Not good for you

32;

Not even when a particular bald and chubby police officer investigated me could I explain why I hit that man. I was ashamed that I'd lost my temper like that, while another part of me understood that it was either that or that the man had been removed from the restaurant, with a high chance he would have followed us home. The only thing I remembered clearly was the endless anger that overtook me. I had no idea where it came from, but I thought it was from the frustration that hit me like a wave during dinner. I tried to push my feelings back so much that they eventually caused me to break a glass against someone else's head.

I have never been in jail before. And I felt like a rabbit thrown to the wolves when the officer closed the cell after pushing me inside.

The man from the restaurant was nowhere to be found in the station where I'd been brought. Of course, they wouldn't hold the actual stalker accountable.

I ran my fingers through my hair while I continued to stare outside, not daring to turn around. I could only hope that my cellmates weren't about to give me a hard time.

How did I end up here? I've never hit anyone, not even when they deserved it. I always remembered those times when my father would beat me up for the slightest inconvenience, and I just couldn't bring myself to fight back.

But tonight was different. I was different.

And I didn't like this wild side of me. That wasn't like me at all. I should have just walked away and wouldn't have ended up in this situation.

"What a lovely dress," a voice spoke behind me.

I wiped my face and turned around. There were only two people beside me. An older woman covered in tattoos and wearing dirty clothes was sleeping on the bench. She looked like she'd had one hell of a night, just like I had.

On the other side sat a boy who seemed only a couple of years older than I. He wore jean shorts and a white T-shirt covered in blood. His black hair was damp, and his dimples were visible when he smiled at me. His knuckles were scraped, blood dried on them, yet he looked like everything was just fine.

His usual Tuesday night routine may be showing up to jail in a bloody shirt.

My eyes kept wandering back to his bloody shirt, which made my stomach turn into a knot.

The image of the man's shocked expression as he pressed his bloody hand to his head replayed in my mind relentlessly. Even if he deserved it, I couldn't shake off the fear and suffocating feeling that wrapped around me like a blanket.

When he caught me staring, he looked down at his shirt.

"Don't worry, it wasn't that serious." He tried to calm me, but I had a shade of doubt creeping into my mind.

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cold wall.

"The blood on you suggests otherwise."

Only then I noticed a scar on the side of his neck. It looked old, mostly healed, but still visible, likely a permanent reminder of a bad memory.

"It's my brother's and he's an asshole." He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, he deserved it."

Oh, who doesn't love a good brotherly bond? His nonchalance about the incident shocked me.

Yet, I didn't know him or his life, so maybe getting arrested was routine for him.

"And that's why he called the cops on you?" I asked directly.

He glanced at his bloodied knuckles and shrugged.

"He might be older, but he's just a sad little boy on the inside."