When the burning subsided in my eyes, I was left with sore ribs and a vision of colors. I couldn't be sure what time it was, I had been knocked out on the cold floor long enough to leave an imprint on my cheek, but no one else was in the bathroom.

The reflection of my face in the mirror left nothing to the imagination. My dark eyes were swollen, pink, as if I had been crying or had a subtle allergic reaction. There were tile lines imprinted across the left side of my face where I had been laying and all of my thick black hair stuck up on one side. Lifting up my navy T-shirt, I couldn't see a bruise on my side but I knew that something would eventually appear.

I scuffed my hair, hoping it would fall back down to its more natural state of stubbornness. My eyes felt dry, as if I had been crying for hours on end-- which could have been the case considering the tightness clenching across my chest. Splashing some water across my face, I stared into my eyes for a second longer wondering if my reflection had something he desperately wanted to tell me. Though, nothing came and it didn't surprise me. But a part of me wanted an explanation. What had happened to my eyes? Besides the irritated swelling: nothing looked overtly different. Perhaps Sara had pepper sprayed me and I didn't notice. It seemed rather unlikely a thing to happen, but nothing else could have explained it.

A lot of things seem to be happening that I can't explain. I thought to myself, picking up my backpack from the dirty floor.

Unable to settle my hair down, or get a decent grasp on reality, I hobbled from the boys' bathroom with a wince and a couple gnarled grunts. I used to love coming to school everyday. Now, it was just a chore. Though, I guess that was how most students felt when they weren't getting what they wanted. And what I wanted: was to not be seen and to go back to being the boring kid in class no one cared to talk to.

I found a clock in the school hall. 2:15 pm. There was one more class left. I'd been out for about two hours and not a single person reported me laying in the bathroom. Maybe I was still invisible, but not in the way I wished to be.

There wasn't anyone in the hallway and it made me wonder if going home early would put my mother in a bad mood. Best not to anger the mama bear. Eventually I decided that the wrath of my peers was a much better bargain and found my way to my last class: Physical Education. I changed in the locker room and headed out to the track and field where my classmates were having their normal running spree.

I groaned as the students ran around doing the typical mile run around in circles. The coach was still focused on the students, maybe if I could find his attendance sheet there was a chance to get away without doing any exercise...

"Jones!"

I swallowed the thought immediately. He had his role in hand, clocking in each students' running times.

"You're late." Coach Moony, with his leathery skin and milky grey eyes beckoned me over from the field gate entrance. He looked larger than I remembered, but that could be because I always wanted to keep my distance from him.

"Yes, I'm sorry." I didn't have an excuse, unless I wanted to tell him something he wouldn't believe. Moony was the football coach at our school, and Sara's brother was the shining star. He also happened to be the one to kick me senseless in the bathroom two hours prior. Moony wouldn't hear it even if I had solid proof to back the story up. So, I lied: "I had to take extra time for an exam in English today. It was last period..."

"Where's your pass?" Moony wrote something down on his clipboard as a couple students huffed by.

"What?"

Moony looks pointedly back at me. "No pass, no gas." Something seems to dawn on him as his face softens. "That's right, you're the one who got hit on the head! I bet that concussion really did a number on you."

"Concussion--?"

"Ya, boy! You, you little fucker, hit your head on that there pole didn't you? Is that why you needed more time for English? Cuz yer brains were bashed silly while looking at a pretty girl?"

"Um..."

"I'll let it go this once. I remember what it was like being a kid yer age: loved all the pretty little ladies with nice--" He stopped himself as if he was remembering who he was talking to. "Anyways, go take a seat on the bleachers, yer lookn' beat."

You have no idea. "Thank you."

"Yer can make it up after school when yer get better."

Never mind.

I sat down, the metal bleachers burning a hole into my thin workout shorts. The sweat was dripping from my brow and I had to blink a couple of times to get it out of my eyes. But, I blinked, staring out at the class and watching them gather at the start again when they finished, there was something off. But it was different than seeing Angelo, but I wouldn't doubt it: I was the only one who could see them.

Colors.

A lot of colors. Every single body had this sort of glow to them. Some people had brighter colors, some murky, some had more than one color or different shades. Just like I had been seeing on my mother, accept her's was a gloomy barf-brown. I hadn't questioned it before. But they were everywhere, overwhelmingly so.

I blinked again. Gone. The world was back to normal. Perhaps Moony was right, maybe I had hit my head a little too hard on the stadium pole and this was all some sort of delusional nightmare.

The thought was was oddly comforting at first, but it didn't last long.

When I arrived home after school, I walked into the kitchen to find that my mother was laying on the floor staring up at the ceiling with a blank and cold expression on her face. And Grousteus, standing over her like a spider having caught a fly in his web, was holding a shard of glass above her chest-- as if to plunge it deep into her heart.