Bog had his hands shoved so far into the pocket of his jeans it would take an effeort to get them out again.
He had his shoulders slumped forward, not from the weight of his backpack, but in an attempt to make himself smaller, less tall, less noticable, to hide as best he could.
It was the first morning at his new American college.
So far, he had managed to get through everything, leaving his mother behind, the plane ride here, finding an apartment, orientation and picking up books,
all the little yet difficult things for someone who simply wanted to be left alone. But he had managed to do all of it without too much fuss. But now it was time to attend classes.
Part of him still could not believe he had done any of this. Despite how smart he was, his marks were not the greatest.
It was his test scores that saved him and his determination to get out of Glasgow and away from all the torments of growing up.
He could also feel some of the scars he bore from his rough childhood. It was as if just thinking about them brought back the ache, creating phantom pains in their place.
The self inflicted cuts along his forearms burned the most for all the times he thought about how easy it would have been to end the pain himself.
But he had pushed beyond all that and was now starting over, he hoped.
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