The Things We Do (Under Editing)

At This Point, What Couldn't Kill Me?

I taped down the edge of the bandage I'd just wrapped around my hips and sighed. I was really going to have to stop getting hurt. Medical supplies can be expensive. My bullet wound was still in bad shape, though, so I'd be taking care of it for a while.

My whole body was an ugly collage of scars, new ones on top of much older, fading ones. The mirror was kind enough to remind me of all of them daily.

As I stared at my full length reflection, its dark eyes stared back at me from where it was stuck to my door. For anyone else, the burns, bruises, and bullet wounds paired with, the singed hair, and the nightmares lurking in their eyes would make their own reflection unrecognizable. For me, it just reminded me that I'd been dragged back into being someone's possession after how hard I'd fought to get free the summer after high school. My reflection was too familiar for comfort.

I grabbed my scissors and started attacking the scorched locks of hair. With each snip I comforted myself with the knowledge that the person who'd hurt me before could never make a reappearance in my life. As for Wraith, as long as I was getting what I needed from him, I could manage.

I dropped the scissors and surveyed the finished product. My hair still fell just past my shoulders, so there wasn't a noticeable change in length. Most of what I'd had to cut off had been scattered locks, so it was a bit thinner, but if I was lucky, no one paid enough attention to my hair to tell the difference. Anyone who did question would probably accept the excuse that I was losing hair from stress, which, honestly, I probably was.

"It's fine," I assured myself, backing away from the mirror. "Everything will be fine."

I swear my bag gets heavier every single time I have to pick it up. It's probably the ever increasing weight of reluctance.

By the time my final class ended, and I'd made my slow and painful way to the nearest coffee shop, I was just about ready to quit school just so I never had to carry my books again. Sadly, I'd already sold my soul to the school, so if I burned my books, I'd probably have to go ahead and burn myself with them.

Although, if things kept up the way they were, I might not even live long enough to do that.

In the last three days I'd eaten nothing but a bagel and a half and slept exactly none, running instead off the power of caffeine. I'd survived through sheer willpower and prayer to any and every god that may or may not have been listening.

"What could drag me into this kind of purgatory?' you may ask. One word: Finals, the devil's most evil idea to be sure.

Once in the coffee shop, I claimed a table by the window and went to order my coffee. I debated whether or not to see if they could just inject caffeine straight into my bloodstream, but decided that being able to hear colors might interfere with my studying. Also the answer was probably 'no'.

Making my way back to my seat, I glanced over at the neighboring table, spotting a familiar, pretentiously styled, black haircut bent over a book. His back was facing me, so, having quickly scanned the room and determined the other small handful of tables were already taken, I tried to silently slide into my seat.

Turns out I'm only good at the sneaking thing when my life depends on it. My chair scraped loudly across the floor and every other person in the shop turned to look at me, including Elliot.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he said when everyone else had stopped caring, "and by the look of you, I do mean 'dragged'."

I really wish I could muster the energy to hate him right now.