Chapter Text
Damian stared at his history teacher in disbelief.
How much did miss Carter actually believe the texts on the walls? ‘Be kind to everyone’ ‘don’t discriminate’ ‘treat everyone with respect’ How much of this was just for show to make parents and fellow teachers happy?
I mean, it wasn’t really normal that she has all these texts on the walls, yet the moment they started talking about periods of peace and Damian raised his hand to answer, Madeline had yelled: “You wouldn’t know anything about it Mohamed!”
Damian’s first thought had been to roll his eyes, then tackle her, then call her imbecile, then look at the teacher. So out of pure kindness and want to please father, he turned to miss Carter. He turned his attention to the adult in charge, just to find her smiling and shaking her head.
“It’s not nice to say things like that, Maddy.” This feeble attempt to scold this little idiot. She said this only as a formality, just so that when someone asks if she encouraged this comment, they can say no. Because technically she wasn’t. There were many signs on the walls saying many things. The values of the classroom she had called it. If so, then why weren’t those values reinforced? Why was miss Carter visibly holding back her laughter? Could she not at least attempt to seem disappointed in Madeline’s action?
Damian could feel his cheeks get hot red. His nice sweater that Alfred had steamed this morning didn’t seem as comfortable anymore. Instead of hugging it felt tight, choking, suffocating even. The laughter seemed to go on forever, mocking him until he would fall into a grave.
Relax, they will likely forget the ordeal within a day. But what if they don’t? What if they forever remember the day Madeline Smith made this comment. Stop being stupid. What is this inane voice telling him these things?
He diverted his gaze down to his table. How foolish of him to assume the teacher will want equality. How completely nonsensical of him to even for a second think someone won’t view him differently just because of his skin tone.
He had been genuinely trying to do better. Yes, it might not have been the most successful thing he had done, but Richard is constantly saying it’s the effort that matters. But is it though?
If he had tried to be better, to do better, yet he is met with plain racism, then what point does it serve? How will he ever get somewhere?
Damian had this weird feeling within himself rise. Something in the back of his throat, like whenever he would hold back tears, only it had traveled down his throat, into his stomach. It was weird. It felt heavy, yet sad. He felt heavy, ugly, like he should do everyone a favor and just never return to school.
The bell rang with a brain scratching scream. He picked up his history textbook and notebook, then carelessly threw them into his backpack along with the brand new pencil case he had. There was nobody to show it to.
He stood up abruptly, trying not to focus on the sheer number of people heading towards him, probably to call him Mohamed like Madeline had. You idiot, they aren’t heading towards you. You sit in front of the door, they want to exit the room. Absolute narcissist. Not everything is about you.
Damian exited the classroom as quickly as he could. He checked his phone to see how long he’d have to wait for someone to pick him up. On Tuesdays it’s usually Drake. Timothy.
He was trying to get out of the habit of using last names for his so called family. It was considered rude to casually call someone by their family name. This was usually reserved fot formal events, or so he had understood from his sociology textbook.
Be there at 05. Stuck in conference. Sry.
Great. Just great. He had to wait 40 minutes just so Dra… Timothy could pick him up. Was there really no other way? Probably not. Richard was in Blüdhaven, Stephanie and Cassandra were having a ‘girls day’ or whatever it was, Alfred was preparing for the upcoming gala with Father, and Todd, no, Jason was undercover for a drug bust or something.
Might as well wait inside until 55. Then he would have plenty of time to get ready and he won’t freeze to death while expecting Timothy.
There was really nowhere to wait but the hallways. This had been the last period and most teachers had a meeting on Tuesdays. The kids should also be leaving so he can anticipate minimal distractions. He leaned against the wall with his back and slid down so his knees were drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on top of them.
Damian checked the time. Still 35 minutes left. Might as well close his eyes. Can’t hurt. And if Timothy does arrive before he wakes, the phone’s ringtone will wake him. He makes sure it isn’t on do not disturb and sets his bag on the floor beside himself so he can use it as a makeshift pillow.
He closes his eyes and feels the world melt away, his mind turning into a senseless mush that at last shuts off all his thoughts.
Damian opens his eyes to find the hallway way darker than when he began his nap. Estimating the time, he would place his nap at 1.5h. The teacher meetings usually lasted around 2h. He reached for his phone in his back pocket. Not there. What?
“Smile.”
Damian looked up to find a man, the janitor to be exact, taking a picture of him. He began scrambling, at Smith’s legs, only he was beaten to it. A brown boot was heading straight for his face before he could even register what was going on.
He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact. Bullseye, his nose had probably been broken with a crack that was no stranger to him. He opened them, tears threatening to fall as he tried to figure out what was going on.
“Cockroach.”
The sole of the boot stomping down on his face was dirty. There was gum and even mold stuck onto it. You’d think a janitor would know how to clean his own shoes. His whole head felt like it had been struck open and split into three parts. It was as though oil had been poured all over his face, blacking out his eyes, seeping into his ears and almost completely blocking out his nose and throat, coating his brain.