Titanium Promises

One

Here's the thing about getting the shit kicked out of you. It is just like the movies. You don't even have time to react before a flurry of kicks and punches descend upon you. And the thing is, you can't do shit about it. The best you can do is raise your arms to protect your nose, and even that is rarely effective. When there are three or four of them, it's nearly impossible to fight back.

"Faggot," they mutter.

Then they laugh. And high five. It sends goosebumps ripping across my arms every time. They cheer when I give up, and they leave my limp body behind the dumpsters. Every time, I just lay there until the pounding in my head starts to subside.

But I'm not there right now.

My puffy eyes struggle to open as I take in my room. The plain gray walls are covered with paintings I never bothered to frame, my desk covered in random and overdue papers, my bed with dirty sheets and a thick comforter. 

I'm not at school anymore. I'm safe. 

Just thinking about where I was an hour ago gives me a headache.

I pick up my phone and check for notifications that are never there. It's not like I have anyone worth responding to. I have art. A stroke of a paintbrush provides more comfort for me than a hug ever will.

I absentmindedly wipe my nose and practically jerk my hand away when I spot blood on my fingers. I quickly realize I never cleaned myself up after getting back home. I stand up, almost collapsing back on my bed when all the blood comes rushing to my head. I blink away the white spots and drag myself to the bathroom. I flip on the sink and let the cold water run over my hands before splashing in on my face and wiping away the red. I look up at the mirror and examine my face. I have a black eye on the right that stands out against my pale skin, and my lip is completely busted open. Even with all the blood gone, I don't feel any different, any cleaner. I still feel like I'm lying behind the dumpsters, my ribs bruised, my backpack spilled open next to me.

My eyes fall onto the orange pill bottle next to my sink. 

They'll help, the doctors told me. Even after all these years, I still don't believe them.

I anxiously tap my fingers on the counter before snatching the bottle and popping it open. I place a single pill in my mouth and wash it down with a gulp of water. 

Take them for Dad, I tell myself. Show him nothing is wrong.

Dad and Sylvia are still out, and frankly, I'm glad they didn't see me all ruffed up. Dad would've asked questions, Silvia would've called the school—the whole thing would've been a mess. The first thing I did after getting home and making sure I was alone was run to the garage and slip on my boxing gloves. 

I just started boxing this year for self-defense and exercise, but my efforts to defend myself are pretty useless. The second I see the boys coming, I freeze, like someone pumped liquid nitrogen into my blood. If I try to lift my fists, they only laugh at my trembling hands.

I pummeled my fists into the punching bag a hundred times until I was sure my hands were broken. Even with the pain exploding from my knuckles, I couldn't cry. I wouldn't cry because then the bullies would be right. That I am weak.

A wave of cold air greets my face as I open the fridge and pull out a water bottle. I twist it open and almost chug the entire thing in one go. I throw the bottle back into the fridge and slam the door after. It closes louder than I thought it would, but I don't care. I go for the freezer next, sliding it open and grabbing an ice pack. I wrap it in a towel and press it to my tender eye. It usually helps with the swelling, but, from past experience, I know it's going to be bruised for a while.