The Outcast Trinity

• Tyler Wilson, Grade 10, Wollondilly Anglican College
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

There was a restless tension in the room where the slowing of time was inevitable. The pale grey hues and bleak walls had already begun seeping into their minds. They sat placid, almost lifeless as each second drained them of their energy and capacity to speak. Time stood still momentarily until the icy air was pierced by the thud of Torin’s forehead against the thick pane of glass. He couldn't stand looking through the window any longer. He felt the dubious eyes of judgement from the outside world weeping through the porous gaps of the barrier. He could feel the exasperation in their eyes as if it was heat radiating against his skin. The burning sensation grew stronger as the frustration boiled in his mind, bubbling and spewing into his thoughts as it slowly decapitated each sane anticipation he concocted. He wasn't ready for the hoard of questions he was about to be asked. He viciously tore his fingers through his sandy blonde hair, his face still pressed to the glass. Pushing his head down, he clasped his hands behind his neck and released a sigh that fogged up the window to a milky white cloud.
Mehki, for the first time in her life was at a loss for words. She sat idle like a doll, propped upright in the flimsy plastic armchair. She was uncomfortable in this disquieting situation, both by her ridiculously impeccable posture and the foreboding demeanour of her best friend. Her world was becoming smaller and she could feel the walls creeping in on her, inducing her claustrophobia. She didn't want to lose Torin, not right now. He was the only person in her life to make her feel like she was worth something. She struggled enough as it was to maintain adequate status in the harsh social world. Her every move and action, assiduously watched critiqued by rapt eyes. The unnerved state she was placed in by the adolescent consensus drove her to the desolate threshold of sanity.
She flashed a sheepish smile at Wickham who sat beside her, slumped over his knees. He looked up at her from underneath his shaggy mop and stared helplessly into her eyes. His glasses cracked from corner to corner obscured half of his already impaired vision. He tugged the spectacles from his face and buffed them on the corner of his gym shorts, trying to divert attention away from the garish purple marks around his eyes and cheekbones. His attempts to hide the victimisation were indeed feeble. Torin and Mehki were both well aware of the brutality Wickham lived by.
They remained reticent, darting their eyes between one another and exchanging impassive looks. There were no words for this compromising situation, none to soothe the tension.
They all knew that this was the last time that the three of them would be together.
Wickham was a victim of domestic violence, Mehki was an outcast in her own social world and Torin was now a convicted juvenile.