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Deep whole

Shadows in the Hallway

The principal’s office smelled like old paper and the kind of artificial lavender spray that was meant to calm people down but only succeeded in making Luke’s stomach turn. Principal Vance sat behind a mahogany desk, his fingers steepled. He looked at Luke not as a student, but as a liability—a problem that needed to be calculated and filed away.

"Violence of that nature, Mr. Arrow, is usually grounds for immediate expulsion," Vance said, his voice flat. "Jackson has a broken nose and a hairline fracture in his wrist. His parents are, understandably, livid."

Luke sat in the hard plastic chair, his skateboard leaning against his knees like a shield. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't tell him how Jackson had cornered him, or the things they had said about his hair and his face. He just stared at a coffee stain on the rug.

"However," Vance continued, sighing as he looked at a folder on his desk, "I’ve spoken to a few witnesses. It seems there was... provocation. And quite frankly, your records from your previous school suggest that sending you back to the streets won't solve the underlying issue. I’m putting you on a ten-day suspension. If you step out of line once more—one fight, one skipped class, one disrespectful comment—you are gone. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Luke rasped.

"Get out. And Luke? Clean yourself up. You look like a disaster."

Luke stood up without a word. He walked out of the office and through the front doors of the school. The suspension was a gift, really. Ten days away from the whispers and the bright lights. But as he hit the pavement, the reality of what ten days at home meant settled into his bones like lead. Ten days with his mother. Ten days with the men she brought home. Ten days with nothing to distract him from the urge to let the chemicals take over.

He skated toward the outskirts of town, his wheels screaming against the asphalt. He didn't want to go back to the house yet. Instead, he found himself at an abandoned construction site near the old railway tracks. It was a skeleton of a building, half-finished and forgotten. He climbed to the second floor, sitting on the edge of a concrete slab with his legs dangling over the drop.

He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit it, his hands finally stopping their frantic shaking. The silence here was different from the silence at home. It was peaceful.

"You know, for someone who wants to be left alone, you pick very dramatic places to hide."

Luke didn't even turn around. He knew the voice. "I’m suspended, Leo. You’re supposed to be in class. Go away before you get in trouble too."

Leo stepped out from behind a pile of plywood, looking distinctly out of place in his clean sneakers and bright backpack. He sat down a few feet away from Luke, mirroring his posture. "I have a free period. And I saw you leave the office looking like you were headed for a funeral."

"Maybe I am," Luke said, blowing a plume of smoke into the gray afternoon sky. "Vance gave me ten days. One more mistake and I’m out."

"Ten days is a long time to be stuck at home," Leo noted, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Luke let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "You have no idea. Home isn't exactly a vacation spot for me, kid."

"Don't call me kid. We’re the same age," Leo countered, though there was no heat in it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in foil. "Here. My mom packs way too much food. It’s turkey and swiss. No poison, I promise."

Luke looked at the sandwich, then at Leo. The hunger in his stomach was a sharp, biting thing, but the pride in his chest was stronger. "I don't need your charity."

"It’s not charity. It’s a trade," Leo said, leaning back. "You tell me how you learned to move like that—the way you took down Jackson—and I give you the sandwich. Deal?"

Luke stared at him for a long beat. He saw the genuine curiosity in Leo’s eyes. He reached out and took the sandwich, tearing the foil open with more desperation than he cared to admit. He ate in silence for a few minutes, the food settleing the tremors in his gut.

"My dad," Luke finally said, his voice low. "He was a dealer. A high-level one. He didn't like people touching his stuff, and he didn't like people looking at him wrong. He taught me how to fight so I wouldn't 'embarrass' him. Usually, though, he was the one I was fighting."

Leo went quiet. The air between them grew heavy. "Is he... still around?"

"Prison," Luke said shortly. "Three years ago. Drug trafficking and assault, though not on me. He was too smart for that. Never left a mark where the teachers would see. The scar? That was an accident. He threw a bottle at the wall, and I happened to be standing in the way of the glass."

Luke waited for the pity. He waited for Leo to look at him with that watery, sad expression that people usually gave him when they realized he was a victim. But Leo didn't do that. He just nodded, his face solemn.

"My brother didn't have a dad around," Leo said. "He looked for that kind of strength in other things. Pills, mostly. He thought it made him bulletproof. It just made him a ghost."

"I'm already a ghost," Luke muttered, reaching for his bag. He felt the familiar shape of the flask through the fabric.

"You're not," Leo said, standing up. "Ghosts don't break people's noses. Ghosts don't eat turkey sandwiches. You're just hurt, Luke. There’s a difference."

Leo started to walk away, then stopped. "If it gets too bad at your house... the library is open until nine. It’s warm, it’s quiet, and nobody asks questions. I’ll be there tomorrow after practice if you want to show me that kickflip."

Luke watched him descend the makeshift stairs. He felt a strange, uncomfortable warmth in his chest. It felt like hope, and he hated it. Hope was a dangerous thing in his world; it was the thing that made the fall hurt more when everything inevitably went to hell.

He stayed at the construction site until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. When he finally headed home, the dread returned, thick and suffocating.

The front door of his house was hanging slightly off its hinges. As he stepped inside, the smell hit him—a cloying, sweet scent of cheap marijuana and the sour odor of unwashed bodies. His mother was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, her eyes glassy and unfocused. A man he didn't recognize was slumped at the table, a pile of white powder spread out on a mirror in front of him.

"Look who’s back," his mother giggled, her voice high and thin. "The little hero. I got a call from the school, Luke. You’re a bad boy. Always making trouble for me."

"Shut up, Sarah," Luke said, his voice cold. He tried to walk past her, but she reached out, clutching at his pant leg.

"Don't you talk to me like that! I’m your mother!" she shrieked, her mood shifting in a heartbeat. "I give you a roof! I give you a place to sleep!"

"You give me nothing," Luke spat, wrenching his leg away.

The man at the table looked up, his eyes narrowing. "You heard the lady. Show some respect, kid."

Luke felt the rage boiling up, hot and uncontrollable. He looked at the man—a scrawny, hollow-cheeked loser who was probably half-dead already—and felt a terrifying urge to do to him what he’d done to Jackson. But he saw the way his mother was looking at the man, with a desperate, needy fear, and he realized that if he fought him, she would be the one to pay for it later.

He turned and ran to his room, slamming the door and shoving his dresser against it. He collapsed onto his mattress, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The noise from the kitchen escalated—shouting, the sound of a chair being overturned, and then his mother’s muffled crying.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the flask. He unscrewed the cap, the smell of cheap vodka filling his senses. His hand shook as he raised it to his lips.

*Ghosts don't eat turkey sandwiches.*

Leo’s voice echoed in his head. Luke stared at the liquid. He thought about the bridge. He thought about the bridge every night. It would be so easy to just keep walking, to let the water take the weight.

He put the flask down. He didn't pour it out—he wasn't that strong yet—but he pushed it to the far corner of the room. He curled into a ball on the mattress, covering his ears to drown out the sounds of the house.

The next few days were a blur of agony. The withdrawal was a physical beast, clawing at his insides. He spent most of his time at the construction site or the park, avoiding the house until he was sure his mother had passed out. He didn't go to the library. He wasn't ready for that.

On the fifth day of his suspension, he was sitting at the park, staring at his skateboard. The grip tape was worn, and the bearings were starting to seize up.

"You look like you’re having a very intense conversation with that board."

Luke looked up. Maya was standing there, her camera bag over her shoulder. She looked different without the school background—less like a student and more like an artist.

"It’s a piece of junk," Luke said, his voice gravelly.

"It’s a tool," she corrected, sitting on the bench next to him. "I brought you something."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of photographs. She handed them to him. Luke hesitated, then took them.

The first one was of him at the bleachers. The lighting was stark, casting long shadows across his face. The scar was prominent, but it didn't look like a deformity. It looked like a streak of lightning. He looked powerful, in a tragic, lonely sort of way.

The second one was of him skating. She had captured him in mid-air, his hair flying back, his face focused and clear. For a second, he didn't look like a delinquent. He looked free.

"Why?" Luke asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Because everyone sees the 'weird kid' or the 'scarred kid,'" Maya said quietly. "I wanted to see the person. And I think that person is worth knowing, Luke."

Luke looked at the photos for a long time. He felt a burning sensation in his eyes, a pressure he hadn't felt in years. He handed them back to her, his movements stiff. "You’re wasting your film, Maya."

"I’ll be the judge of that," she said, standing up. "By the way, Leo is driving everyone crazy at school. He keeps telling people you’re a secret pro skater who’s just 'undercover.' I think half the freshmen are actually afraid of you now."

Luke felt a tiny, microscopic tug at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile, not yet, but it was close. "He’s an idiot."

"He’s a friend," Maya countered. "There’s a difference. See you around, Luke."

As the days of his suspension ticked by, the house became a war zone. Dwayn, the man from the first night, had moved in. He was a mean drunk, the kind who looked for reasons to hit things. Luke stayed in his room, the dresser pushed firmly against the door, his heart hammering every time he heard a footstep in the hall.

On the final night before he was supposed to return to school, the door to his room shook.

"Open up, kid," Dwayn’s voice boomed from the other side. "Your mom says you’ve got money hidden in here. I need a loan."

Luke didn't answer. He stood up, grabbing his skateboard. It was the only weapon he had.

"I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!"

The wood groaned as Dwayn threw his weight against it. Luke looked at the window. The black paint was peeling, revealing the world outside—a world that was cold and hard, but one that didn't smell like his mother’s failures.

He grabbed his bag, shoved his few belongings inside, and kicked out the window screen. He climbed onto the ledge, the cold night air biting at his skin.

"Luke? Luke, don't be difficult!" his mother’s voice joined in, slurred and pleading. "Just give him what he wants so we can have some peace!"

Luke didn't look back. He jumped.

He landed hard on the grass, his knees buckling, but he scrambled to his feet. He didn't stop running until he was blocks away, his lungs burning. He ended up at the park, the same place he’d met Leo and Maya. He sat on the slide, his chest heaving, his hands clawing at his hair.

The urge to find a bottle, to find a baggie, to find anything to numb the terror was overwhelming. He reached into his bag, his fingers searching for the flask he’d brought with him 'just in case.'

He pulled it out. The silver metal was cold. He looked at it, and then he looked at the park. He saw the spot where Leo had sat. He saw the bench where Maya had shown him the photos.

He thought about the ten days. He’d made it through nine.

With a scream of pure, unadulterated rage, Luke hurled the flask as hard as he could. It flew through the air, disappearing into the darkness of the trees. He heard it hit something metal with a sharp *clink*.

He sat there in the dark, sobbing silently, his body wracked with tremors. He was seventeen years old, he had no home, and he was terrified. But for the first time in his life, he wasn't running toward the darkness. He was just waiting for the light.

When the sun finally began to rise, Luke washed his face in the park’s water fountain. The water was freezing, shocking his system. He looked at his reflection in the rippling surface. The scar was there, a permanent reminder of where he’d come from. But his eyes—those icy blue eyes—looked back at him with a spark of something that wasn't just pain.

He picked up his board and began to skate toward St. Jude’s.

He arrived as the first buses were pulling up. He looked like a mess—his clothes were wrinkled, his hair was a disaster, and there was a fresh bruise on his arm from the jump. But he walked through the front doors with his head up.

He saw the whispers start. He saw the way people moved out of his way. But then, he saw a bright yellow hoodie near the lockers.

Leo looked up, his face lighting up with a grin that could have powered the whole school. "You’re back! I told them you wouldn't bail!"

Maya was standing next to him, her camera around her neck. She didn't say anything, but she gave him a small, knowing nod.

Luke walked up to them, his heart racing. He didn't know how to be a friend. He didn't know how to be a student. He didn't even know where he was going to sleep that night.

"I’m back," Luke said, his voice steady.

"Ready for History?" Leo asked, falling into step beside him. "I heard Harrison is giving a pop quiz on the industrial revolution."

"I hate history," Luke muttered.

"Yeah, well," Leo said, bumping his shoulder against Luke’s. "The good thing about history is that it’s already happened. You’re working on the sequel now."

Luke didn't smile, but as he walked down the hallway between his two unlikely allies, the shadows didn't seem quite so long. He was Luke Arrow, and he was still here. That, for now, was enough.