Theodore’s fist collided with Blake’s jaw, the pent up hatred in his chest flowing through his limbs, white hot. Theodore’s eyes widened as he watched Blake straighten up, cheek swollen, lip bleeding. His black eyes revealed pure shock as he lifted a hand to his mouth and red came away on his fingertips.

Theodore thrashed violently, chest heaving, a scream building in his throat. Their constraint on him tightened and Theodore gasped. Hurt. He wanted to hurt them. He wanted to cave their faces in. To cause them as much pain as they had caused him.

Theodore turned his head in a daze to see Mr Vance, the history professor, looking at him with horror and concern. The creases in his already weathered face seemed to have deepened, and his kind grey eyes were filled with sorrowful confusion. Theodore’s throat constricted and he opened his mouth as though to explain, but nothing came. Mr Vance, who had always looked upon him with such genuine pride, now bore the expression of one who did not recognise the person in front of him.