Some Scars Never Fade

Chapter Eleven (L)

*Chris’s point of view*

I stayed up late, too unsettled to sleep. My father was an alcoholic. He’d hit me on two occasions recently, when he’s never raised voice or hand at me before.

He started drinking shortly after her death, about a year ago, but he’d never been violent. Until now.

I fell asleep around two thirty and woke up late the next morning.

“Shit,” I mumbled, yanking on some clothes; a pair of shorts and a new shirt I’d gotten yesterday while shopping with Dylan.

This time, the bruise wasn’t as noticeable.

It was on my lower cheek and a slight shade of purple; noticeable but subtle.

Grabbing my things, I ran out the door and jogged to school as fast as I could. I had my reason for my lateness and the bruise by the time I skidded into my seat, right before the bell rang.

I didn’t waste time grabbing a hoodie, which worked because it would have seemed suspicious with my story.

“Why are you so late?” he demanded; he took a sharp intake of air when he saw the bruise.

His hands clutched the desks as he fought for control over his anger.

“Did he hit you again?” he breathed; I shook my head, guilty I was lying, but also glad I was protecting my dad; he loved me, after all.

“I was jumped on the way here,” I answered just as quietly, “She jumped out from behind a freaking tree and gave me this-” I pointed to my cheek –“and then I tried to get a hit back but she ran the same way she came and hopped a fence. I don’t even know who the hell she was.”

Dylan’s relief was almost painful; the tension in his body released and he slumped in his chair.

“Well if she tries again,” he told me, “Kick her ass.”

“Will do,” I told him.

I relayed the same story to Nathan, Jadyn and Haley when I met them throughout the day.

By the time it was Gym, I was irritated because people kept asking me what happened.

Tyler did not help my mood.

“So,” he said to me, as we stretched for flag football, “I’ve decided to give you one more chance.”

“For what?” I retorted. “The offer,” he responded in an aren’t-you-stupid tone, “You teach me your fighting skills and I keep your real name away from other fighters.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?” I asked; he shrugged. “Well either you can trust me and we both win, or you can not trust me and I can win. Really, it’s your choice,” he gave a cocky grin.