Say You Hate Me

and I fucking hate you

First day of school? Check.

I had survived and I had the scars. Particularly, a gruesome purple bruise staining my fist from when my hand accidentally collided with Violet's face.

(Flashback)

"Aw Haley, look who it is!" Violets screechy voice rung through my eardrums. A salty snicker escapes Haley's lips as the duo turn to face me.

When will I catch a break in this place?

"You're a lot less wet than you were earlier, hm?" She smirks, high-fiving Haley.

I scoff, flames flickering through my veins and the coppery taste of blood lingering on my tongue as I sink my teeth into it.

I'm not going to do anything.

I won't do anything.

I will not do anything.

"I guess my fingers just slipped," she spat, her voice laced with laced with venom

Fuck it.

My fist flies into her face, the collision making an abrupt 'crack' as the familiar burning sensation clouded my hand.

"Shit, I guess my fingers just slipped." I retort, copying her words, a hint of spite in my tone.

(End of flashback)

I've always wondered why I have a tendency for violent acts of vengeance. A short temper. Always biting my tongue. Always holding back.

Perhaps it was the nightmares that haunted my past. There's that thing people say - the abused becomes the abuser. Or perhaps, it was the only child in me, acting out again for my father's attention - transporting me back to my days as a tween.

Or perhaps it was just me.

She deserved it. The fact was plain and true and scrawled across my mind. She deserved to be punched.

The teachers at my old high school would go on for years about forgiveness. 'Show compassion' they preached, eyebrows furrowed as their gaze landed on me.

I wasn't a bad child necessarily. Sure, I bunked a few classes and chugged straight vodka long before I was of age, sometimes I argued with teachers and I constantly forgot homework.

But the thing that practically screams at me from the crisp pictures of my childhood, was the flames of rage flickering in my eyes. Even an old picture could depict the hotheaded child I was.

Punching or even slapping someone felt like a second nature to me. A ghost feeling that was tattooed to my hands. The hands that sometimes I could hardly recognise through the blood pounding in my ears and the crimson staining my vision.

I peer down at my bruised knuckle curiously, my eyes scouring the textured skin and the purplish hues that painted it.

I continue to haul myself up the stairs to my dorm room, my eyes still locked on my hands. A tremor shaking my hand.

The door practically formed out of thin air in front of me. My eyes immediately turning to the sleek oak, overwhelmingly grateful at the opportunity to sit my ass in bed and sleep.

It opened with a distinct click, light flooding my vision from the ajar window. I throw myself inside the room, barely taking notice of the room and just continuing my strut to the comfy realms of my bed.

I collapsed into the mattress, my body instantly melting into it as I breath out a content sigh.

Someone clears their throat behind me.