This is an extract from the piece i most pride myself on. It's based on my interpretation of a song by The Divine Comedy (which is, itself, based on The Three Sisters by Chekov). I'll get round to finishing it at some point, but if there is enough demand I may start uploading the finished parts as soon as I can.

Anyway, I hope yyou enjoy.
PaperSmile

--Author's Note: This short story may not mean much to people, and if that is the case then I apologise for the waste of your time. But this story holds a profound meaning for me, and I believe that elements of each character can be found in every person who decides to read this. I can only hope that you enjoy the read and come away with a better understanding of the effect a simple word can have. Have some consideration for those around you. Thank you.

Also, my thanks to those who made this possible; Teri, David Todd, Rosie Kenny, my parents and family and everyone else I can't remember at 00:25 in the morning. But my special thanks to Jessi Benn, without whom this whole piece would not have been possible. Thank you Jess.--

The classroom is dark, a solitary light bulb flicking on and off in the corner. The room is roughly square with a large blackboard covering the wall beside the door, which is painted green. The paint is peeling slightly, giving the door a used, almost dilapidated look. Desks are scattered into rough columns, loosely regimental. Posters proclaiming the benefits of learning and the dangers of idleness are placed intermittently along the remaining walls. Paintings made by young boys are grouped together into a bundle on a workbench on the back wall. The door opens, creaking slightly as a lone figure enters the classroom.

A tall, slender woman moves towards her desk and, after flicking the light switch up, sits behind it and pulling out a sheaf of paper she reads it. The light, now on, illuminates the woman's attractive features. She is pretty, in a naive, young way. She has a straight nose, brown eyes and brown, bobbed hair. A solitary strand of hair falls over her eyes causing her to pause and correct it. She looks up, surveying the walls, a tear in her eye. The light flickers, then goes out. The woman stands stiffly, and walks to the switch, flicking it several times. Nothing. She sighs in frustration and leaves the room, the door shutting loudly behind her. The room, now dark again, sleeps, as a sudden Autumn chill sweeps through an open window.

Barnaby Williams sped down the hill, running to catch the school bus. He had short legs, and was more than a little plump. He had a round face, brown eyes and a messy clump of brown hair. His school uniform was too small for his stomach, almost bursting at the seams. His nose was crooked, broken at the age of five, as a result of falling down the stairs. That happened a lot, even these days. Accidents, bruises, broken bones. People said things, of course, but such things are always points of gossip.

The bus was in sight now. Barnaby put on an extra burst of speed to reach the gaggle of students before the bus left. He reached them as the last of the children boarded. He pulled himself up the steps, greeting the driver and jostling his way to the back of the bus. People jeered as he passed, pulling faces and calling vulgar names after him. Faces blurred as Barnaby marched to the back of the bus, to find his appointed seat, away from everyone else, but away from the bullies.

He sat, and hunched up as the laughs hit a crescendo, then died down as the bus pulled away. The heavy droll of chatter almost suffocated the boy. His eyes grew wet, and tears rolled down his face as he sobbed quietly. No one would hear, they never did, it happened every day. His eyes were closed, the jeering faces shouting horrible things at him; hey, dickhead, where's your mum, eh? Oi, Barnaby, did you kill her yourself, or was it your fat arse that did it? Oi, you little shit, look at me! Barnaby cried all the way to school, tears rolling down his plump cheeks and falling gently onto the floor.

As the bus pulled up to the school the children began to stand, packing their belongings back into their bags. Barnaby remained seated, drying his bloodshot eyes and trying to conceal his sobs. He waited until the throng had left the bus then followed, thanking the driver as he stepped off and headed towards the main building.

The boy turned as the bus pulled away. He watched as it reached the end of the road, headed back towards the bus depot. Barnaby stood there, afraid to turn around, afraid to once more enter the fray.

“Hey Barnaby.” a voice said from behind him. Barnaby swung around to see a thin, tallish boy with a messy crop of blonde hair. The boy wore a cruel grin and was flanked by three other boys, all thick-set and tall.

“Hello Johnny.” Barnaby whimpered, moving ever-so-slightly backwards, away from the group.

“Where’s your lunch money then? Got any today or did your dad just give you another shitty little packed lunch?”

“No, I have a packed lunch again…”

“Give me it then. Now.”

“But…”

“Now.”

Now. The command shook Barnaby to the core. Trembling he opened his bag and reached in to retrieve the lunch he had made himself that morning. He handed it over, his hands shaking. Johnny opened the small box and took out the sandwiches. Egg mayonnaise, left over from last night. He stared at them with disgust and flung them angrily over his shoulder. He stalked towards Barnaby and grabbed him, throwing him to the floor. Barnaby hit the floor hard, crying out in pain. He looked up in time to see Johnny's fist speeding towards him. Barnaby let out another cry.

***

Ms. Amy Kent was a small woman, only just taller than the tallest of the boys in her class. She had long, dirty blonde hair which fell down her back like a waterfall. She was sat behind her desk marking the boys' work. She paused, looked up and surveyed the room. A light bulb was gone, and the door still creaked. Damn caretaker, she thought to herself. The low rumble of children moving towards their lessons grew slowly louder. Amy looked to the clock at the back of the room. Ten minutes.

She stood and began to rearrange desks into neat rows when she heard a creaking behind her. She looked around and saw a young boy enter. His eyes were bloodshot, red, and a bruise was beginning to develop around his left eye and temple. He slouched to his desk, at the back in a corner and sat down, dejectedly. Amy's heart sank and she walked slowly over to him, a loving smile on her face.

Barnaby looked up, his eyes now a deep red. Amy crouched beside him, her eyes now level with his.

"Hey, what's your name?" The boy looked her straight in the eye,

"Barnaby, Barnaby Williams, miss..." he sobbed quietly.

"So...what happened to your eye? Are you okay, do you want to visit the nurse?" The boy shook his head and made a mumbling sound, then looked back to her,

"It's nothing, I just got...into..." His voice trailed off. Amy knew what he meant. She saddened.

"A fight?" She completed his sentence for him, in a friendly, comforting tone. He nodded slowly, as though terrified of what this action may mean. And if that show of terror could be missed, the look in his eyes could not. Amy delved deeper, "Who with?"

"Johnny Malinson" The terror was beginning to mingle with confusion now, as though this question was the last he expected, as though he'd never been asked before.

"Well, I'll have a little talk with Johnny then." The boy smiled, nervous, but relieved. It was painful to watch.

The sound of running outside. Amy looked up at the clock. Lessons were starting now; the kids would be running down the corridor, desperate to get to the classroom to be on time. She smiled one last time at Barnaby, who was rubbing his eyes. She stood and regained her composure, smoothing the creases out of her skirt, then moving to the door. She opened it, the flood of children flowing around her, each heading for their own personal desk. Amy glanced at Barnaby. His head was buried in his desk compartment, hidden from the newcomers.

She surveyed the room. She noticed how, unlike the other classes she taught, this class filled from the front right, whereas most filled from the back. Barnaby sat at the back, on the left. Amy felt a wave of pity flood over her. She looked at the class, all the smiling, innocent faces, masks, hiding such terrible malice. She looked at the photograph above the doorframe. It was of a young, pretty woman, with brown bobbed hair. Beneath the photo was a bronze plaque, which read, "In loving memory, Lily". Amy began the lesson.

***

The final bell sounded a dull ringing which echoed down the hallways. Children hurried to pack away their belongings before erupting from their classroom into the corridors and heading for the buses. Barnaby, however, did not hurry. He took his time, each movement slow and deliberate, each book perfectly placed among the others. After everyone had left, including the teacher, Mr. Delvin, Barnaby closed his bag, and left the room.

Only the misfits were left in the halls now. All the other kids were at team practices, various clubs, or heading home. He knew he'd missed the bus, but at least he was alone, and safe. He left the school at a brisk walk, thankful for the autumn breeze playing across his back, blowing his jacket out in front of him. He smiled, a feeling of detached joy flooding through him. At times like these, when he was alone, he forgot everything, and relaxed. He wrote short stories and novels in his head while he walked home, describing everything he saw in poetic detail.

Sometimes, in the mornings, he would steal his youngest sister's CD player, and listen to the one album he owned when he was alone. It was an album of piano concertos, which used to belong to his mother. Father hated it. Today one of those rare occasions. The headphones fitted awkwardly into his ears he walked down the street towards his home. Usually he would take the longer route, through the fields, but he was needed at home. So he forced himself to enjoy his final minutes alone all the more, like those last few moments with a dying friend.

The street loomed before Barnaby like some terrible apparition. His knuckles were white with terror and he felt sick to his stomach. The CD player was hidden now, stuffed at the bottom of his bag, under his books. He opened the door to his house, and stepped inside.

John Williams was a tall, hard man with dark brown hair, so dark as to be black. He was bitter, turned that way by the death of his beloved wife ten years earlier.

Mrs. Williams had been a kind woman, a school teacher at the local school. She had moved to the town to work and had met John there on her first day. He was the headmaster and the two became good friends. After a few years John finally propsed. A daughter came soon after, their first child, Juliet. She gave birth to another girl within the year after, and named her Grace. A third girl was born four years later, Anna. Finally a boy was born the year after. Tragically the boy would prove her last chirld. Complications during the birth and an infection afterwards began her decline. She died a month after Barnaby's entrance into the world.

John was stood at the foot of the staircase when Barnaby entered the house. He turned and watched the boy move to close the door. John strode over and grabbed him by the arm, dragged him into the play room and threw him onto the floor.

"Where have you been." It wasn't a question, but a statement. John's voice was cold, bitter and sharp, filled with a restrained fury.

"I...I...missed the..."Barnaby looked terrified.

"You are twenty minutes late." His voice was clipped now, every constanant pronounced, stabbing at the boy. "Well, you shall be disciplined later. Till then we have guests arriving soon. Get into your room and remain there for the remainder of the night. Make a sound and you will not leave the room until I deem it acceptable. Now go." Barnaby leapt clumsily to his feet, dragging his bag, and ran to the room next-door, slamming the door shut behind him. John followed slowly, his hand reaching into his pocket. When he withdrew it he held a key, which he used to lock his son's door. He walked away into the kitchen.

***

Barnaby lay on his bed, still wearing his school uniform. Beside him lay a picture of his mother. He glanced at it, tears filling his eyes and running down his plump cheeks. He picked it up, kissed and hugged it, then slid it under his pillow, sobbing gently so that the others wouldn't hear.

Silence. The front door opened, people entered the house, and the door closed again. The monotonous droll of speech leaked through the wall, all treble robbed from it by the wall which held Barnaby in his home-grown prison. Finally, hours later, Barnaby heard a key in the lock. The door opened and his father strode in. He carried with him a small plate, which in turn held a rasher of bacon, a boiled potato and some sliced carrot.

"Here is your supper, child." He laid the plate on the floor and marched out, closing the door hard behind him. The boy stood up and walked to the plate. He bent down to retrieve the food, and a solitary tear dropped onto the ceramic surface. He wiped his eyes, took the bacon, and took a bite, slowly sitting back down on his bed.

Barnaby awoke some time later, his pillow still damp from the previous night. He sat up and dried his face, then stood and got dressed. Tight, short jeans and a shirt too small for him, which he tucked into his trousers. There was a knock at the door. It opened, and a tall girl walked in. She had blonde hair, flowing down the sides of her face. She glanced around the room, turning her nose up as she did. Then she looked at Barnaby. Her eyes drifted over his sad frame. Juliet grinned malevolently and laughed.

"Well, don't you just look a picture!" The sarcasm dripped from her voice. She walked out laughing to herself. Barnaby sat back down on the bed, reached down under it and pulled out a book. He opened it, and began to read.

***

Juliet stalked out of the room, a sadistic grin on her face. She ran up the stairs to her room on the first floor. She threw the door open, swept in and slammed it shut. She heard her father shout from his study upstairs but she ignored him. She sat down on her bed, flinging her school books away. Her room was in severe disarray, her belongings strewn around the floor. She lay back and laughed out loud.

“Stupid bastard” she muttered, laughing again. She reached out to find her CD player. Groping blindly she found it, hit play and closed her eyes.

***

It was Saturday. Every middle-class child in the Western world begs for a Saturday. Mondays; school, Friday; school, Sunday; Church. Saturday truly is the day of rest, when a kid can play, run around and be with his friends.

Barnaby sat down in the middle of the field, feeling the green grass between his fingers. He smiled and lay back. He could hear children playing in the park but that was far away, it didn't affect him. He hummed quietly to himself, enjoying the feeling of the sun of his face. He loved days like these, when he could just be alone, leave everything behind. Usually he'd read, but he's finished his book the previous night and the library was closed today. The librarian was nice. Somewhat of an authoritarian, but nice if you stayed on the right side of her.

Barnaby closed his eyes and day dreamed to himself. He thought about school, about his history lessons. History was his favourite lesson. He enjoyed reading about people from other countries; great heroes like Napoleon or Attila the Hun or Churchill. The great battles of old; Waterloo, the Mongol invasions, Dunkirk. Examples of extreme valour, the valour of normal men in extraordinary circumstances.

A shadow fell over Barnaby. He opened his eyes, and saw

his three sisters standing over him. The eldest, Juliet, the youngest, Anna, and the middle child, Grace. Juliet spoke first.

"What're you doing outside twerp?" She glared. Barnaby stuttered,

“No… nothing….”

“What are you doing out twerp?" Juliet said once more with menace.

“Just...just resting"

"Resting? It's Saturday? Sunday's the day of rest you idiot, not Saturday, dad says to get back in the house and do your chores."

"But I have!" Barnaby protested. He received a swift kick to the ribs for his protest.

"Shut up. You haven't done ours, have you? Now get back in the damn house before I kick you there!"

"Yeah, and stop fucking about" shouted Anna. Grace slapped her around the head, warning that if she heard more language like that she'd tell papa.

Barnaby was hoisted up by Juliet, before being pushed towards the house. As he walked away two of the girls fell about laughing. One looked after him, a tear gathering at her eye. Then she wiped it away, and chuckled awkwardly with the other two.

Barnaby felt his eyes well up, then felt tears run down his face. He cleaned Juliet’s room, spending hours putting things away. Anna’s room was no better. Grace, however, seemed to have tidied her room before Barnaby. Father called for the family. Dinner was ready.

Dinner was awkward. The three girls sat close together, talking and eating, John sat at the head of the table, away from the girls. He was silent. He always was. Barnaby was nowhere to be seen. He sat in his room with a small plate of leftovers. John Williams finished his dinner, stood and left the room to wash his plate. One by one the girls left and did the same till only Grace was left. She stopped, sighed, then left her plate on the workbench, food still on it. She went up to her room.

Barnaby finished his dinner last. He sat on his bed, waiting for the others to go upstairs. When all was silent he opened his door and walked silently to the kitchen. He found Grace’s leftovers and quickly shovelled them into his mouth. He washed his plate and ran back to his room, closing the door as quietly as a mouse.

***

Amy Kent sat at home, the fire blazing in the hearth. She was reading a book, "Bullying in the Modern School". She felt for Barnaby. She put the book down, wiped her eyes, watched the fire till it died, then after pouring water on the ashes went to bed.