Following Simon into the room, I saw he’d already set out the first-aid kit. At his gesture, I removed the bathrobe and awkwardly lay on the bed. Where new wounds had formed, scabs had already begun to settle—so Simon applied ointment and gauze instead of patches. The momentary awkwardness vanished; I soon grew accustomed to his kind, gentle touch and relaxed, staring up at the ceiling.Simon was skilled at both bathing others and treating wounds. When I asked why, he gave no answer. Perhaps, like other students here, he had a complicated past. Then suddenly Simon leaned into my view.“Raymond… let me see your leg for a moment.”“Oh. Right. Sorry.”The fresh whip-wound between my thighs lay dangerously close to my genitals—had the whip struck further inward, it could have been horrific. A chill ran through me at the memory, and with a shudder I spread my legs for Simon. His careful hands applied ointment and gauze to the wound. When he’d finished, Simon tidied the kit and rose. I heard the drawer slide closed as I said,“Thank you.”Simon only looked at me briskly, then quietly left. After a moment I heard voices in the living room, then silence again.I donned fresh clothes and stood by the window, looking out at the trees and the path through the forest. My chest, lower abdomen, and inner thigh throbbed with pain as I replayed Jerome’s name over and over—Jerome, Jerome, Jerome!Ding. The parlor clock struck the hour. I checked my watch: 4:00 p.m. Then came a knock, and I heard Hugh open the door and greet someone.Turning from the window, I stepped into the living room. Jerome and Hugh paused by the fireplace as I entered. Jerome’s hair was wet, and he wore his regular uniform—no riding clothes—and carried no crop. He smiled warmly at me.“Hello, Raymond.”“Hello, Jerome.” I returned his greeting and marched straight at him.This time, Jerome could not have anticipated it. With Simon, Hugh, and George all watching, I threw a punch without hesitation—my fist slammed into Jerome’s cheek, sending him flying backward onto the carpet.I approached the fallen boy and kicked him hard in the solar plexus with my boot. As Jerome groaned and curled up, I stamped down on his side with my heel. Only then did Hugh, recovering his senses, grab me around the waist to hold me back.“Raymond, what on earth is wrong with you? Are you insane?” Hugh shouted, bewildered.I offered no resistance, letting him keep me in a grip. Jerome could never have imagined I’d attack him in front of everyone. We’d never revealed our true feelings for each other—why not now?Simon’s earlier threat to inform the headmaster had given me the idea: there was no reason to hide in front of others. Jerome surely hadn’t guessed. A perfect surprise attack! Jerome, doubled over from the kick, coughed violently and managed to sit up. Held back by Hugh, I fixed Jerome with as vile a smile as I could muster. As Jerome finally looked up at me, he was—smiling again.Jerome was the deranged one, not me; I knew that better than anyone.While everyone froze, Simon moved. He helped Jerome to the sofa. Jerome gasped for breath, his laughter infectious even through pain. Simon glanced at me—surprised, but composed. In that moment, Simon must have realized the full origin of my wounds: week after week of Jerome’s violence.Hugh, seeing me stand obediently, loosened his grip slightly—yet still held me close, wary I might strike again.Breaking the silence was George, who’d done nothing but watch.“Wow.” He paused, then asked, “Raymond, did Jerome shove you into mud?”I shook my head at him, looked into his pale blue eyes.“No. That was my mistake.”Hugh, still stunned, demanded, “Then what the hell? Raymond, why did you punch him? Are you nuts?”Rather than answer, I turned to Jerome, who was catching his breath.“You can explain that, Jerome.”All eyes turned to Jerome. His cheek was red and his wet hair clung to his forehead. He smiled bashfully—an absurd sight. Jerome looked shy as he said,“It’s our secret.”George blinked, then looked between Jerome and me in disbelief. I glared at Jerome in return, then shrugged out of Hugh’s arms. Seeing me free, Hugh relaxed and let go. I left the living room, abandoning them to their own shock.That night, lying in bed in the dark, I blinked awake. Simon waited for me to speak. I waited for him. The hush between us felt different from bedtime silence—charged, as though a conversation hung between us. Simon had not bent my stubborn will.Finally Simon spoke,“My skill at caregiving comes from having done it often before.”I seized the moment. “Why did you have to?”“There was a friend. Very ill—and I was the only one who could care for them.”“What happened to that friend?”“I don’t know. Their illness worsened, they went away to recuperate, and I never heard from them again.”“I’m sorry.”“It’s all right. We weren’t that close—just friends.”“That’s good, then.”“Now it’s your turn.”I expected a question about Jerome—but no.“You said your mother imprisoned you for five years in her mansion. What does that mean?”“I didn’t think you’d ask. It’s literal: she locked me up for five years.”“Why?”“My mother was someone who found my very existence uncomfortable.”“….”“That’s it.”“I’m sorry.”“Yes. Thank you. Any other questions?”“No.”Simon never asked about Jerome. Our talk ended there. We said good night and fell asleep.But Simon still thought of Jerome. The next day at 4:00 p.m., Jerome showed up again, bold as ever. With our door open, he stepped inside without knocking. He wore his neat uniform and had slicked-back hair.Hugh looked at me nervously. An awkward silence followed. Simon rose from the sofa, calm eyes on Jerome.“I’m sorry, Jerome. If you haven’t reconciled with Raymond, please refrain from visiting here.”In his quiet tone, Simon added,“This is Raymond’s room, after all.”Without a word, Jerome stared at Simon, then turned and left.In that moment I realized Jerome was close to no one in this room. Rather, he ruled over us like some authority, yet was uncomfortable for all. No one tried to stop him as he left. Simon, having seen Jerome turn away, resumed reading. Only George cast a meaningful glance over his laptop. Hugh sighed and looked at me with a teasing smile.“What on earth is going on? You’re really not going to explain?”I shrugged and reached for my paper—until I caught Simon’s eye. Simon, feeling my gaze, briefly met my look before coldly returning to his bookcase. A lazy afternoon passed in silence. Then, from the right corridor, I heard Jerome close a door behind him.The calm remained through Friday. After I’d had my triumph, I stayed quiet, letting wounds heal before acting again. At least I had an ally—after my father died, no one stood by me for five years, but Simon was different. I could call him a friend.The rains that began Tuesday finally ended Friday morning. The sky cleared and, as June arrived, the days lengthened. After dinner, Simon and I donned boots and set out for a walk.We followed Simon’s forest jogging route. As always, he walked upright; then, in his impassive face, I saw worry—hardly concealed—and was momentarily surprised.Simon spoke with difficulty,“I plan to go out this weekend.”His deeply concerned expression over such a simple statement made # Nоvеlight # me laugh inwardly. Crossing the muddy, slippery lawn, I answered calmly,“Have a good time.”Simon didn’t seem pleased.“Be careful, Raymond.”“Careful of Jerome?” I teased—but Simon fell silent. He quickened his pace, and I laughed. Simon’s worry was oddly endearing—and I liked it. After my father’s death, no one had ever worried or defended me. This feeling was unfamiliar. My anger toward Jerome faded briefly as I followed Simon’s easy stride.June’s weather grew warm and muggy. In Bluebell, cold nine months of the year gave way to summer, driving everyone outdoors.The school was quieter than last week. Hugh had gone to the hotel pool in Goron with friends. George stayed in, propping open the living room window, reading by the sill. As promised Friday, Simon went out—where, I didn’t ask.Saturday afternoon was the quietest I’d known. I sat by another window reading Brontë. At two, I spotted Jerome riding out on horseback. He wore a loose shirt, its top buttons undone, sat casually in the saddle stroking the horse’s mane as he entered the woods. I watched until he disappeared from view.George must have noticed me.“So, Raymond, you’re not afraid of the fallout from punching and kicking royalty?”I turned to him. His pale skin and light eyes always gave him a cynical air.“You asked before if anyone protected me.”“You said no.”“Right. No one. And you said everyone here is the same.”George didn’t respond. His sky-blue eyes shone strangely as he simply watched me. At first his gaze felt uneasy, but then I understood—George, too, was as flawed as me. We were all exiles here, shunned by our families and the world; no one was any different.Jerome was no exception.My relationship with George was not bad. We were cordial, talked often, and shared dinner most nights. George, unlike Simon, did not suppress emotion—but neither did he, like Hugh, wear his heart on his sleeve. He brooded when angry but soon found his equilibrium, and when pleased, his manner softened.He never volunteered confidences—but also never kept secrets. Conversations with George ran direct and swift; anyone could ask him anything.Yet questions had to be chosen carefully—they revealed my thoughts and intentions.My conversations with George often became rapid Q&A. Though candid, they never lingered. But that is another story—one to tell another time.

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