meet me at midnight.

2.

"It's fine, honey." Mom said, as I dabbed at her eye.

The cut on her eyebrow wasn't bleeding a lot, but it was still bleeding. Last night, they'd argued again. This morning the argument continued as mom readied herself for a morning shift. He'd back handed her and all I could do was hide in my wardrobe like a child.

I used to defend mom, used to yell at him. He'd hit me too. Mom couldn't stand it. She'd told me to hide in my wardrobe, like I was a child. Her desire to protect overrode her fear of getting hurt. As I helped her clean her cut, my feelings burned. Why was she still with him? Could you love someone that yelled at you, hit you?

"W-what will you tell work?" I asked.

"I'll just tell them I'm clumsy." She said.

She told her colleagues that all the time. I'd been there once when she'd done it, gone to meet her for lunch. The way they'd looked at her had made me realize that they knew she was lying. I recognized the pity in their eyes. I'd seen that pity when I'd come into class to find my sketchbook torn to pieces or when my glasses were broken.

I took a breath that hurt and tried not to cry in front of her. She had cried this morning and I couldn't bear to add to the weight of that sorrow. I wanted to beg her to leave. She and I could run away together. She looked at me and reached up, touching my face.

"My sweet, little pea." She said, softly.

I almost burst into tears, but managed to stop myself. She looked vulnerable and delicate, sitting on the toilet lid, still wearing her pajamas.

"I have work tonight." I said.

"I know you do, honey," She said. "I'll come and pick you up."

That cheered me up a lot. Seeing her when I finished work was better than seeing Lionel. I left the bathroom, changing into another sweater and jeans. I almost put on a skirt, but if Lionel saw me in it then I could say goodbye to my hidden stash of clothes. He'd cut the last one to ribbons and screamed at me.

Mom was still in the bathroom as I walked by. She gave me a hug and a peck on the forehead. I made my way to college, enjoying the bracing Autumn air. When I got to my usual Starbucks, I stood in the queue, glancing around.

He wasn't here today. The guy with curly hair. That angry girl he'd been with yesterday had called him Josh. I sighed softly. Of course he wouldn't be here again. People didn't just appear again because you wanted them to, because you felt like you were drawn to them.

I tried to memorize his features as the line moved. His eyes had been that strange miasma of blue and silver. His hair had been black as night and curly. His upper lip had had a perfect cupid's bow and his lower lip had been fuller. What would it be like to kiss him?

The thought entered my mind, unbidden and I tried to push it from my mind. I distracted myself with my usual coffee and went and sat down. Today I sketched a young guy, sitting by the window. He was sat on one of the tall stools. I envied anyone that didn't have to struggle to sit on them.

Once the drawing was done, I approached him and gave it to him. He had been listening to music and he removed his Apple earbuds when he saw me. He was very enthusiastic about the drawing.

"You drew this?" He asked for the seventh time.

I nodded and he laughed softly, still shocked to see himself in a medium other than a photo. He shook hands with me and I left him, smiling when I heard him call someone to tell them about the drawing. My little art pieces cheered people up and I needed that after the morning I'd had.