Born Wrong

04. a boy who doesn't care

Bright Seo

I'm getting scolded like a fucking child.

After Rihaan saw the blood leaking through my shirt, there was no use in running away. He dropped everything and brought me back to his apartment.

It was a quick effort: he hauled my ass into the backseat of his rundown car and drove over the speed limit getting back home. There was an unbearable silence throughout the entire car ride, and the only reason he didn't start lecturing me then-and-there was because his little sister was in the car with us.

"You're a fucking idiot." Rihaan chastises me for the umpteenth time. "I told you. I told you not to take the fight and what do you go out and do? You take the fight."

I knew whatever justification I could concoct was going to fall on deaf ears. Rihaan doesn't care about the semantics of why I did it, only that it's done, and this is my consequence.

God, do I have to stand here and listen to this all night?

It was easier to die.

"I handled it." I say through gritted teeth.

He gives me a pointed look. "Does bleeding out look like you handled it?"

Once Rihaan brought me back to his apartment, he assessed the stitches and found them tearing through. I guess, somewhere between me leaving the apartment, going back to the ring and getting in a few practice rounds, I busted a stitch and needed replacing.

But I didn't want to come back. I was going to let it pass.

Of course, Rihaan didn't let that happen. He got his supplies, pulled out the old stitches and redid everything—this time, with no alcohol to numb the pain. He finished a lot quicker than his sister, which was great, but also terrible, because this means his next step was to scold me like a disobedient child.

"He brought rings, Ri," I snapped, irritation lacing my tongue. "He pulled the illegal move, not me."

Rihaan stops pacing back and forth and turns, looking me dead in the eyes. "It's an underground match. There's no such thing as illegal moves."

He's right, so I don't say anything.

He huffs, running a hand through his dark roots and looks away. In deep thoughts, he looks like he's figuring out the next plan of action.

That's the thing about Rihaan Roshan: there's never a pause, a breath or a rest—just action, follow-ups, decisions to be made. I know I lead a fucked-up life, but at least I can stop whenever I want.

He can't.

And I don't want to.

"It doesn't matter anyways," I say to minimize the silence, but Rihaan refuses to look at me. Fuck, I hate it. "I'm alive. You patched me up. It's all good now."

"No, it's not all good." He turns back to me, his voice sharp. "You could've died."

"Yeah, well, that didn't happen."

He looks me straight in the eyes and, without a doubt, I know what he thinks—what he sees. A boy who doesn't see the point of saving himself, a boy who doesn't want to live. It hurts him, I know it does, but I can't help it. That's just how it is.

"You're done." Rihaan decides, his voice firm. "You can't fight anymore."

"What?" My jaw goes slack. He knows he's my best friend and he knows I would go to the end of the Earth for him, I would kill for him, but he is also delusional if he thinks I'm going to listen. "No."