Pulse

7

When I wake up, my eyes sting. I reek of cigarettes and my face is puffy from crying. The light outside makes my head throb and I can't help but feel empty, like I cried all
The emotion out of myself. I touch my cheek and feel the welt that's swelled up and bruised. Last nights events play in my head over and over again and all I can think of is the image of my mothers distorted face wrecked with tears.
I find that my hand still has dried blood on it from digging my nails into my skin and when I check the time I realize I overslept and missed the first 2 periods of school. I check the back of my car and grab my brothers oversized hoodie that he left behind before moving out. I was supposed to bring it to him two months ago but keep forgetting.
I pull the hood on over my face to avoid raising questions about the mark on my cheek and pull the sleeve down over my hands to hide the finger nail marks in my skin. Taking a deep breath, I step out of my car and walk into the school.

****

I slip into my desk and lay my head into my arms. Although the teacher is talking, he seems to give me pity today as he doesn't say anything about my lack of attention nor does he bring up the fact that I'm late by over 2 hours to school. I breath in slowing and count to ten, then exhale while counting to seven. I repeat this for several minutes until finally I find the courage to life my head up from my arms and pay attention to the teacher... For maybe the first time this year. I take this as an opportunity to forget the past few weeks and even try to remember some of what he says. Maybe I'll catch up in my classes... Ha...haha.. Funny.

I glance over to Mike who is across the room and apparantly been staring at me. His eyes are intuitive and hard. It feels as though I'm a bad sewn doll and he's pulling the thread apart... Or I'm a book that he has decides to open up and read. He takes his phone out of his pocket and points at it, obviously wanting me to send a text with the number he gave me yesterday.
I pull my phone out from my pocket and send text a short but straight forward message.

ME: What?

I watch Mike from my desk until he receives the message and types back.

MIKE: what's up with the hoodie?

My phone vibrates quietly.

ME: why?

MIKE: r u ok?

I read the message but don't text back. Why should I?
The rest of the class period I see Mike occasionally check his phone for a response that he'll never receive, and he looks slightly disappointed.
When the bell finally rings and everyone is herded into the hallway, Mike once again hands me a folded up piece of paper before he leaves. This time he says nothing.
When I open the folded paper what I see is another sketch of me, this time its of what I'm wearing today. My eyes are distant and my hoodie is drawn in exact detail, down to the logo name next to it. In scribbled handwriting underneath the sketch, Mike wrote "you never wear hoodies."

****

I pick at the disgusting school food that's in front of me. Not even hungry, I play with the vegetables on my plate. I arrange the green beans in order from shortest to tallest and I cut my piece of greasy cheese pizza into 9 random little pizza chunks on my tray. The cafeteria is so loud, and my headache hasn't gone away. Maybe it I'll never go away.

You fucking deserved last night, you fucking cunt.

I sip on a bottle of water stair at the messages on my phone from Mike.

MIKE: can u at least talk to me?