xxv. bruised, battered, broken

One of the worst feelings is desperately wanting to tell your best friend something then remembering you aren’t talking to them because they were a complete ass. The crappier part is they know they’re wrong but they don’t talk to you either as if they’re the one who feels betrayed and disgusted.

I spend Sunday in bed, wrapped around many fluffy pillows, under a mountain of blankets, and dreading tomorrow morning. Monday. How does one avoid someone they see every day? Especially if that someone is not only their best friend but their lab partner that sits directly across from them in second period?

It’s pitiful that this is what my mind spends hours trying to work around. There are a few options though—skipping school, skipping second period, or faking an injury in gym that will either a. get me out of school or b. get me out of second period Either way, it all comes down to no second period or no school.

The dreadful conversation flashes in my head again—her expression, her *ugly* words-

I slam a pillow over my face and bury myself farther under the covers before rolling on my stomach and screaming until my throat burns. *Why did you have to say those things?*

A sound breaks me out of my thoughts and I’m all too eager to snap toward it. Usually, I want nothing to do with anyone while I’m in a mood or trying to relax, but in this case, my head is in a dangerous place and I want out of it.

My mother stares at me with raised eyebrows. One hand rests on the doorknob while the other steadies her against the frame as her upper body leans into the room.

Katerina Louis-Santiago is one of the very few people I admire and adore most in this world. My mom is where I found my love for fashion, reading, and possibly even meeting new people. She’s sunshine and warm smiles to my father’s moonlight chill demeanor, but she’s also the prowling wolf of the two if things should ever go left.

Like most mothers, she’s protective, possessive, and can be pushy at times, but what I love the most about my parents is that they give us space to live, breathe, and make mistakes. They trust us to do the right thing and I think that’s probably why we’re closer than outsiders are willing to believe. Of course, there are boundaries and there are rules, but they’re not so hard to follow where there’s mutual respect.

“You have a visitor,” she says.

My expectations are high. I immediately think of a purple-tipped afro and apology treats. “Is it Gina?” I’m already throwing the covers off my legs and sitting up.

Unfortunately, she shakes her head. “No, it’s a young man. From school, I think.”

I deflate, going right back into that dark place as I fall back against my pillows again. Mom sees this and I know she wants to ask about the heavier topic. She doesn’t though.

“Is he a suitor?” Her tone drips with humor.

I shake my head, not having enough energy to match hers. “It’s not the eighteenth century anymore, Mom.” I near strangle one of my body-length pillows with my limbs as I wrap myself around it and turn my back to her. “Can you please tell him I’m not interested?”

I have a bad feeling it’s Lorenxo and the thought of seeing or speaking to him makes my stomach sink in discomfort. I’m not ready for the conversation and I’m not sure when I’ll be. At least, not with him.

Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply and keep doing it until my head is swimming and cloudy. I’m in the first stage of sleep when my bed dips and something rests on my side, dragging me back to solid consciousness.

Her voice is smooth and therapy-like. “Do you want to talk about it?” I never understand how she does it—make me want to tell her my deepest darkest fear with just her tone.

I open my eyes but don’t turn to her. I don’t want to be consumed by my emotions and that’s exactly what’ll happen if I look at her. I’m not entirely sure if I’ll be strong enough to hold back the dam either.

I shake my head then bury my face into my pillow and breathe deeply. I want to tell her that I will later but my mouth and body can’t comprehend the basic signals for even that.

The last thing I hear is her whisper, “Okay.” Then her hand on my arm, squeezing once before her weight eases from the bed. Seconds later, the click of my door closes behind her.

† † †

I don’t make it to second period and there’s a valid reason for that. I got hit in the face with a volleyball, quite possibly on purpose. Not on purpose from my part of the court though.

The game had been going more than well. However, I’d taken my eye off the ball for less than a second to check the time on my watch—fifteen minutes left to Earth and Space Science —and when I looked back up all I saw were blurs of horror-filled expressions before getting smacked so hard in my face that I’m pretty sure my brain bounced around in my head when I collapsed.

I’d heard the hit before I felt it, and then the sharp pain in my tailbone and the back of my head when I fell back onto the gritty pavement of the court. After that, everything was on fire.

Now, I lay on one of the straight, hard beds in the nurses’ office with a throbbing nose, a terrible thumping in the back of my head, a red blotch on my forehead accompanied by bruises forming here and there, multiple scrapes on the backs of my thighs and arms, and an uncomfortable ache in my lower back.

But on the bright side, I don’t have any life-threatening injuries.

“This is not what I had in mind to get out of second period,” I grunted to myself, moaning when I have to lift my hand to adjust the ice pack resting between my eyes.

Who knows how long I’ve been laying here. It could’ve been five minutes or five hours but I’m ready to go. There is absolutely no way I’m surviving the day here like this.

I’d told the nurses I’d be fine after I lay down for a while, which was a lie. I genuinely thought that would be the case but I’m rapidly backtracking. I’m so sick to my stomach, the only thing keeping me in place is my deep breaths.

A sick feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. “Oh no,” I grumble when my mouth gets slick with saliva. A broken, dry sob breaks from my lips and I roll onto my side, my upper body almost hanging over the edge of the bed. I call out for a nurse, feeling beyond gross.

Suffice it to say, the low voice and hand on my shoulder don’t belong to any of the nurses that work here, but someone is there and that’s all I need.

“I need to-” I pointed at my mouth, already moving to get off the bed. The hand disappears and I’m sitting up when a small empty trash can replaces it. I nod in thanks, hugging the aluminum can to my chest.

When I look up, I get sick tenfold. “No,” I groan and duck my head to empty my breakfast into the container.

Tears are running down my face by the time I finish and it’s not because Reese is sitting next to me, hand on my lower back rubbing slow circles as he watches me quietly. Tears always slip whenever I throw up, which is quite often—every other menstrual cycle when my cramps can’t be tamed.

Whatever it is that determines fate is laughing obnoxiously at my existence.

*But skies, does that feel amazing!*

Reese presses his fingers lightly against the knot in my lower back, which makes me grimace and sigh all at once. I have to bite my lip to stop from moaning.

He pauses, peering at me, and I wish my hair wasn’t up in a bun right now. I desperately need to hide.

“Hurt?”

I shake my head. I’m supposed to tell him that it feels great but what comes out is a hoarse, “Go away.” I groan into the garbage can and try to hide the disgusting contents inside it with my head hovering above it longer than necessary.

Surprisingly, he does. Reese leaves my side and the part of me that should feel bad doesn’t exist. At least not in the wake of my embarrassment.

Breathing heavily, I’m back to being hyper-fixated on every corner of my body that’s aching. My thighs, in particular, are burning because I’m sitting on my bandaged cuts. They aren’t that bad but they do hurt as if I was sliced by a butcher a few times.

A hand rests on my forehead. I open my eyes, squinting at the nurse this time. *Where were you five minutes ago?*

In my four years at this school, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her but it would be nice if she were the one to come to my aid in times like this. She may be new, and sure I’ve never had to be here outside of doing physicals for school, but it would’ve been great if Reese hadn’t gotten the chance to see me like this. Had she been a bit swifter…

“Sweety,” she says, soft and comforting, “I know you said you were okay but maybe we should call your parents.” She’s nodding by the end of her statement and I bob my head in agreement.

“Okay.” There’s movement to her right, a few steps back. My eyes flick to Reese, then back to the nurse. She’s talking but I have no clue what she’s saying anymore. I can’t hear a thing.

She pats my knee and leaves me alone with him. I don’t know what he’s doing here and how… but I need him to be away.

“Kira.” His voice is low—smooth and silky like his honey-tinted locks. I close my eyes and if the smell coming from the trash can wasn’t so horrid I’d put my face back in there.

A few moments pass before, “Here.”

It takes a couple of seconds but when I open my eyes again, he’s holding a bottle of water out toward me. I’m grateful for it even though it takes me a moment to get myself together and take it from him, mumbling a low thanks.

I rinse my mouth out, spitting it into the can. Thankfully there’s a trash bag lining the interior. I do this thrice to get the nasty taste out of my mouth and to prolong not looking at him.

Then he’s holding out a few wads of tissue. I had no clue where he stole them from but I took them anyway, wiping around my mouth thoroughly.

“Thank you,” I say again raspily. “You really need to stop showing up randomly and saving me.”

He’s leaning against the bed across from me now and there are only about two feet between us. Not nearly enough space. If the situation were one where I’m not on the cusp of death, I would’ve likely embraced this closeness.

Reese chuckles, a sound full of amusement and fun. Too much fun. “How about I exchange all these random savings for your forgiveness?”

My gaze lifts to his slowly. When I don’t respond, he bites the corner of his pink bottom lip. My eyes fall to the motion and linger, something it should never do. Thankfully he doesn’t notice this because his eyes are on the ground.

He crosses his arms before he looks up again. My eyes are on his when he does. “Lorenxo feels awful about everything.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and straighten my back. Not in an act of courage but in discomfort. I cringe at the ache spreading from that dreadful spot. I can feel it pulsing. “You shouldn’t be apologizing for him. You weren't the one who told him to say all that.”

His head sways before he slowly lets it tilt back against his shoulders. My mouth almost starts watering again for an entirely different reason. I trace the veins in his neck, up to his jawline—sharper from this angle—and my lips parting, my tongue poking through.

*Oh-*

His head pops back up. “I guess.” He shrugs. “Still, I know there’s not much he can say to justify it but I hope you hear him out at some point.”

I stare at him blankly. There isn’t anything Lorenxo can say to justify that sort of lie but I don’t say this out loud because I know the edge will be there and I’m not in the mood to be edgy.

I breathe deeply and ask, “Why are you here?”

He thinks about it but doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Came with a friend to drop someone off. A kid in our first vomited all over the back of the class so-” He shrugs again and steps forward.

I hold back my full body cringe because that was almost me a moment ago. I look away, feeling sick again. “Go away, you’ve seen enough of that for an entire month.”

His voice is low and tender when he says, “Everyone has sick days. Can’t fault them for that.”

It takes a second for me to get myself and thoughts together because he perches next to me on the firm mattress *again*. I quickly pull the edges of the clear garbage bag and pull them up, twisting the loose end in a measly attempt to close it. I don’t set the can down, though. Just in case.

“I guess not.” I don’t even know if he hears me, but I hug the trash can tighter to my chest.

“I’ll be honest,” Reese says and his voice is still that low timbre that makes my insides tighten so suddenly that it feels like everything in my stomach is dissolving, “I was convinced you and your purple-haired friend got into it when I came in and saw you looking like this.”

The humor in his tone now makes me roll my eyes and hold back a smile. I keep my eyes on the plain white wall across the room and don’t dare meet his gaze. He’s too close. Especially since I’m not looking my best—I didn’t put makeup on this morning and my skin is slick and sticky with sweat from gym and whatever’s happening to me now. It’s like a sauna back here.

“We don’t fight like that,” I murmur, a small smile slipping anyway. “We just have… really bad verbal ones,” I finish, dragging out the words.

Reese hums. “What happened then?”

My eyes go to the ceiling. “I wasn’t jumped or anything, Reese. It was just gym.” I look at him then and I’m not prepared for how close we are.

Just inches between our faces and he’s looking right at me, hazel eyes almost entirely green, and sparkling. There’s the sweetest smile on his lips as if I’m telling him the most interesting and endearing story.

His eyes run over me slowly. “Just gym?”

I swallow, nod, and hum all at once, aware that I’m in the worse condition I’ve ever been in. Why he chooses now to be all up in my face is beyond me.

His lips quirk. “Well… gym did beat your ass, didn’t it?”

My mouth falls open but quickly closes when a throat clears loudly from behind him.