Noise was the first thing Ari learned to fear.
It wasn't just sound—it was pressure. Weight. An invisible force that pressed inward from all directions until his thoughts fractured and scattered. The world arrived too loud, too bright, too close, and Ari had no way to filter it.
Morning began with it.
The scrape of a chair against tile felt like a blade along his spine. His mother's voice—well-meaning, hurried—layered over the clatter of dishes and the hum of the refrigerator. Each sound arrived at full volume, with no hierarchy, no mercy.
"Ari, eat your breakfast."
"Ari, shoes."
"Ari—listen to me."
Listening hurt.
His shirt brushed his skin wrong. The seams scratched. The tag at the back of his collar burned like a small, constant insult. He tugged at it until his fingers ached.
"Stop that," his mother said, distracted. "You'll ruin it."
Ari pressed his hands over his ears. It didn't help. The noise wasn't only outside him. It was inside too—his heart pounding too fast, his breath shallow and uneven, something electric crawling under his skin.
At school, it was worse.
Children moved unpredictably, bodies colliding without warning. Someone laughed behind him—too close, too sudden—and Ari flinched hard enough to knock his chair over. The crash echoed, magnified, ricocheting through his skull.
"Sit still," the teacher said sharply.
Ari tried. He always tried.
But trying didn't slow the way the world came at him. Chalk squeaked against the board. Papers rustled. Shoes squealed on linoleum. The air smelled like dust and sweat and metal.
A boy bumped into him while reaching for crayons.
It wasn't hard. It wasn't intentional.
But Ari's chest tightened instantly, heat flooding his limbs. His hands curled into fists on their own.
"Hey," the boy said. "Sorry."
The word arrived too late. Apologies required space to land, and Ari had none.
He rocked slightly in his seat, a motion that calmed him sometimes, though not enough. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt.
The teacher droned on, her voice flattening into noise without meaning. Ari stared at his desk, at the small scratch shaped like a lightning bolt near the corner. He traced it with his finger again and again, trying to anchor himself.
It didn't work.
By lunchtime, the cafeteria was unbearable. Trays slammed. Voices overlapped. Someone shrieked with laughter, high and piercing.
Ari dropped his spoon. The clatter hit him like a slap. Something inside him snapped tight.
He stood abruptly, chair screeching back, breath coming in sharp bursts. The room tilted. He felt watched, exposed, every nerve screaming at once.
"Sit down," an adult called.
The words barely registered.
Ari didn't know what he was feeling—only that it was too much. Too fast. Too loud.
The pressure built, coiling hot and violent in his chest, searching for release.
His hands trembled. His vision narrowed.
The noise kept coming.
And somewhere beneath it, something ugly began to rise—raw, instinctive, unshaped by thought.
Rage.