TBPA summer edition gold medalist 2016.
Alistair Flynn is a walking anxiety attack/accident waiting to happen.
Ridden by nightmares and peer pressure of being the jock of the block, his life takes a confusing turn when a hazel-eyed boy invites him...
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I slam my locker into my fingers—I can't contemplate why. I don't feel any pain, but by the way my heart pumps in my finger tips, I could tell it's supposed to be painful—but it's not. Instead it's a shallow zing beneath the first layer of skin so subtle, as light as a feather tickling my skin. My hand slowly progresses into a defined mauve, the slices my locker made starting to swell up like elephant flesh.
My lock is locked, but my fingers are still somehow wedged between the two rusted metal plates.
I stare, gobsmacked, before blinking at the scenery before me. It's quite amusing to realize my fingers haven't fallen off yet. Per usual something eerie would've happened to my limb by this time, but my fingers are still in tact.
I shrug it off, pulling my fingers out of the locker, unharmed.
Braxton shoves his shoulder into my shoulder as sharp as a blade, passing me as if he doesn't know me from one side.
"Hey!" I call after him, rotating into his direction. He waltzes off into the direction of the cafeteria, not responding to my call. He always responds...usually responds. I run after Braxton, but he ignores me flatly before pushing through the cafeteria doors. His existence disappears behind the butterflying doors, cutting my view off immediately.
I run in after Braxton, pushing through the doors. My blood thickens in my heart, pausing all heartbeat.
The round tables are laid out in two single file lines, creating a red carpet of linoleum floors. Robotic eyes settle on me from every single body occupying a chair rimming the red carpet. I step forward, feeling my face flush in peach.
They're all staring daggers through my existence—and I'm not appreciating it.
Braxton is on the other side of the cafeteria, shoving different foods into his plate. His back is turned to me, his shoulders tensely hovering. I try to crack my voice and call him, but there's too many people staring at me.
He'll usually shove them off and take the lime light for me, but he's not taking the hit. Well, to Braxton, taking my fame isn't a hit, it's more of a score—he loves the attention.
"B..." Shocking hazel eyes shuttle me, stopping me dead in my tracks. His expression is hard, a solid frown clouded over his face—not that I see much of it. His breath intake is sharp, as if I insulted him. I step back when his glare picks up to my eyes. His soft hazel eyes that had once tried to calm me down, is stone hard and dead set for vengeance.
I don't know why.
"Braxton?" I yelp, craning my head back up at him. He's still shoving food into his plate. I step away from the boy, but his eyes follow my suite.
