Love Me Anyway (A student-teacher relationship)

Chapter Nine

I'm proud, uploading again! I also made a new cover. None of my covers are very good, but its not bad, right?

Well, I'm sad to say that, like, half a page of this is song lyrics. I don't like qouting whole songs, and I don't really know why I did, but, eeeehhh, oh well. At least I broke it up.The lyrics are from the song on the side. It really is a good song

I hope you enjoy. And this is back to Cynthia's POV, by the way.

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“So… um… thanks,” I said, bobbing my head slightly, popping another skittle in my mouth, just for something to do. It also stopped me from saying anything stupid. Mr. Fletcher made a distracted, humming noise and nodded. You never know how awkward a situation is going to be until you experience it. Like now, for example. Having your teacher drive you home from the hospital is very awkward indeed.

“You want a skittle?” I asked, waving the colorful bag around. He shrugged, and held out a hand, keeping his eyes on the road, like a good little driver. I shook some of the candy out into his hand. “Least I can do,” I said, with a small chuckle. “I mean, you paid for everything at the hospital. Might as well share my skittles.”

“It was no big deal Cynthia,” he said, brushing me off and popping one of the skittles into his own mouth.

“I’ve had enough X-Rays to know that they aren’t cheap, Mr. Fletcher.” He cringed at my use of his last name. He was always complaining in class about how it made him feel old, but we weren’t aloud to call him anything else, so it was kind of pointless. “It isn’t something that a lot of people can just splurge on if they don’t need to.”

“Well, I needed to, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t,” I said, crossing my arms, remembering his insistence that I go to the hospital. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” he snorted. “You came close to a fracture Cynthia. I don’t care whether or not you had one, all that matters is how close you came. Too close. And - …Just be careful, okay?” I rolled my eyes.

“I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“’Nothing to worry about,’” he repeated, his voice soft and incredulous, clearly addressing no one but himself.

His fingers tapped out a steady beat on the steering wheel, and my own started playing out a rhythm. Bars of music scrolled through my mind, and for once I was eager to get home, to lay hands on my guitar., something I hadn’t done for a long time now. Did I even remember how to play? Of course I did, that was something that you didn’t just forget.

“How long has it been?” Mr. Fletcher asked, and for a silly moment, I thought he was referring to how long it had been since I had played my guitar, but he quickly clarified. “How long has your father…” I made a noise of understanding, to spare him from saying it. The words “abusing,” “hitting,” “beating,” all made people uncomfortable.

“Long enough that I’ve gotten used to it,” I said vaguely, not wanting to delve into the painful story. Would he believe me if I told him that I used to be a Daddy’s girl? That’s what made it so emotionally painful really, that he used to love me, but now he thought I was a monster.

My fingers pluck at the air, pulling on the imaginary strings of my guitar and hearing the deep resonance of the notes far back in my mind. A smile stretches over my face.

“You can stop here,” I said softly, as my house rolled up.

“Here?” Mr. Fletcher asked, a note of disbelief as he looked at the house. I didn’t think it was all that large, but maybe that’s because I had been raised in it, knew every nook and cranny of its expanse. It was three stories, but narrow. It cast a heavy shadow that made it seem more formidable than it truly was.