THE BROKEN DREAMS

The following day felt heavier than the last.

Fred barely slept — haunted by flashing images of his own name, humiliated in bold letters on the bulletin board.

He had no choice but to get up again, no matter how dead he felt inside.

The morning was colder.

The air sharper.

The sky greyer, as if mourning with him.

---

As he folded his mother's blanket, Fred caught sight of the old photograph tucked into the edge of the cracked mirror.

A younger version of himself, barely six years old, sitting on the shoulders of a tall, dark-skinned man — proud smile, broad chest, eyes sharp like blades.

His father: Henry Layton.

Gone.

Lost in a military mission overseas, declared missing when Fred was only eight.

No body.

No grave.

Only an endless silence that crushed his mother and left Fred holding broken pieces too heavy for his small hands.

He touched the photo gently, running his fingers over the faded smiles.

> "I wish you were here, Dad," he whispered into the empty air.

---

The walk to school felt longer.

The moment he entered the black iron gates of Royal Crest High, Fred felt every eye turn, every whisper curl like smoke into the cold morning.

Some laughed openly.

Some pointed secretly.

Some didn't bother hiding their disgust.

> "Look, it's Mr. Worst Dressed himself," a girl snickered.

"Maybe we should start a GoFundMe," another laughed cruelly.

Fred kept walking, each step heavier than the last, the strap of his battered backpack digging painfully into his shoulder.

In the corner of the courtyard, a group of boys pretended to model, strutting with fake rips in their clothes, imitating him.

Fred lowered his eyes.

He had learned early: don't look back.

Don't feed the wolves.

---

In Literature class, Mrs. Veronica Stern — a sharp-eyed woman with a hawk's nose and bitter mouth — made Fred's humiliation official.

She held up a project Fred had worked on all night: an essay about "Dreams and Realities".

The pages were clean, his handwriting neat.

Mrs. Stern didn't care.

She read aloud:

> "Fred Layton believes dreams are unreachable for people like him.

He says reality is a cage."

The class laughed.

Fred wanted to crawl under the desk.

Mrs. Stern smirked and said, "Maybe if you worked harder, Fred, reality wouldn't be so hard for you."

He bit the inside of his cheek till he tasted blood.

He said nothing.

He didn't trust his voice not to break.

-

In the school cafeteria, Fred sat alone at the far end, where the window cracked and let the cold in.

He had exactly one piece of bread wrapped in an old napkin.

Across the room, Tiffany Lane — the gorgeous blonde queen of Royal Crest, with porcelain skin and emerald green eyes — posed with her new Louis Vuitton bag, showing it off to her group.

On another table, Victor Simmons, son of a top politician, ordered sushi delivered to the school gates.

The price of the meal could have fed Fred and his mother for two months.

Fred took a small bite of his bread.

It tasted like cardboard.

A janitor passing by — an old woman with a limp named Miss Juna — paused and slipped Fred a small bottle of juice.

No words.

Just a brief, tired smile.

Fred held the juice like it was gold.

---

Fred stayed late after classes, pretending to study in the library.

It was warmer there, and quieter.

He buried himself in dusty old books, losing himself in stories of heroes and impossible dreams — dreams that didn't belong to kids like him.

When he finally left, the sky was already bruised purple and red.

As he turned the corner near the science building, he heard voices.

Curious, he hid behind the wall.

---

Victor Simmons and a teacher — Miss Eliza Moore — were laughing together.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Miss Moore was beautiful, mid-twenties, curvy, caramel-skinned, long braided hair, known for her stunning beauty that made even senior students awkward around her.

She leaned in and whispered something.

Victor laughed and slipped her a wad of cash.

Fred's heart stopped.

He realized Victor wasn't passing exams because he was smart.

He realized teachers weren't sacred.

He realized even those meant to guide them could be bought, corrupted, stained.

Miss Moore straightened her skirt, kissed Victor lightly on the cheek, and sauntered off, heels clicking like bullets.

Victor turned, smirked to himself, and pulled out a silver car key — a brand new Audi S7 — flipping it around his fingers like a toy.

Fred stumbled backward into the shadows, unseen, unnoticed — just like always.

---

That night, Fred sat beside his mother again.

The room smelled of damp clothes, burnt oil, and faint sickness.

He watched the thin, weak rise and fall of his mother's chest and felt a rage rise inside him — slow, poisonous, burning.

He hated the laughter at school.

He hated the shining cars and golden invitations.

He hated the teachers' fake smiles.

He hated how life kept taking and taking and taking until there was nothing left but empty hands and broken backs.

He hated himself most of all — for being too weak to fight back.

---

Fred didn't cry.

He stared out the window, past the broken streetlights, past the towering skyscrapers of the rich side of town.

He stared until his eyes burned.

In the darkness of that broken room, Fred Layton made a vow — not aloud, not with words, but with something deeper:

> One day, he would make them see him.

One day, he would stop being the boy they trampled on.

One day, he would shatter their golden cages.

But tonight...

Tonight he was still just a boy sitting in the ruins of forgotten dreams.

And the night wrapped around him, tighter and tighter, like a noose.

---