No Mutual Friends

I have a selection of stories on Nifty, GayAuthors, Iomfats and CornerCafe. If you would like to read more of my content; check out my author's tag on Nifty or visit my website to find everything you need.

My Website - www.dk-daniels.com

As always, don't steal. Consider charity for Nifty, or if you want to join the community, I'm building, pick up your hammers and nails and support me on Patreon if you can. (Links are on my website.)

Lastly, feedback is crucial. I love hearing from you guys, and gals so don't be afraid to drop an email. I have not received the feedback I was hoping for. You can find me at danny2017writing@outlook.com

Check out my Patreon for early access to chapters.

A special thanks to my patrons: Samuel Roe (Cynus), Thomas Tallis,

Authors note: In writing, it is often hard at times to capture certain accents, speech patterns, colloquialisms and common text that is usually not used in a proper manner of English. However, to achieve the following story certain liberties need to be taken with spelling, grammar and punctuation to give the story the power it require's. Please allow me this and go with the flow as, at specific events in the story, the need for social media among young people is an ever-growing trend. And of which will occasionally be demonstrated within the current account.

Glossary:

The pronunciation of the protagonist's name is r-ee-s similar to the same Reese.

Skive: Avoid work or duty by staying away or leaving early.

Heaven Spots: Are places that present a challenge for graffiti artists to get to.

Piece: Usually a work of art by a graffiti artist, which can be later appreciated by other artists.

No Mutual Friends

By D.K. Daniels

Part 2

Plucking out my student identification card, I swiped it at the scanner on the wall until it made a beep and then fixed the cardholder back around my neck. 

Senses sharp; eyes erratically scanning each side of the corridor, and ear’s fine-tuned, to the right frequency’ upright like a dog if I could listen that well. I eavesdropped on passing by conversations. My bag bobbed against my shoulder as I slinked the main passageway of the Sacred Heart Intermediate Catholic School.

It is absurdly funny to me as to why someone would name a building an ol' ticker. Thus ironically the school's official name is denoting how special the heart is between two things, in a place or time and Catholic, hmm… I think someone fell asleep when they were designing this blooming place. I mean it's nothing special on the eyes, I am supposedly here to learn. I skive occasionally and go feeding the ducks in Hyde Park to spend the time. I know it's stupid, although it’s what I like to do. School is a bore for me, and now since I am in hot water, I can’t refrain from leaving the grounds. Though it's one of those times; you know when you need to take the bullet and get on with things. Otherwise, if I draw any other undue attention for truancy, fighting, vandalism or even the occasional foul language, I could be shipped out, and mum would be terribly upset. Of course, what is there to do in Fulham, every day is the same. Bishop's Park grows old and, and it's only a short bus journey to Hyde Park. There I can watch people, though not in a weird way. It's absurd how people are so clueless.

Just last week did I see a guy dip his hand into a bloke’s pocket and make off with his wallet. Is it scary that I can pick up on these details because I make trouble sometimes? Never have I ever, pickpocket, that is below my benchmark. I don't aspire to be the next Fagan from Oliver. I want to do my own thing. And it's not for the better lack of robbing someone. When I set out to paint, I write what inspires me on the wall. If the spraying turns out to be words then so be it, if it turns out to be a piece, then that is fine too. 

The pinnacle most certainly is heaven spots. They are incredibly hard to reach sometimes, I have had a couple of close calls except how many people can say they tagged the top of an arch frame under a bridge or a motorway sign in the middle of the city centre.

I can’t help but notice people sly glancing at me. It's not as subtle as they'd hoped it is. Well, I imagine. I can clearly see when they are looking. It originates with a brooding expression, then as you pass; the watchers linger with their eyes on the ground until you wander by. And like that, you can sense the eyes on you as if it were going to burn a hole in your back.

‘What if… what if one of these guys is the guy who messaged me.' Somehow the perception of that is intoxicating. Alone, I have nothing to go by on. Nothing, not even as much as a hobby the other boy could be interested in, or a name or… If truly this person is a boy and they are honest; which according to the message I received would imply that they are genuine then the boy who sent the message is in my year. The mysterious presence online even said so. The guy known as John White presently, which I might conclude is a fucking creepy name indeed, mentioned that he was in fact in my year. Now if my calculations are right… which is extremely rare figuring I am brutal at maths then that would bring the suspect pool to about sixty boys… Yeah, I forgot, my year is the biggest in the school. Furthermore, figuring there is roughly 120 of us both boys and girls, it doesn't help in the slightest. Though sixty is better than that enormous number and why the hell am I all detective like. All I need now is a Watson, and I'll be my very own Sherlock. You'd think that I have more important things to concern myself with today, like detention.

Turning onto the art corridor, I decided to have a ramble about before going to detention. Plus combine that with the mundane thought of sitting there for the entire day, it will kill me with boredom. Surpassing a couple of students; most younger teenagers from the years below me, I can't help but see how small they look. I mean with the boys, they are tiny, and the schoolbag’s they are carrying is either just as heavy as their overall body weight or as big as their torso in general. It’s the first time this morning for me to smile anyhow. 

Pushing on a familiar face approached on the opposite side of the corridor. The both of us channelled together effortlessly, and a sensation of anxiety managed its way into my chest. I don't have the audacity to talk to Charlie Golding. At least not today of all days. Panicked and in want of escape, I considered bursting into one of the teacher’s offices on the right. I would much rather explain why I thought it was a good idea to barge in, than having to look at Charlie in the face. Then again isn't he in my year again. I don't know Charlie all that much, he mainly keeps to himself, and that's fine with me I don't concern myself with his sort.

With Charlie horribly close, and his head bowed to the ground and deep in thought, I feel wrong somehow. It has me thinking. Except does Charlie have any friends to talk to? I have never seen him with anybody in school, so that begs the question does he even know what a friend is. It's not that he is disfigured or anything, or unapproachable. It's just Charlies doesn't seem to try in most social situations from what I have come to observe. I guess I have the luxury of being able to vent to friends when I am tired of life getting in the way.

And like that, figuring he was transfixed in another reality the both of us crossed by each other in the blink of an eye. I mean he seems genuinely hurt, and I would be lying if I said I wouldn't be in the slightest bit offended that he didn't even try and say thank you for what I did yesterday. Not that I did it for him, and nor am I looking for praise. Pivoting over my shoulder, I let my leg's carry me in a straight line, and like that, I watched as Charlie despondently carried on as if the world outside his head ceased to exist.

Ambling on, I reached the end of the corridor and turned right and redoubled the length of the passage in the courtyard. Perhaps I should ask him how he's doing? Would that seem weird coming from me? Of course. As I trudge forward, the will to want to skip class died, and I didn't so much want to skive anymore. Making up my mind, I pulled at the far door at the end of the sheltered walkway in the courtyard and came back into the central reception area. Reverting to the left, I made up my mind. I am going to detention. Entering the all too familiar stretch that separated classrooms from the main hall, and of which has an assortment of offices, namely of which the counsellors base out of, I left the hallway and bang. An abrupt pressure pounced down onto my shoulder, and as if to give whoever it was a fist to the mouth, I retained it. 

“Ah… boy,” Stephen mouthed breathlessly. 

“Late again,” I smirked.

My friend let go of my shoulder and strained his posture up as we walked a final couple of steps from where I was to part.

“Yeah… god my heart…,” he panted. 

“Maybe set your alarm twenty minutes earlier then,” I teased. 

The two of us stopped, and I glanced into the detention room. Perfect the overseer is nowhere to be found. I have a minute.

“And be early for a change?” Stephen smirked.

“Yeah…” I bluntly put.  

"Suppose..." Stephen mumbled.

"Since when have you ever gone to bed at a reasonable hour?" I quizzed. 

"Nawh... Sleep is vital," Stephen deadpanned before breaking grin.

Stephen giggled. Animatedly he said, "Man, I saw what you did to Jason yesterday; that was sick.” 

Here we go. Now my blond headed mate, with his glaring but most noticeably tired blue eyes, sort of assembled hair is going to praise me for what I did yesterday. I assume the feeling is great, except is it ridiculous that I don't want to get acknowledged for what I did now. From my own best friend. 

Cautiously choosing my words. I brought my arm to my neck and rubbed it. 

“I guess. My knuckles are a bit sore sooo… I must have damaged him irreparably,” I cooed.

Stephen crinkled his forehead, and his nose drew up. A smile shun through, and his teeth showed. Which made me think of the times I heard him singing. Figuring with the gap between his teeth, that that saying is somewhat true. That people with a break between the centre of there teeth turn out to be good singers.

“It’s not wicked like tha’… all you did was bust his lip, with a possible black eye,” Stephen commented.

As the corridor quietened down since most people where now in class now, and ready for the day to begin. I observe a mare bit of movement from the corner of my eye and figuring it is the teacher I started to finish up.

“Anyway, I’ll talk to you later, can you tell miss’ I’m in…” I asked. 

With a nod from Stephen. I started away, and that's when I saw Jason, trailing along, and ahead of me, he snaked in the door for the detention room. Regressing to Stephen, I gave him a ‘well wish me luck,’ sort of expression and started in the door. 

Marching all the way to the back, as far away from that little cunt as possible, I plopped down in the seat, tossing my bag into the adjacent chair. Unusual enough, I don't seem to have any rage built up to care at the minute so with that I decided to leave him be. Policing him, I preceded to take out a pen as I waited patiently for the class to begin. In the meantime, carving my name into the surface of the table and occasionally glancing over at Jason seemed manageable. After a little time, Jason turned around intentionally to remove his converse hoody, to drape it across the chair he's sitting on only when he noticed me staring he gave daggers.

Now that has just gone and pissed me off. A festering brew is bubbling in my stomach. Darting my eyes to the clock, I assured myself. ‘You can make it through the class without punching his traffic lights in.’ 

The End Of Part 2

Stick around for more. I have a selection of stories on Nifty, GayAuthors, Iomfats and CornerCafe. If you would like to read more of my content; check out my author's tag on Nifty or visit my website to find everything you need.

My Website - www.dk-daniels.com

As always, don't steal. Consider charity for Nifty, or if you want to join the community, I'm building, pick up your hammers and nails and support me on Patreon if you can. (Links are on my website.) 

Lastly, feedback is crucial. I love hearing from you guys, and gals so don't be afraid to drop an email. I have not received the feedback I was hoping for. You can find me at danny2017writing@outlook.com 

Check out my Patreon for early access to chapters.

A special thanks to my patrons: Samuel Roe (Cynus), Thomas Tallis,