Thirty laps in fifteen muinates. I'd say that's pretty impressive, especially because I stopped to talk to Near.
However, once I was done, I didn't want to stop. I slowed down at my "finish line" in the parking lot of the school yard, lingering under the flagpole and scanning around. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to just keep running forever, run away from my problems rather than face them. I'm not a weak person, I tell myself every day, but when it comes to my family I am. I don't want to go home. I'd rather stay here, running a million laps until I die from dehydration than go home and face my family.
Go home, Mello. That's what Roger told me when i finished my laps, as if it was a blessing. As if he expected me to jump for joy - YAY! BACK HOME! I wasn't happy, though. I didn't want to leave. But i gave him my fake, plastered on my face, and headed out. Maybe i wouldn't go home. No reason too, it's not like I get fed there or anything. I could just hop on my motorcycle and go to the city for a while. It was weekend after all, and it's not like anyone would miss me. Except my brother. He might miss me some. But I wouldn't miss him.
Problem was, my motorcycle was at my house. And at my house, my brother was waiting. So i would have to go home anyway.
I sigh and pull my backpack onto my back, heading for my neighborhood. I can't run away, I'm not tough enough to escape. Maybe my brother wouldn't be home after all - maybe he'd find some chick to go screw or something and leave his family alone, like he was suppose to. Like a regular boy.
No such luck. There it is, a red sportscar in the driveway. And who else would be leaning on the door than my brother himself.
My brother's not an unattractive man, at least I don't think so, since girls come home with him alot. He's tall and strong looking, with eyes like mine and my moms, but brown hair that's real short like my dad's used to be. He's a big man - he's twenty two. And he's drunk again - i can tell by the way he's leant on the car all clumsily, and it scares me. Things always go wrong when he's drunk.
"Hey, bitch, 'bout time you got home," he says in a strangely casual tone, shoving himself off of the car and sautering towards me. I try to just brush by him towards my cycle, but he surprizes me and jabs his elbow into my gut, making me gasp and fall to my knees, on all fours. That's the worst position to be in with him, and I immediately dive, rolling onto my back and scramblign backwards to sit up. He's standing over me with a smirk on his face, like he's watching some beetle flailing around on the ground instead of his own little brother. "What took you so long, hum? Screwing some broad at your school or somethin'?"
I keep my head low and don't reply - either awnser would be bad. If i said no, he'd make fun of me and call me a fag. If I said yes, he would blow up and tell me i was a giant whore. Even though me screwing some girl wouldn't be half as bad as what he does to people. So i just keep my head low and inch backwards towards my motorcycle, praying that someone would look over and see us.
It's too much to ask for.
He lunges forward and grabs my shoulder, roughly pulling me up. I try to struggle away but he has a firm hold on me, shaking me like a rag doll. "AWNSER MY QUESTION, YOU SHIT!" he screams, kicking me in the torso. Hard. I yelp and try to struggle, clawing at his hands on my shoulder. For this, he slaps me, making a loud SMACK sound as i stumble back, crashing into my parked motorcycle. He's towering over me it seems, even though he's only a few inches taller, his blue eyes like cruel, icy fire.
"I was just at school, Gabriel..." I manage to choke out, pain coursing through my face. Really, though, the most pain is in my torso, and I know I'm going to bruise. Bruise where nobody will ever see it.
His name is Gabriel. God's favorite angel. What irony.
"Don't talk back, you son of a bitch," he growled, grabbing me by the hair and pulling. I scream before i can help my self, hands flying to claw at his fingers, but to no avail. He pulls me upright, glaring into my eyes, blue clashing with blue. "You have no right to talk to me that way." I suck in a breath, trembling a little. Why does nobody see? Why does nobody come to my rescue when he does this? Does nobody see from their windows? From the roads? Is God truly just punishing me this way? If not, then why does no one save me?