The Packless Alpha

An eccentric kid, with his eccentricity accentuated by people’s normalcy. Extreme normalcy I may say. Fascinating, how something in its very essence indicates moderation, and at the same time can be extreme. Extreme moderation. Why such a term doesn’t run on tongues as the isolated term “extreme” does?

Extreme moderation could be more dangerous than eccentricity. Actually, extreme normalcy is a dangerous kind of eccentricity.

Then, it follows, that he’s an eccentric kid that is surrounded by eccentric people. So what makes him stand out if that’s the case?

The answer is rather simple: They are not aware of their eccentricity, unlike him, who is overly aware of it.

****

That was stark brilliance! Brilliance to the point of creepiness. This sort of machinations, to be weaved out of a 14-year old brain was a thing of wonder. No wonder his parents disposed of him and sent him here—that must have been what happened: Who would bear having a little literal devil about?!

****

He hadn’t had the sleep he direly needed; he felt that dawn was always fast-approaching. Either that or time flies by when conversing with his night thoughts. The little cheek-stained boy, Tom, was the first to rise and shine—he wasn’t so sure about that last shining part though: How could he be shinning with such ink residue stroked all over his countenance? He thought it was rather a foolish attempt on his part, but he had had to avenge the cruelty he was subjected to. He did hit near the mark, but was still a bit far from the bullseye. Messing with pens and bathing everybody with the special shower of navy-blue ink wasn’t the best of his moves: It was sloppy and easily traced back to him.

Things will get harder from this point going forward, as he had become the center of suspicion. A thought shyly tiptoed in his brain, one that tells him he oughtn’t to resist no more, and gotta be a “Good Boy” so he could come back home; but that thought was rightly shy and reluctant to present itself fully—as he instantly rebelled it.

What he welcomed though, was the faint rays of dawn that he saw on the palm of his hands as he started to open it, very slowly. He shifted focus towards the clouds that were nearing each other as time went by: The sky promised rain… as if it wasn’t already raining. Glancing at the tall building with the dim windows, that he knew were about to lighten up in an hour or two, a queer spasm took hold of his face. And a stranglehold was felt rounding his neck. Couldn’t bear it, shot up standing on his feet, and marched angrily to only god and him knew where.

****

“Wake up, Noah! wake up!”

The body laying on the bed started shifting in place, while the one sitting on the edge of it kept channeling the words that were meant for a yell in a whisper. An awakening whisper it was, enough to render any sleepy head sleepless.

Noah sat up. Their eyes met in spite of the dimness. Tom started to view Noah with the eye of his mind, recalling the reason why his choice fell on that kid particularly: Noah, the only kid in the dorm in whose eyes I see a hidden riot, waiting to be kindled out of hiding, and into sight. Into daylight; as riot doesn’t belong in the shadows, but might use shadows as a means to set the stage for the occurrings that are set to take place in daylight.

Talking to the now-awakened boy, he started by opening his heart—or so he seemed so convincingly. He was trying to get Noah to let down his guard, so he can be his own safeguard. His own scapegoat. So there he sat, as erect as a tree-trunk unyielding to the strongest of winds, elaborating the plan of his next move, and specifying Noah’s exact role in it.

He was on the cusp of complete reassurance, as he again saw that thing sparkling in Noah’s eyes. But as he was about to sigh in relief, the other kid recoiled. He asked him what’s the matter, but only with his eyes. And the expression of his eyes was met by one of the other’s head, that was explicitly telling him: No!

He sat there for a moment or two, completely taken up by the contemplation of what to do now that the would-have-been participant in the plan is no longer participating—after becoming aware of the ins and outs of it!

Noah now became threatening, so he fought fire with fire, and resorted to threating. Noah’s recoiling increased, and he seemed like a withered flower contrasted to the erect figure of the tree-trunk on the edge of his bed. He looked around, as for an escape—or maybe for an opening to attack.

At last, he yielded—ostensibly. After Tom turned his back on him, Noah awakened the boy in the neighboring bed, and while that boy was still startled and half-asleep, he told Tom loud and clear: You won’t get away with it!

Tom stood there motionless and helpless— with his hands tied now in the presence of a witness.

****

No Noah, No problem. I told the kid how special and unlike the others he was, and in the pretense of opening my heart to him, I did open it indeed, laying out all that keeps me up at night and how he can make it better. He cast all of that aside, putting only his stupid fears front and center in taking his decision. He is unaware of his peculiarity, eccentricity—uniqueness. But I’m aware of it, I can see it in his eyes—even though he won’t take part in the plan, I’m sure he won’t snitch.

****

Tom stood there exchanging looks with the wall-mounted bell. Then looked around searchingly, as eye contact wasn’t a satisfactory contact for what he had in store for the bell: He had to get his hands on that thing. He walked down the aisle, entered one of the classes, and laboriously carried a chair that he would in another situation just drag creating a noise that makes one closes his eyes forcibly. Finally, he placed that chair beneath the bell and stood on it.

“Not so high and mighty now ha? I mean literally, you’re not that high!”

He got his hands on it. But the look on his eyes indicated that he was maybe still figuring out what to do with it, or rather to it, exactly.

Suddenly it hit him: Two birds with one stone… couldn’t get any better!

****

This day the whole facility residents woke up on screaming instead of ringing.

The poor lady’s head got cut open, and a deep fissure colored with blood was visible. The principal’s office, which was nearby, was occupied with the shrieking until there was no room left for any other sound to be heard there. She hurried out and hastened towards the heavy screams. After sending the injured lady to be taken care of, the principal started examining the fallen bell, conjuring up in her head the possibilities that may have led to this incident: The bell was old, so it may be just explainable that its fixation to the wall got loose? maybe it’s not the bell being old that led to what has occurred, maybe it’s the rough handling on the workers’ part?

Are there any other possibilities as of what caused this? she pondered. This time the trap-net Tom weaved didn’t have as obvious a thread that leads back to him: The thought of the bell being tampered with crossed the principal’s mind only shyly. At least until she was sitting in her office and someone knocked on the door, she let him in, and he presented with a hesitating air the fact that he knew exactly what went wrong with the bell.

****

Meanwhile, the kid was chatting busily with everyone he cross-pathed with. Resting on one flower at a certain moment then flying to rest on a different set of flowers at the other. This butterflying thing that he was doing wasn’t a trait tied to him in the least. That sudden change of character might draw some unwanted attention. He didn’t care, or so he seemed as he was relishing every move and every word he utters. Whilst circulating the area with no regard to the suspicion circling around him, he noticed that someone is missing from his dorm, someone that was almost always present.

He positioned himself on the edge of the bed, with his mind on the edge of its seat nibbling fingernails. Noah wasn’t one to snitch, I’m pretty sure! But something is definitely off, he isn’t here! The principal isn’t here too; In such an incident you find her on top of you at once. Even at the most natural of incidents, she relentlessly questions her way through the dorm, like a worm infiltrating an already fragile body. So it’s not unlikely for one of the kids to break even though he didn’t break a thing; kids being put in the spotlight of the guillotine often start to forget what innocence means. How someone gets accused then punished, it’s all seamless to a fault. No resistance, at least not a yielding one on the kids’ part. All efforts were ineffectual because they were hardly efforts.

And there’s this elusive illusion that one can’t really sit with for a proper while: To be reported as “a good boy” and to be returned home, away from this hideous boarding school. And even that illusion was a luxury for some, as they were set to spend a specified time, and once something is set, it stands to every and any attempt of deviation, defiance, or denunciation.

I wasn’t really a leader, I just entertained the idea of being one. I glance around and I see the resemblance in the looks flickering through each and every eye, but I also see some kind of spite mingled with that held-back support for the eccentric kid, who brings a lot of undue punishment upon the pack with his reckless actions, and his nonstop scheming and trouble-causing.

A leader doesn’t hurt his pack, he has their back. He put out his hand to help them, and to put out the fires of any danger threatening them. But what the pack almost never realizes, is that hurt and help are only separated by a fine line, and each can be mistaken for the other.

Sometimes, the only way to help someone is to receive some hurt instead of them—why wouldn’t they understand that and just receive the freaking hurt for me so I can have a much-needed breather?!

Other times, the only way to hurt someone is to help them—to help them to the point where they leech on you; and as any leader, I need followers; but I don’t want disciples! That’s what differentiates me from any leader wannabe.

Anyway, my only recruit slipped away through my parted fingers, now I’ve got to look elsewhere: I’ve got to have a recruit so as to I can drive the suspicion away from me. Matter of fact, my aim is much higher: I want to have so many recruits that any suspicion will be spread too thin over the multitude of possible culprits, only then will they yield to us, after an eternity of us yielding to them.

****

Tom was sitting there in a state of near oblivion to what’s going on around him, until a finger came stabbing his shoulder annoyingly—and so he’s gotten wise to his surroundings. Standing up close to him poking his shoulder was one of the many flowers on which he landed earlier chattering nonstop.

The follower, sorry—the flower, was urging me to look up, and see the one that seems to be crowding me out of the top spot of criminal deeds, and, unprecedentedly, taking my place as the first in line for facing the guillotine!

All were listening to the lesson that was being made out of Noah, the little devil who loosened the attachment of the bell, causing both human casualties, and financial loss.