Burning Up (Jacob Black)

9. Who Are You?

My mouth hung open. His beautiful locks of long hair were chopped off—that's the very first thing I noticed. It was replaced with a fuzzy buzzcut, the ends of his hair sitting just a few inches away from his scalp. He was wearing a loose tank top in a muted green color which exposed his shoulders completely. On his left shoulder, I spotted a tattoo. Exclamation points exploded above my head as my eyes landed on it. It was a circle with swirling lines inside of it to make vaguely tribal-looking shapes. His face was serious—more than serious. His eyebrows were infinitely tense and the planes of his face seemed hardened, unlike the innocent roundness of his cheeks before. His eyes were somehow the same. The shape of them was frustrated, but his very eyes did not change; they were still blacker than the night and kind to their core. Even his breathing seemed like he was urging something. His lips pressed together, I could see the words boiling to the rim, but I could never guess what they could be. I was speechless, utterly void of thought from my shock. Who are you? I thought. Who is this person in front of me?

When I didn't speak, he took a step closer to me. I suddenly felt fear wash over me as I inhaled deeply in preparation for something. Once he got close enough, I placed both hands on his chest and extended them away from me, shoving him away.

"You... you got a tattoo? And you cut off all your hair?" I didn't ask it as a question, I said it like an accusation.

"Listen. I wish I could explain." He raised both his hands to accentuate his plea. My shove didn't do much, and he was still right against my hands, an arm's length away. "But I just can't. They won't let me."

"They? What do you mean they?" I latched desperately onto any clue as to what brought this sudden shift on.

He stayed silent, his eyes searched around the floor.

"It's Sam, isn't it? He finally fucking got to you, is that it?" I seemed even angrier than him as the words escaped me, each one more charged than the next.

"No!" He exploded, his entire body tightening in defense. "Sam is helping me." He hissed at me through his teeth.

"How on god's green earth is he helping you?" I protested, my voice on fire with frustration. "By giving you a tattoo? You're sixteen! You think joining a gang is going to help you? And what do you even mean by that, Jacob? Help you with what?" My voice shot up two octaves as I practically spit the words at his face.

He stayed silent. All he did was walk around me to sit on my bed. He seemed defeated as he sighed deeply. I dropped my arms and stood over him next to the bed.

"Help you with what, Jacob?" My voice mellowed out, becoming tender. My nostrils were still flared, and I could feel the redness of anger still permeating my face. I felt a little bad for raising my voice at him.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I just can't say it. It's not my secret to tell." He muttered weakly, not meeting my gaze. "I really, really want to. I wish I could just fucking tell you, god." He bowed his head and shook it back and forth.

"What have they done to you?" The words flowed out of me in a whisper, my thoughts leaving the confines of my mind without my control. I ran my hand from his hairline to the back of his hair, feeling the black spikes against my hand. I was in disbelief. His long hair was what marked him. It was like a part of his identity was lost.

He looked up at me as I still had my hand paused in his hair. I couldn't pinpoint the core emotion in his eyes, but it was intense.

"What are you not telling me?" The frustration returned to my voice. I decided to rephrase. "Why can't you tell me?"

He ignored my questions, continuing his lament. "That's why I came here. To explain. What kills me is you already have all the pieces to figure it out." He bowed his head even further down. "Fuck...fuck!" He cursed to himself, or maybe at himself, in a hushed whisper.