I can't help but examine her butt as she walks off. She's cute, but her personality could use a huge makeover. When she's out of sight, I stand. The school day isn't even halfway over, but I have no more business left in this building. I follow her inside, but I keep my distance. I really don't have the energy for another heated conversation with her.
The attendance window is empty, so I ring the little bell continuously until a chubby brunette comes to the computer, staring up at me through thick frames. "Name." She says, annoyed. She knows perfectly well who I am, yet she continues to stare until I give her my name. "Any particular reason that you're leaving us today, Mr. Morgan?" I shake my head, awaiting her to hand me the little check out notice that will soon find itself a home in the garbage can right outside the school walls.
She types in my lack of an explanation slowly, every so often looking up at me, as to make sure that I was still standing there. "C'mon" I voice in to the air, quickly becoming uncomfortable. My face and hands begin to throb, signaling me for another dose of my medication, but it's in the truck. She continues to type, most likely making the process as slowly as humanly possible and when the small slip finally prints out, she takes about two minutes to sign her name.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Morgan." She says.
"Sure." The door seems to get further away as I get closer. Sweat starts pouring down my face, my hands start to tremble, ringing fills my ears-
"Tyler?" I look up and realize that the girl from earlier is standing in front of me. My hand is pressed in to her stomach, and she's staring at me oddly. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." I mumble, desperately trying to get past her. She doesn't budge. "Look, I really need to get to my car. See, I got my slip and everything." I wave the little ticket in her face, "now move."
"No, I just-" and no other words are allowed to escape her mouth. A mouthful of food spews from my mouth, landing right on her jeans. She doesn't say anything, but I can see the disgust on her face. I push past her, running out to my truck and quickly popping two red pills in to my mouth. Within seconds, relief shoots through my body and my sanity returns.
The girl is stomping out of the door, heading straight for me, and I'm prepared to fight. "What the hell is your problem?!" She screams, gesturing to her ruined pants.
I shrug, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and smoothing my hair back, "sorry. I told you to get out of my way." She's trembling and her face has turned a crimson red, a vein in her forehead becoming very apparent. I said she was cute earlier, but now she looks absolutely hot. I have a thing for angry chicks. I can tell that she's trying to calm herself down but she ends up looking like she's one of those wind-up toys. She walks a few steps forward, making me think she's going to hit me, and then a few steps back, making me think she's going to hit the car that's parked beside mine. She continues this sort of dance for a good five minutes before she finally halts in front of me, hands knotted on top of her head.
"You good?" I ask, taking a step towards my truck.
She takes a very deep breath, her face cringing as the smell of vomit reaches her nostrils. "A-okay." Her teeth are clenched and she keeps balling up her hands, but she's calmed down noticeably.
"Great." I turn around, ready to climb in to my car but she taps me on the shoulder and a very well placed punch lands right on my jaw, most likely forming a new bruise to add to the mural that is my face.
"Shit!" She curses loudly. I look over at her. She's cradling her right hand, still balled in a fist, and doing something that looks almost like the potty dance. I take a step towards her, attempting to examine her hand but she takes a huge step backwards. I roll my eyes, the pain in my cheek starting to subside.
"Hitting girls isn't my thing," I begin. "Just let me see your damn hand."
She looks at me and I can tell that she's thinking it over. Eventually the reasonable side of her brain wins and she hands over her bruised hand. Her knuckles are purple, almost matching the color that she's left on my skin, and her fingers don't seem like they can move from the balled-up position that they're in. Her hand is most likely broken.
I run my thumb carefully over her knuckles and she flinches in response. "Sorry," I mumble.
"Is it okay." She asks, tears threatening her brown eyes.
"I've seen worse."
YOU ARE READING
Bridging The Gap
Historia Corta"There are dreamers and there are realists in this world, you think the dreamers would find the dreamers and the realists would find the realists, but more often than not the opposite is true. See the dreamers need the realists to keep the dreamer...
