The Bad Boys and the Fighter

2

"I wake up in the morning feeling like —"

I quickly shut my phone off, ending the alarm. The sun, peeking through a sliver in my curtains, had already woken me several minutes prior. I was a light sleeper, to a fault.

Before I could contemplate calling into school sick, my willpower got the best of me and I planted my feet on the plush carpet and left the comfort of my cozy bed. I trudged into my bathroom and turned on the shower. The mirror to my left showcased a nasty bruise that was beginning to form on my stomach.
A wince left my lips as my fingertips gingerly touched it.

"Fuck!" I hissed, trying not to double over in pain. They were a lot more sensitive than I was anticipating.

Once I was able to bear the stinging sensation in my abdomen, I stripped and got into the shower. The hot water relaxed my tense muscles, the heat rolling off my body in waves. Yesterday's dirt, sweat, and stress was washed away by the stripping water pressure. My phone chimed, alerting me, my fifteen minutes of shower time had come to an end.

I wrapped a fuzzy, cream colored towel around my body and walked to my vanity. My hair was put into a braid to dry and also so I could continue my morning routine. I slipped on flared jeans and a white sweater, and fumbled around my vanity drawer for my glasses.

I leaned on my vanity counter and stared myself down in the mirror. Today, I decided, I had the time to fight with the inner workings of my mind and chant the mantras I had scribbled onto lime green sticky notes plastered on my mirror.

"I do not chase, I attract. What's meant for me will simply find me."

When finished, I walked down the glass steps of my loft suite that overlooked my beautiful city.

My drug addict parents had overdosed in the streets a few years ago while on another one of their benders. Once normal, loving parents, their will stated that I would receive my inheritance upon their death. My Aunt, who's care I was supposed to be in, was only around when it mattered, which was Child Protective Service meetings. Though since turning eighteen, those calls stopped and so has hers.

Since their death, I've tried not to touch their money. I didn't need anything from them when they were alive and I certainly didn't need anything from them now.

My refrigerator merely held the contents of eggs and an avocado. Between practice and schoolwork, I hadn't the time nor energy to go grocery shopping since two weeks ago. Deciding to just skip breakfast, I grabbed my backpack off the kitchen counter and strode to the elevator, pressing the bottom button to get to the parking garage.

The drive to school was short, but it took me twice as long to hype myself into even leaving my car. I ignored the stares and uneasy glances as I walked by clusters of friends entering the brassy doors of our urban campus.

The scrutiny was no longer tormenting. I had finally come to the realization that people don't like what they don't understand, and I stopped trying to make people understand me.

Within moments over entering the Victorian style school building, I was pulled aside by my least favorite people; Chase and Ty. Dragged into the nearest  janitors closet, I was thrown punch after punch and kick after kick. I tried to get up and fight back but I was disadvantaged by their number and size.

The numerous blows to my head were irritating my consciousness. What seemed like hours later, they finally threw their last blows and left me huddled on the ground. I fumbled around on the tile flooring for my phone, which I found in the corner a few minutes later. The lighting of my phone against the dark contrast of the janitors closet further irritated my head. First period would be ending half an hour. I slowly brought myself up using the shelves in the closet and opened the door, wincing as it took most of my strength.