ASUNDER (I) : tmr newt

43: I'm Lying

Michelle 43

Remind me, what is small talk?

I was supposed to be getting to know this girl, but I can't manage to speak. What is normal? This place has kind of stolen the idea of the calm before the storm. It is just the storm, as far as I can tell.

Instead, I stand here screwing a nail into the door frame, glancing at her out the window.

"Hold it steadier," I grunt to David.

I can hear his breath hitching on itself as he tries to hold the door in place. It's difficult work, but not too awful.

"You have the easy job," he says it with a smile, and I can only hear the disdain in his voice. "You pretty much have no work to do, just screwing stuff in."

I shrug, paying him no mind.

"Wouldn't mind screwing around with her if I were you," a boy cackles from inside the room, where he nails in the border to the window frame.

I find my feet moving in closer to him, and before I know what is happening, my fist collides with his face. His face feels cold against my burning hand, and his bones crunch as the back of his head smashes into the white wall behind him.

"Shuck, what are you doing?" He demands.

My fist burns, but not the kind of ache that indicates pain. My fingers crave sustenance that comes in the form of violence. The boy was nothing but an excuse.

David pulls me back from him, leaning into the back of my body. "The favour I owed you Doug. It's even now, alright?"

"I didn't owe her no favour," he pauses, before wiping the blood from his nose. He spits, spraying the clean wall with the colour of his pain.

"Well, you owed, and now we're even," David takes a hold of my arm dragging me off.

I rip myself from his grip, yet I follow him outside anyway. "Don't drag me off from places."

"Stop moving," he instructs, essentially pulling me into the room next to us and shutting the door.

He takes my hand in his, looking at my knuckles, but I rip the hand out of his grip. "I'm fine."

"I don't care about your hand," he takes it back, holding it firmer this time. "I'm checking to see if there are bruises. In case he decides to tell Alby, you'd better hope there is no evidence. How could you be so careless?"

"He started it," I want to shout, but my lips have only learned how to mutter. Why does David think everything is about himself? That guy made a dirty joke, one about me, so of course I'm going to hit him. Does David expect me to take it silently?

"Doesn't mean you had to finish anything Mich," he interjects. "Why can't you ever be the bigger person?"

"Did you just call me Mich?"

Satisfied that I have no bruises, he let's go of my hand from his fingers. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a handkerchief, attempting to rub off the blood that has already dried in the heat.

"So what if I did?" He doesn't look up at me, concentrating on the blood splatter on my already red knuckles.

"My name is Michelle," I tell him.

"Yeah, and Michelle is a mouthful. You know, most people around here go by names. You think Fry's actual name is Frypan? Most people call me Dave anyway."

"Dave?" I ask, glancing him over.

He nods, taking it seriously. Letting go of my fingers, he grabs his pouch off his belt, dumps water onto the handkerchief, and continues scrubbing away at my fingertips.