Leather Kisses

Leather Kisses. 2

As pathetic as it was, the bitter, numbing, winter air was actually more pleasant than Blake. Or should I say . . . the new Blake.

Blake wasn't always this way. In the beginning of our relationship, I was the luckiest girl in the world. Blake was attractive, charming, sensitive, and not to mention quarterback for the varsity football team. When we first started dating, he treated me like a princess. Blake would give me the kindest compliments, take me to the nicest restaurants, and take care of me when I was afraid, stressed, or worried.

About a month into our relationship, I spent every free moment with Blake and not with my friends. And when I started allocating my time a bit better, he began asking constant questions; about where I was, what I was doing or who I was doing whatever it was with. If I chose my friends over him, he would throw a hissy fit. When he saw me talking to other guys, jealousy would consume him. Lucy warned me and tried to tell me that these were bad signs, but I didn't believe her. I was so young and naïve back then; I truly thought it was his way of showing he deeply cared about me.

I should have listened to her.

Naturally, we started fighting, but Blake would always manage to turn the tables and blame me. Blake felt the need to control my life: whom I hung out with, how I presented myself, what I was labeled as. Before I knew it, my life had flipped 180 degrees. Eventually, his jealousy became anger. His meaningless threats turned into punches. And my love for him turned into disgusted hate.

As I rested on the cold pavement, my sobs degraded to whimpers. I wasn't sure how much time I had wasted, but at this mental state, I was in no hurry to go anywhere. Even after I regained some composure, I remained in the fetal position on the ground just contemplating the world. I couldn't tell if this was rock bottom; and if it was, would I ever go up? For some reason, in the pit of my stomach that filled me up with the nausea of a sailor, I knew that the worst had yet to come.

I wasn't too worried about anyone seeing me because nobody wandered around the parking lot in the middle of the period - if anyone did decide to be bold and endure the cold weather, they left in the beginning and returned at the end.

But there was one person who hadn't conformed to the daily routines of Oxford High School yet.

"Are you okay?" A recently familiar voice asked. Startled and yet still exhausted, I rolled over on my side. When I saw those dark wash jeans tucked into leather combat boots, I instantly sat up.

"Yeah," I mumbled, embarrassed. "I . . . uh . . . fell . . . on some ice, I think."

"You fell?" Dean repeated, suspiciously. "How long have you been there?"

"I don't know, not long," I shrugged. "I lost track of time."

"You must have hit your head pretty hard," he muttered. He squatted down next to me. "You're bleeding."

After being beaten so many times, I was no longer able to judge the amount of damage done. Each slap, punch, push felt the same – a universal level of pain, hate, shock, and betrayal.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Dean reached out and dabbed the side of my forehead. I watched as the white linen cloth became speckled with drops of red blood. The cursive initials BK stitched into the handkerchief in navy blue thread caught my attention, but I didn't think to ask about it.

"Thanks," I muttered, quietly. Dean handed me the handkerchief so I could continue putting pressure on my cut.

"No problem. Just try to be more careful, okay? I'm Dean by the way," he said, still crouching down next to me.

"Oh yeah, I think you're in my chemistry class," I replied. "I'm Riley. Do you have a free period right now or something?"

"No, it's just my job to stay around here and make sure nobody is lying on the ground, helplessly," Dean teased, mocking my suspicious behavior. "But really, I just couldn't find my classroom, so I decided to give up and skip."