The Broken and the Brave

Chapter 4: Cracked Deceits

I wake to the chirping of birds. It is the morning of Saturday; my day off from the world. It's actually one of the days that Marcel suggests I rest, though, I do have that match today. He says Saturdays are the typical days of enjoying life and that I should try it someday. He's probably right. Even so, I would rather stay in my apartment and read the novels aligned in my dusted shelves.

I haven't seen Derek since the disturbance of my training session. With him there, it wasn't so much of a training session; more like a stress therapy session, except less of the therapy and more of the stress. Rolling my body to face the ceiling, I place the back of my hand to my forehead and let out a calm sigh. Maybe if I pay no attention to him enough he'll get the blatant message that steadily spews from me.

Who does he even suppose he is; he hasn't a single clue about me. I could snap his neck and all he does is continue to push my buttons. Indeed, I could.

With a jolt of energy, I yank myself out of bed. Walking straight to the kitchen area in thick socks and an oversized shirt, I slide over to the refrigerator and fold my hand over the grey stainless steel handle. Glancing through its contents I huff as I realize that I lack in certain departments. I was supposed to pay the market a visit last night on my way home; I must have been too distracted. My routine, yet again, plagued by the confusion of yesterday's happenings. Trading my shirt for a properly fitting t-shirt, I slip straight-cut jeans on to accompany my combat boots. Running my hands through my lightly tangled brown hair I snatch my keys from my entryway bowl and slip out the door. After locking the door and jiggling the handle to make sure, I turn on my heel to head out of the building.

Walking down the street, it's the usual expectation. Not knowing a single face that I pass and vice versa, a wave of relaxation blankets my body. This, this is nice. This is how it should be. I much rather prefer to slip through the shadows of the day and the crowds that live within it.

Passing through the automatic doors of the market, I snag a handheld shopping basket and head directly to the refrigerated isles knowing exactly what I need. There are not many people in the market right now; it's quieter this way-- not that I'd utter a word to any of them anyway. Carefully placing a carton of a dozen eggs into the basket, I then transport to the produce section to grab apples, oranges, bananas, and avocados. To follow this, the meat section is my next destination for the underappreciated delicacy of sliced ham known as Canadian bacon. It's so simple yet so delicious. Before leaving to the checkout station, I couldn't help but succumb to my temptations by lurking into the aisle containing the cheeses. There are so many choices yet they are all so different in both texture and taste. Quickly reaching a decision and choosing a small wheel of manchego cheese, I take my leave. Excited for my cheese, I scurry out the door with my bag of groceries and a polite "thank you" to the cashier. Right as I'm about to begin my walk back, I quickly step back as a bicyclist speeds past me, snickering and yelling "watch it, broad!" The amount of self-restraint it took me to refrain from stealing someone's phone and chucking it at the back this asshole's head was immeasurable. Some people. All people. I scoff and turn back around to commence once again to my apartment.

Once I'm in the building I head to the stairs with my single paper bag and take my keys out once I'm at my door.

"Need some assistance with that?"

Without hesitation or turning around, I respond by clenching my keys and replying "I will stab you in the neck with my keys if you don't stop following me."

Judging by the silence, I take it he didn't like that. No damsel in distress here, thank you very much. With that, I proceed with unlocking my door and stepping inside. I place my keys in the bowl on the end table and close the door with my foot before entering the kitchen to place my groceries on the counter beside the stove.

"Wow! Your place is so bland, don't ever get bored in here?"

I immediately grab a blade from my knife block and spin around to slyly catapult it across the room. As I huff and puff with anger I stare into the agitatingly calm yet curious eyes of none other than the delusionally insane Derek. With a knife steadily held into the wall at the same level as his ear, a few centimeters away, he smirks at me as if he knew that was going to happen. I can't believe this person.

"I could have stuck that between your ears," I spit at him as I push him aside to tear the knife out of the wall of my now damaged apartment. Now I need to fix that.

"But you didn't," he smoothly retorts.

I shoot him a look expressing my lack of amusement, which I'm sure he understands. Even so, he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. With astonishment pouring throughout my body, I continue to watch him plop onto my couch without a care in the world. Who does he think he is? That seems to be the reoccurring question. I take a deep breath and collect myself as I return to my groceries to put them away before they are too exposed to his social illness. Placing the perishable items in the fridge, I then take two eggs out along with the sliced ham. I take out a small bowl and pan to start cooking some breakfast; my stomach begins talking to me in agreement. Cracking the eggs into the bowl, I continue by adding about two and a half tablespoons of water and season it with parsley and pepper. I grab a fork to start beating the eggs to get that creamy, slightly bubbly yellow for the ultimate scrambled eggs.

"You making some for me?"

"No," I immediately respond.

"Why not?"

"Get out."

"No," he immediately responds. I quickly pick my head up to look at him with anger filling my eyes. I take a moment to take in his azure stare; as still as water without wind, bodies enticed by sleep. I see no fear in his eyes, only confidence; it almost has a calming effect. All until I take my gaze away from the eyes and onto the face as a whole. It's him. That smirk, knowing his imperfections that are impossibly possible. It's as though he was constructed by science or by a higher power themselves. Taking another glance over his face I realize that he isn't acting quite the same as usual. He would have said some snarky ass remark by now, rather than leaving this silence between us. It's like he's searching my soul for answers with his piercing orbs. My glare tightens on him as I pause my procedure of cooking, despite my stomach's displeasure in the act. I can't figure him out. His look on me softens with curiosity, even though it wasn't hardened beforehand.

"Where'd you learn to throw a knife like that? The Littany?"

His words leave me speechless, stiff as a board as my gaze is no longer anywhere near how it was before. My eyes fill with resentment and hysteria. I watch him get up and advance towards me, but I don't move a single muscle. He is standing directly beside me, his eyes not changing in appearance. This is not possible. There's no way.

"You aren't alone. Like I said, everyone has a past; you think you're the only one with a bad one?" The words slip out of his mouth with ease, but they hit me like a hard slab of concrete. Where in the hell did this man come from?

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[A/N: Littany is pronounced as "Lit-uh-nee". Hope it helps.]