"Dedicated to everyone who wonders if the characters are based off them. They are :)"

-------

The SecretBusterService Update: twenty five minutes ago

Dear students of Califur High,
After a month of deliberation, it seems that Taylor Smith's last messages are being released to the town publicly. You know why that is happening once you read them. There were a few interesting tidbits like 'The Scotch Killer is roughly a 6 foot man with a gruff, slurred voice.' and a few boring segments too like- 'I'm sorry if I ever hurt anyone, I hope you can forgive me.' Ugh. Sure.
Until next time Lions,
Bond 007.

Like. Share. Comment.
3.7k. 398. 945.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

I was having a pretty horrible day by the time I reached the maths teacher's office. Drops of spilled coffee dripped down my jacket as I swung my hand to lift my bag with a ripped strap (do not even ask me how that happened) and used the other to knock on her door.

At this rate, I would reach my house at thirteen O'clock with none of my possessions in working condition. My mental peace would not be in working condition either. Not that it ever was; but blaming it on today felt like fate.

"Come in!" a high pitched voice exclaimed from inside.

I silently prayed to all the gods of all the religions, in hopes of dramatically increasing my chances of being heard by at least one of them, and sighed. If Mrs Calloway gave me another extra credit assignment that made me wonder if there really was a god of mathematics and that he had a lot of free time just for torturing me, and then claiming that the said assignment wasn't actually covered under the subject guidelines but she would definitely use the information to help her study for the doctorate exam so that it wasn't entirely a waste on my end, I would end up murdering the next person on my way home.

I might not even wait that long, and simply gut her.

A small smile played at my lips as I entered her office with the image of her bleeding to death, drops of blood splashing on my academic file. How would that look on my college applications? Probably bad. But it would definitely make me stand out and seem edgy. It could also help me prove that I could tolerate seeing blood and gruesomely mutilated bodies.

A medical school would appreciate that, right?

"You asked to see me, Mrs. Calloway?" I asked, taking a seat next to another boy in the office.

I recognised him well enough. I doubt he had ever been forgotten by anyone, in all fairness. Soft brown hair, and deep green eyes, I had spent many hours listening to my sister rant about Jeremy's looks. At 6'1, Jeremy Jones was still two whole inches shorter than me, a fact that brought me immense satisfaction.

"Hey, O'Sullivan. How you doin'?" He asked, the signature smirk of the star quarterback of the school football team already in place.

He had been sweet talking Mrs. Calloway. Now, why would a football player, this one particularly, need to do that?

NO. No, no, no, no, no.

I knew exactly where this particular extra assignment was going to lead me. And I did not have the patience, or the time, for this one.

"Mr. O'Sullivan, I needed to talk to you about Mr. Jones and his little...predicament-"

"No."

She stopped talking, looking stumped. I had never turned down anything she had asked me to do. Apart from my obvious people pleasing tendencies towards adults in positions of power, I liked working on difficult things. It kept me occupied and away from the thoughts that inevitably invaded my empty head, and I always learnt something new.

This 'little predicament' however, was not going to teach me anything. This difficult thing was going to waste my time, and trigger all those emotions in me that only my oh-so-dear-now-in-rehab brother triggered. Jeremy Jones was exactly like Timothy O'Sullivan, and even one of him was one too many in my life.

No. I refused to be dragged into this mess. AGAIN.

Jeremy didn't say anything, but looked at me weirdly. As if trying to understand why there was a kid in the school who was actually not interested in making his life better and going out of their way to help him.

Yes, this was Timothy O'Sullivan 2.0 alright.

Recovering from her initial shock, Mrs. Calloway leaned towards my chair, almost conspiratorially, "You signed up for the tutor programme, son. This is your ticket to extra credit."

Another drop of coffee dripped down my jacket, and my eyes narrowed. She was way too young to be calling a high school junior her son.

"Like all those homework assignments you had originally thought would well amount to extra credit?"

I wouldn't usually call out a teacher like that, and I tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible, after all, I had actually liked doing those assignments. But I was at my wits end, and being told that Tom fucking Brady of our school would suddenly be taking up a good chunk of my schedule was not helping.

She leaned back, obviously surprised at the way I was acting. I, however, was certainly not. The Timothy curse was working. Every time Timothy O'Sullivan came to my head, I started acting out, becoming irrational.

And Jeremy Jones had only said a collective of five words, so far, one of them being my own name.

How could this be anything but a bad idea?

"Look, O'Sullivan, I need your help, man. Dad says I need to pass all my classes minimum or he won't let me play this season. It's an ultimatum bro. You get me, right? So, don't be a..dick about this, yeah?" He looked at Mrs. Calloway for the last bit. Calling me a dick was him being polite due to her presence.

Nice guy.

Mrs. Calloway pursed her lips, "Language, Mr. Jones," she stared him down when he started to defend himself, "And Mr. O'Sullivan, this is a school initiative. The extra credit is guaranteed. Mr. Jones' performance will help determine just how glorious your academic file shall become. Tutor programmes are always viewed highly."

The 'Mr. Jones' performance' part stumped me. Not only did I have to tutor him, I also had to make sure he got good grades. Teaching him the concepts would not be enough. I would have to sit through hours of coaching time to ensure he actually solved questions to be able to ace tests.

"If I refuse...?"

"No extra credit."

That bastard had milked every bit of seductiveness his smirk offered, onto Mrs. Calloway. She, like every other student in the school, had simply been unable to resist his charms. He was fucking Mr. Flitwick of Califur High.

I wondered if I really needed this. I was a straight A student, I was on the school basketball team, I was doing well.

But I had made a commitment. I had given my name, voluntarily, on my own accord and what not, for this tutor programme. I had been doing so for years. I wasn't going to back down now, with my biggest challenge staring me in my face. I wanted to think I had been picked for this particular tuté (or whatever you would call them) because I was the best tutor with the highest grade (regardless of what Kelly Grahams said, because who the fuck listens to first-bench-Kelly anyway) but I had a sinking suspicion that Mrs. Calloway had simply asked me because she always just asks me.

Clearly, not a single god of a single religion ever heard me.

Fantastic.

--------

Hey y'all,

Man, it's been a while since I last used Wattpad to write a story. Almost a year and a half has passed since my last update on my last book.

I try to complete stories, you know, I really do. But I can only convince myself to stick to a single story for so long before I loose my patience and get attached to another idea in another genre.

I'm sorry to all the people who had been waiting for the updates to my previous stories. Not that I think any of them will remember me anymore, it's been so long, hasn't it?

I guess this time, I'll simply write away and hope that people are drawn to the story on their own without the socialising part. It's not that I don't like making friends here, it's just that I'm so horribly inconsistent with my use of this app that I don't want to let anyone down or accidentally hurt them.

I hope you enjoyed reading and happy last day of 2023 to all of you :)
Byeeee