His finger lightly touches the bottom of my chin, and he pushes my face upwards so that I'm looking into his eyes. Eyes that are solely on my lips.
I can't help it. I bite them.
"Oh, Delta," he whispers, quietly giggling under his breath. His laugh...
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XAVIER
"Jesus, kid. Ye been here fer hours. Quit punchin' at that damn bag."
Kenny places a calm hand on my shoulder and hands me a glass bottle full of foreign liquid.
He may be old, but it takes a lot to intimidate the guy. I see no fear in his eyes, walking towards me while I angrily hit the punching bag with as much strength as I can muster.
I stop and stare at the flask in his hand. "I don't drink beer."
"Maybe not, but ye need it. Trust me."
I don't need alcohol. I've never needed it in my entire life. I don't want to end up like my father: cruel, drunk, insane, and everything a father shouldn't be.
Shrugging Kenny off, I continue punching the bag.
After I visited Delta in the hospital, I immediately headed for his place knowing going back home wasn't going to do me any good. If my dad was awake, he'd be waiting to scold me as soon as I got back. If he wasn't, I was left to stare at his unconscious body, trying to come up with ways of how I could leave him behind.
"Xavier, stop," Kenny orders, watching me hit the bag one last time and nearly send it flying off its hook.
"What? What do you want?" I snap, growling dangerously in his face.
He stares at me sternly in the eyes. "I want ya to give yerself a break," he says. "This ain't healthy fer a boy yer age."
The bandages around my knuckles tighten as I ball my calloused fists. I sense the bruise on my hand from punching my father earlier today, but I don't feel the pain. I don't feel anything anymore.
"I don't deserve a break," I scowl, savagely ripping off the gauze on my fingers. "You don't know what's good for me—"
"And neither do ya," Kenny interrupts. His voice is slow and calm, sending a wave of frustration through me. But I let him talk, and talk he does. "Look at yerself, kid. Yer a mess."
"I don't need reminding."
He sits on the floor next to me, watching as I grab my shirt off the ground and lazily put it over my sweaty chest. I notice his eyes never leave my tattoo, the one plastered right over my heart; the day Foster died. The day I died.
"Y'know, there's another fight comin' up."
"I'm not going, Kendrick." I've never used his real name before, and it seems to surprise him almost as much as it surprises me.
"Last one a' the year," he starts. "December eighteenth. Friday."
I stare at him, all the anger inside of me either dissipating or getting worse. I can't really tell the difference. Subconsciously, my hand rubs the permanent ink on my chest. My eyes nearly begin to water.
