicott became transparent in the face of Woodrup's absurd statement, but Paul caught his voice even if it was muffled:

“Given your lack of argument, it is a very alarming result, certainly?”

“I don’t know, Endicott. What should I say? That it's a difficult step because of students not submitting their work on time? Bones of the trade, my dear.” Paul measures his irritation, afraid that Woodrup would try to cover up this accusation with praise for his character, which would be deflated. He wasn't going to let a neurogenic tumor wart like David Endicott get him down. “Well, if you want me to stand here and make excuses, I’d better write our friends at the union or the Secretary of Education a letter.”

“I happen to like having friendly conversations with my co-workers, sir.” Hardy took a break, the gears working to make Paul see his point.

He sighed and smiled awkwardly, but continued: “And I believe in your commitment to transmitting knowledge to students. That’s admirable. What we propose is… double attention to those who do not reach the level required to absorb your course's excellent teachings.”

Paul widened his eyes and hunched his shoulders, raising the pride that didn't come from someone who walked with a hunchback. Such audacity was not so well recorded in history books. Or a line could be drawn in comparison to the attitudes of Emperor Commodus, the way Hardy makes decisions like a monkey stoned with various narcotics.

He’s blinded by the harem he had built in the union, he certainly has a lot of twat in his mouth from sucking academic dicks to move up in position.

“As you well know, although it is an entire paragraph written, the most striking sentence is: Nosce te ipsum . Know yourself. I am not wise man in any way, anyone who thinks they are is a rightful fool, so why should I know others?” Paul retorted only to witness Woodrup's countenance fall back in distress. Isn't it also an addiction to annoying others? It was undoubtedly one of Hunham's favorite pastimes.

The director of Barton already wanted to exalt himself, an amateur move: “Yes… but, between us, we are trying to keep the Academy on track before the holidays–”

“Didn’t you hear about the wave of cuts? Well, don't worry friend, soon the news will reach you on your paycheck.” Endicott made his presence noticeable again. Paul wanted to see laughter bubble up from his chest, but all he could feel was contempt.

“For your information, my dear educator, I did know about it from one of our people.” Paul gritted his teeth, Foley wasn't as useless as he seemed. “And I don’t see how that’s going to help students other than getting them through the year at the expense of those who are really making an effort to learn.”

Woodrup, sourly, intervened with an exasperated wave of his hands: “The bottom line is that it's up to us to look after our own, Paul, regardless of whether you're wise or not. This is a bias that would facilitate students’ next transition into this new phase of their lives.”

Paul couldn't help himself, his yellowed fangs had to come out: “A new phase dictates that they are still climbing the steps, but these children, Woodrup? They were born at the top!”

“I get it why you never show up…” Endicott takes the same stance as Paul, like a lion comparing who has the shiniest mane.

“You can thank the Maybe Omnipresent Almighty One above that I keep skipping your little club meetings.” Paul responds in a gentle knife twist, adding more venom to the mix. He wanted to get closer to Endicott and spit in his face, watch him melt into the ground with vigor like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“Because otherwise, I would say a few things about resuming the castigatios by stone, so you can start to see them for what they really are, angry mice running around, searching for cheese outside their mommy and daddy’s cage.”

“Jesus Christ…” The director whined, slapping a hand against his forehead. It was impossible to get any divergent idea into Professor Hunham's head, he grew up in a generation totally devoted to conservative teaching principles. According to his file, he was just a teenager when the Great Depression hit. The director doesn't feel like fighting tooth and nail trying to bring him back to this time when these values about discipline have changed.

“I don’t want you to mold our students, Paul, they just need someone approachable .”

“And aren’t there nannies and girlfriends for that task? Do me a favor."

“Unfortunately it is no longer an issue to be discussed, Paul. I'm just warning you in advance about the changes that will occur from now on. Whether we like it or not.”

That was Woodrup's problem, he backed off too much when push came to shove, it was a gift that came with the burden of leadership. He would be unwilling to confront students about “emotional issues,” because he knows it all starts with an unregulated amount of priming through their parents fortune. No adult could understand the machinations of a rich teenage boy's mind, not even when it was their turn to suffer for it.

Paul knows this because he never deviated from his path, he always honored his father and mother the way he was taught, no matter how difficult it was most of the time, and he has many physical and emotional scars as a witness to verify this fact. What Barton's students are looking for is not a mentor to quench their thirst for knowledge, but rather stability, comfort. Something Paul has never been able to weigh on a scale.

And Woodrup? He just wanted one less migraine. Maybe his jaw is already pretty tired after so many diplomatic blowj*bs.

“Notice how I added the we? So, this affects me as much as it will affect the teachers and students.”

Woody almost made it believable, he was indeed a fine educator the time Paul first stepped foot in Barton. But power made its way to claw inside his empty head, like it always did for generations to come. Power is exercised, marked like a bruise on a kid's thigh or their cheek. Paul swore to never feel defenseless again, to stare beyond and see power for what it was, an ugly excuse to take advantage of a single tear of altruism.

“Very well put, sir. And who knows what tomorrow will be? If we all collaborate, we can take a popular action to the Senate to reestablish the old parameters.” Endicott puffed out his chest.

“Hah! Bravo! Partiya Lyenina, sila narodnaya! ” Paul hummed at the end, clapping his hands in retaliation for Endicott for bringing inspiration to their hearts, it was without a doubt more moving than watching a stray and his beggar handicapped owner surviving on the street after the war.

This stirred the man, who stubbornly stamped his foot and pointed a finger at Paul, who raised his hands in mockery as if the digit were a weapon.

“Listen here, you fish-eyed mongrel–”

“Ahh, there it is! Come at me, let go of that anger, Endicott, I can’t wait–”

A whirlwind of applause woke the three men from their little clash. It was the boys finishing the rehearsal with a thunderous prayer, Paul having heard it before, during mass. The youth choir and their angelic voices started in praise again, picking where they left off from the hymn:

Liber scriptus proferetur

In quo entire continent

Unde mundus iudicetur

"Ohh drats. But what a shame, huh?”

It was the cue that Paul needed to get away from there as quickly as possible, he almost asked for blessings from an entity within social mythology that the boys would be blessed with a great end to this semester.

“Gentlemen, excuse me as I need to find the wisdom ticks that need my guiding light to walk through the darkness.” And with that, he shook hands and shoulders among the men, running off to meet his group.

Woodrup and Endicott were so perplexed by the resignation of the conflict that they remained stagnant in the same place for a few moments, due to the advent of the usual embarrassment that Paul Hunham managed to bring to situations.

Endicott shook his hands as if he had placed them in the toilet. “...We’d better go to the bathroom to disinfect.”

The director abruptly turned to the stunned teacher and genuinely asked, “What the f*ck is your problem?”

Endicott was disconcerted by Hardy's tact, as if he were concerned about Endicott's mental state. It was a gift that came with the pressure of leadership, Endicott thought. He scratched his head quickly before responding in a rather naive tone: “Uh, Grübelsucht?”

Anorexia Nervosa - Chapter 1 - emodialisse (2024)

Chapter Text

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