Chapter 1
BassetHound Academy For Boys, 1976
Theodore peered gloomily at his alarm clock and ran his sweaty palms down his face.
3:07 AM
Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
His mind was still whiring, and he laid in his back, staring blankly at the ceiling of his dorm. He groaned, swinging his bare feet over his rickety bed and tapping them on the cool wood floor.
“I can’t do this,” he grumbled, slipping on his round wire glasses and pulling a jumper over his T-shirt. Reality wanted him dead sometimes. But the thing is, Theodore couldn’t tell what was reality and what was make-believe.
When Theodore was seven, he was diagnosed with Hebephrenic schizophrenia. The doctors prodded at him for hours on end with gloved fingers and silver needles and they would never STOP. Theodore would hallucinate and would hear things that weren’t really there.
Theodore’s parents didn’t like that.
When Theodore was nine, he had trouble concentrating in class. No, the voices wouldn’t let him. The voices were engraved in his mind and no matter what, whatever he did, they would follow him.
Theodore’s parents didn’t like that.
When Theodore was twelve they sent him away from his home in South Wales. They had him pack his bags and sent him off to London, where he would attend boarding school.
Theodore’s parents liked that.
Theodore’s parents liked him gone.
He looked back at his alarm clock, which now read, 3:27 AM.
With a huff, he lumbered out of his dorm and shuffled down the corridors, twisting his mouth into a thin, worried frown.
He knew Hermann was awake. He knew Hermann was running equations in his head, counting down from the millions, his mind too awake to allow him to sleep.
With a harsh exhale, he knocked with his whitened knuckles on the door of Hermann’s dorm, stuffing his hands in his baggy pockets and tapping his foot in anxiety. Hermann answered the door almost immediately and split into a toothy grin.
“Theo! Come in, mate,” Hermann hummed, energetic but also hushed. Technically, they weren’t allowed to be doing this, but no one has caught them yet. Herman’s hair was ruffled and curled in all different directions in the back, and he pushed back a cowlick that draped over his face. He had argyle socks on and his hand-me-down trousers were cuffed so they didn’t go past his feet. His grungy turtleneck was a faded turquoise, with leather elbow patches that his mother had sewn on last summer.
Theodore managed a smile and scuttled in, pushing at his bangs and biting his lip.
Hermann quietly closed the door and swiveled to turn to his record player, his cane clicking with every step.
You see, Hermann is... crippled. Although they’d never talked about it in person, he knows Hermann has had multiple sclerosis since he was young, and he’s gone through many surgeries to ease the pain. He’s sixteen, the same age as Theodore. It is not common for someone that young to have this disease, but there he is, struggling to even walk straight. People he doesn’t even know calls him “old man” and “grandpa” everyday.
He can’t even help it.
Theodore watched as Hermann slipped out his record for The Beatles from under his bed, where no snooping professors would find it,
“The white album, our favorite,” Hermann muttered to himself the hint of a grin lingering in his brown eyes. Theodore felt his stomach flutter, and he smiled sheepishly.
A crackle of tinny static popped before Paul McCartney began strumming his guitar. Theodore could see Hermann smile to himself as he listened to the smooth chords roll gracefully through the dorm, tickling at their ears and giving them the feeling of complete weightlessness.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these Broken wings and learn to fly!
All your life...
You were only waiting for this moment to arrive.
“We should get Matt and Andrew, yes?” Hermann said abruptly, wrapping his bony fingers around the head of his cane. Theodore nodded, swaying to the chorus. Hermann smirked and limped off, being careful that his cane didn’t click too loudly in the hallway.
Theodore hopped on Hermann’s bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. The record player began scratching into a new song, and he found himself finally at peace.
“How’s it goin’, lad?” Matt exclaimed, his Latino accent carreening through the slumped dorm room. Hermann’s eyebrows furrowed as he put a stern finger to his lips, giving him a cold glare. Matt rolled his eyes, jabbing him in the gut and giggling.
Matt was born in the Dominican Republic, and his parents are mad rich. He says he was sent away because his mum and dad didn’t have the time to deal with him. Because he’s too needy and too bratty.
Matt wore plaid pajama pants and a loose V-neck. He was barefoot, and his entire body was covered in a thick mist of freckles. He had yellowed teeth and stringy hair, speckled with product and spray that had yet to be washed out. His golden-green eyes shimmered under the fluorescent lights of Hermann’s dorm. He raced over and pulled off The Beatles record, making the song distort into a crinkling stop.
Before Hermann could protest, Andrew shuffled in, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn.
Andrew is the only one out of the four that cares about his sleep. His slender arms curled around his waist and clutched at his bathrobe. His voice was thick with sleep as he greeted everyone grumpily. Matt cackled, flopping on Hermann’s bed and punching Theodore in the shoulder.
“You all are bloody idiots,” Andrew declared, cracking at his knuckles. Matt shrugged, “sleep is for the weak, bruv.”
Andrew’s parents always told him that he is a man, and he needs to act like one. But, unfortunate so, being a stereotypical man isn’t Andrew’s style. By day he puffs his chest, balls his fists, and growls at anyone if they so much as look at him the wrong way, and by night he allows himself to wash that away.
Andrew sat cross-legged on Hermann’s armchair and tried to calm his messy bed head, furrowing his brow in concentration.
Hermann shuffled to his bed, his cane clacking firmly at his side. Matt rolled over to face him punched him in the shoulder.
“Will you stop with the physical contact, Matteo?” Hermann exclaimed, his posh Queen’s English accent flooding the dorm room. Andrew lifted a sleepy hand up from the armchair,
“Please.”
Matt grinned, “oh, I’m sorry Mr. Hermann Shoemaker. I hope I didn’t disrupt the class! I sincerely apologize for breaking rule #408, where it clearly states that any-“
Theodore clasped his hand over Matt’s mouth and grumbled, “we’re all trying to sleep, stupid.”
That got him to shut up.
Theodore slept curled up at the end of Hermann’s bed, his glasses askew on his face and his mouth cracked open. Andrew remained cross-legged at the armchair, his eyes deep and sunken with shadows. Matt, who had wrestled off the bed in his sleep, lay sprawled on the hardwood floor like a freckled octopus, his tanned skin bathing in the moonlight shining through the window. Hermann lay snoring lightly at his bed, an opened book still resting in his lap.
Sleep may be for the weak, but times like these are savored.
Hermann’s clock blinked the time as they slowly sniffled awake, the blaring alarm ringing in their ears. Hermann reached over and swatted at his clock, turning it off with an obedient beep.
6:00 AM
Another day at BassetHound Academy for Boys.
Or Hell.
Whatever you like to call it.
