What the hell is happening

Garbage Runway

I wake up and glance at the clock. It's six in the morning which means we have about 24 hours to start our vent plan before Sunday comes. Sundays are strictly for hints. I can't spread myself too thin, or I'll lose focus. I commence my ritual: throw a pillow to Haniel so the alarm stops blaring, watch his Godly figure stretch, go to the bathroom, change, and head to the gym to torture Noah. 

If we're being honest, I'm proud of how fast Noah is improving. He's even whining less. Also his stamina is getting better, so I decide to give him a treat. 

"Today, we box." I throw a pair of gloves at him. He looks at me like he's about to cry. "Really? You're not messing with me?" Is his bottom lip quivering?

"Nope" I shake my head. "But first, we're going to do a basic 'one two' to make sure your hits are synchronized." He bounces up and down "I can work with that. But first about the um cake..."

I stop adjusting my bands . "What about it?"

"Well now that we know we have the right knife for the cake, what's going to be our next move?"
Last night on the roof, we were able to unscrew the bolts in the vent. I was poached up on Haniel's shoulders to reach it which I did not mind. But that was all we did. I told the guys to turn off their flashlights just in case, but without any source of light, there's no way we can navigate through it.

"I'll have to think about it." I admit. I was rolling in bed all night trying to come up with a plan, but my mind was drawing blanks. "Let's finish practice, then we'll talk about it during breakfast." I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. Boxing is my escape from all of this. It's probably the only thing keeping me sane.

Once we're done, I tug off my gloves and bands then help Noah up. I make jokes about how dramatic he's being while he's trying to catch his breath. 

He holds his palm. "Yeah well at least my hand isn't rough enough to cut through stone." He walks out the gym limping as always. I run my thumb over my palm. Noah was joking, but deep down my hand has always been my insecurity. It's rough and calloused from working out and the burn mark sure isn't helping. I sometimes wish they were smooth like Dani's or manicured like Julie's. I'm still self-consciously touching my hand when I walk back into the room.

I tear my eyes from my palm to look at Haniel. "Huh?" I blink at him. I was too deep in my thoughts to hear what he said. 

He walks towards me and points to my hand. "Did you hurt yourself?" 

I now notice that I'm cradling my hand like an idiot. "Oh, no I was just um- holding it." 

He furrows his eyebrows suspiciously. "Let me see." 

I quickly hide my hands behind my back "They're really sweaty. Trust me you don't want to touch them." I joke. "I'm gonna go take a shower. Meet you downstairs?" Haniel has held my hand plenty of times. Why should I be embarrassed about this? But how many of these times has he thought 'her hands are really rough and scarred?' He's silent for a few seconds then nods.

I grab some clothes and go to the bathroom. Once I'm inside, I start biting my thumb. It's a habit I quit once it progressed to me seeing blood. Guess we're back to it. I let out a humorless laugh. It's kind of funny how the dumbest words can bring out our weakest side. It takes me a while to shower because whenever my hand comes in contact with another part of my body, I can't help but notice how charred it feels.

When I'm finally done wallowing in self-pity, I head downstairs where Rye is making breakfast. I sneak a look at her hands. Perfect and polished. 

"Morning" I sigh.

"Good mornin" she beams at me.

"Breakfast smells good" I tell her.

"Thanks peach. Hopefully it'll taste even better." She winks.