The Bad Boy's Sweetheart ✓

05.Him

As if you were on fire from within.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Pablo Neruda
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Listen to Bring Me to Life by Evanscene
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"Mommy, why is he beating you all the time?" I said, hands shivering around the thin quilt.

"Because even love is in the form of darkness." She said back with a smile as we both were locked up in the room.

"Where were you, kid?" My dad yelled as he shoved me to the couch. I laughed at his surprising question, he never asked unless he wanted me to take another blonde fuck for him.

"Walking." I hissed as my back ached from the rough push. My dad had good aim. He was always like that around me and my mom, he never loved her.

The foul smoke erupted everywhere in the small apartment. We only had one living room where dad slept and my tiny room since dad liked to spend more on prostitutes and drinks.

"You didn't make my dinner." I rolled my eyes at his accusation; it wasn't like we had anything to eat.

"Fuck you and your dinner." I stood up in rage as he clutched my shirt and dragged me to my room, he took his sweet ass off of his favourite couch just to beat me up. I laughed harder as every punch cracked my face and my dad got even more defensive. He left me alone after he realized he had spilled all my blood out for a while. I knew he didn't have the guts to kill me because he needed me for his benefit.

I didn't move from the floor as I stared up the ceiling and cried for my mom.

•••

The blonde-haired girl was absent from school today, and although I didn't care about her, her absence was noticeable. As the bell rang for the first class, the purple-haired girl appeared beside me and remarked on my injuries.

"You look like you took a beating," she said.

"No kidding," I snarked, feeling the pain in my face and back as I entered the classroom.

The blonde-haired girl was on my mind, and I recalled our encounter from the day before. She seemed defeated and worn out, and now she was nowhere to be seen. As I walked to school, I saw her heading back to her nearby house.

I tried to ease my pain with a frozen pea pack on my swollen cheek and jaw, but my dad's punches made it difficult to find relief.

In class, the blonde girl appeared late and apologized to the teacher for her tardiness. Mrs. Brenda, the Biology teacher, praised her for her dedication to the winter ball, and I couldn't help but scoff at her teacher's pet status. She took a seat in the front row, and I couldn't help but stare at her, admiring her emerald eyes and the way her purple sweater complemented her black skinny jeans.

When Mrs. Brenda called on me to answer a question about sperms, I nonchalantly replied, "Making girls pregnant," causing the class to laugh. As I left the classroom, a brown-haired player named Ben Davids introduced himself and invited me to a party on Friday.

But my thoughts kept returning to the blonde-haired girl, and I found myself drawn to the music room, where I heard the soft, familiar melody of a violin. Evannie was playing, tears streaming down her face. When she finished, I asked her why she was crying, and although she was skeptical of my concern, I persisted. She left without answering, but I couldn't shake the feeling that her pain was similar to mine

•••

The sound of the bell signaled the students' rush to the cafeteria, a moment of relief from the academic grind. I was enrolled in Michigan school for a brief period before my parents could no longer afford it. Forced to homeschool until eleventh grade, I was grateful that the school accepted my homeschooled certificates and allowed me to finish as a senior student.

My time at Michigan school was more than just an education; it was a sanctuary away from my abusive father. The once-gray hallways were now polished and pristine, with larger classrooms than the cramped spaces I had grown accustomed to.

As I exited the bathroom, a jock emerged from the cubicle. His reputation as the "king of pranks" preceded him, but I paid him no mind. His green eyes met mine, and we both knew the consequences of another detention.

"Are you with Evangeline?" he asked abruptly. I didn't recognize the name, but I wasn't surprised by the typical jock behavior of chasing girls rather than focusing on the sport.

"That's none of your business," I replied, annoyed.

"The piano freak and the silent boy, how cute," he emphasized the last word with a smirk. The nickname he used for Evangeline, Evannie, clicked in my mind.

"What's cute is your stained jeans. You need to learn how to potty train," I retorted, unable to resist the jab. As I walked away, I could feel his glare on my back.

Despite my reluctance to engage with the typical jock behaviour, I couldn't deny the satisfaction of putting him in his place.