Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒘 𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒆.
Antoine's Perspective
"Let go of me!" I yell, and I sound more like a monster than a human. I am strong enough to shake her off and keep running. But the feeling of firm arms around me... Someone's hands touching my body... Without hitting it or shoving it or punching it.
Just touching me.
It's so unfamiliar, I can't move.
I literally hate this girl.
Right? Don't I?
"No," she says in my ear. "Where are you going to go?"
"I don't know," I gasp, feeling my whole body shake.
"I do. You're going to come with me to my car. I'm going to drive you home, okay?"
"I don't have a home... Let go of me. Please..." I beg. I can't move with this feeling of her pressed against my back, holding me tightly.
I can't move.
"I can't move," I voice.
She speaks so gently to me in my ear. "Listen, Antoine. I'm about to let go of you. You are not going to run. You are going to take my hand when I hold it out to you, and you're going to lean on me, and I'm going to lead you back to my car. You're shivering and ill and a mess, and you are going to get to my warm car with me. Okay?"
"No... I can't. Why are you doing this? Is this some plan to once and for all take a picture of me or spread some lie to just put salt in the wound? Because I'm already close to killing myself anyw-"
"No, I'm not going to do anything to you, and you are not going to take your own life.
Her voice is so soft, and I desperately want to believe her, but can I, really? After all she's done? After all I've done?
Reese's Perspective
I don't know why I'm doing this. I hate him, remember? But I see something more now. I don't just see the bully that he is. I see something more. I see a broken, shattered, destroyed, ruined, soul. I see a boy who, because he was desperately fighting to not become a victim, he became a victim himself.
And, shoot me now, I'm showing sympathy for him.
I know I shouldn't.
But I know even more that I should.
I gently, slowly, take my hands off of him. He doesn't move. I put my hand out to him. He very slowly takes it. He has a smooth hand, as it shakes in mine. "It's okay," I mutter, and he leans into me as I bring him back to my car.
Silently.
He is crying, but silently.
I glance at his face, I can't believe this person is actually the same Antoine Griezmann.
Maybe he's not the same Antoine.
I don't know.
His face... It really is handsome. He has beautiful blue eyes. A nice jaw. Thick eyebrows. A nice nose. He's extremely handsome.
But not like this. His eyes are red. His cheeks tear-stained. He looks so shattered and broken. And in need of love. I don't even know his story, but now I see that there is a lot about him I didn't see. A lot about him I didn't know. I don't know.
Finally, we get to my car, and I open the passenger's seat door for him, and he slips in. I don't think he's crying anymore, but it is hard to tell in the rain. I shut the door behind him and go around to the driver's side, and get in next to him. He's sitting there with his head in his hands, covering his eyes. We sit there quietly for a moment, because I honestly don't know what to do now. I turn the heat on full blast, and I'm about to open my mouth to say something, when he suddenly mutters, "Why? Why? What is this?"
"I don't know, Antoine. I don't know. I thought I hated you. I do. But then... I see you..."
"And you pity me? This is some pity thing? Then I'm going," he's about to grab the handle to the door, but I grab his arm, and he freezes, stopping.
"You freeze up whenever I touch you," I observe, pulling him by his arm away from the door, towards me. "When is the last time somebody touched you before now?"
"Earlier this evening," he mutters. He's not crying anymore. His voice sounds stone cold, and his body is shaking uncontrollably, which is extremely concerning. His face isn't facing mine. He's just looking out the window, likely listening to the rain on the roof of the car, as I am, too. He doesn't look like he's trying to get out anymore, though, so I gently let go of his arm, which I was gripping.
"When? What happened?"
"It's none of your business."
"Please tell me."
He sighs, and looks at me, studying me, before saying, "Everyone hates me now, because of you, apparently. At the dance, some people pushed and... yeah." He gestures to his stained shirt. "I'm sure you're happy about that, too. I'm sure you're thinking something like, 'Good, now you know how I feel; how it feels to be bullied.'" His voice sounds so bitter.
"I'm not thinking that, Antoine."
"Reese Mallory, I don't understand you," he declares, and I agree with him. I don't understand myself either. "You hate me so much. So much of your life is spent making sure mine is bad. And so much of my life has been doing the same for you. So why? Why do you see me like this, and take me to you car, and do this? Whatever this is? Why?"
I swallow. "Because all the sudden, I care about you."
"Why?!" he suddenly shouts, which makes me jump. "Why?" he repeats, much softer.
"I don't know, Antoine!"
He sighs, shaking his head.
"Where should I drive you?" I finally ask, turning my key.
He sighs, shaking his head. "I can't tell you, Reese Mallory. This is among the many reasons why I didn't want to come back to your car with you. I don't know, because there is no where for me to go."
