Before We Shatter

04 | Blood Stains

My mind is screaming.

Blurs and fragments of lost memories are drowning my life force. Words and phrases bounce around, undecipherable. Chaos ensues and everything is so dark and black and—

I wake to someone slamming a pillow repeatedly on my head.

"Jace!" I growl with a groggy voice, "Stop!"

"No."

Who knew one word could make you want to strangle someone into a headlock?

He's dressed in a typical flannel and jeans, only his right sneaker tied. His hair is messier than usual, not gelled. He rubs his eyes with one hand while he uses the other to hit me continually. I wonder if the pillow will split from the violent thrusts. Poor thing.

"Why?" I shout, trying to block the shots to my face.

"We're late for school!"

"Why?" I ask again.

"You didn't set the alarm clock!"

"That's your job!"

"Since when?"

"Since now," I mutter, frustration eating at me.

Jace finally stops hitting me with his pillow and throws it onto his bunk. He moves to leave the room, but I grab his left foot and he falls—face down—onto the floor.

"Kai!" He barks.

"Yes?" I say sweetly.

He lifts his head from the ground and my stomach plummets. His nose is bleeding, dripping onto the wooden floor boards.

Oh no.

"Sorry," I whisper, feeling ashamed.

"You never know when to stop, do you?" He mutters, standing up and yanking a tissue from the tissue box sitting atop the bookshelf. He brings the Kleenex to his face and stomps out the door.

I curl into a ball on my bed, pulling my legs into my chest. I feel awful. Jace and I do not get along, but my intent is never to hurt him. I sigh, bringing a hand through my hair. Maybe he's right. I guess I don't know when to stop.

Sometimes it sucks to be human.

Humans make mistakes, humans are imperfect, humans are stupid. Maybe it would be easier to be an alien. Why? Because aliens don't exist. And I'm starting to think I shouldn't either.

I finally drag myself off my bed and glance at the small red clock on the wall. It reads, 9:17.

Dang.

Jace wasn't kidding. We're nearly two hours late. Oh, the joy of being a high schooler. And a teenager for that matter.

I quickly pull on a shirt and jeans, searching the room frantically for my shoes. I find one beneath my bed, the other resting atop the window sill. How it got there, I don't know. Maybe I sleep walk. Or, maybe Jace is just being Jace.

I grab my backpack, which has been discarded under the desk, half empty of all my school supplies. I barely remember to stuff my math homework in, then realize it doesn't matter anyway. 'Cause, you know, I didn't do any of it.

Blame it on Jace. As a matter of fact, it's quite sad how natural that instinct has become.

I caution against eating breakfast when I pass a bruised eggplant lying on the kitchen floor. Why no one had the dignity to pick it up, I don't know. It's not like touching the ugly vegetable will give you a disease.