WATTPAD FEATURED NOV 2020 AND OCT 2021 - FROM OUR STARS LIST
WATTPAD MULTICULTURAL FEATURED SEP 2022 - AUSTRALIAN WHISPERERS READING LIST
It's difficult to save someone who doesn't want saving, particularly when they're lying to you.
...
Claudia and...
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When I wake the next day, I feel deflated. Not only because of my fight with Jake, but because today is Tuesday, and Tuesdays are therapy days.
It isn't that I don't like the concept of therapy. I think for some people it works well.
But for me, I hate it.
I hate the way my therapist, Muhammad, looks at me. I hate the squeak of the leather chair every time I move. I hate the smell, and the silence, and the way people seem to think that therapy and everyday life are separate entities; that if I reawaken old wounds there, they'll stop throbbing the moment I leave.
The thoughts make me groan and I slide from bed and pull my uniform on.
I can hear Peter's heavy tread in the kitchen, Sylvia's melodic humming travelling down the corridor, echoing and then cutting off with the click of the bathroom door. The hairdryer starts up and I throw my clothes on more frantically, spurred into hyper speed by the possibility that I could leave the house before Sylvia emerges again.
In a few brief minutes, I'm ready, and I grab my bag and thump down the stairs, yelling a quick goodbye to Peter as I barrel past, his grunt of surprise muffled as the door closes behind me.
When I reach the end of the street, I slow, drifting beneath the shade of a tree near the bus stop to wait for Jake.
The sun is already burning, sweat condensing along my spine, and I squint against the glare, hoping Jake will appear soon.
Two buses pass before he does.
His bruises have grown worse overnight, making a storm of his skin, and I can't help but grimace when he reaches me.
"What?" he snaps.
A group of boys from school are leaning against the paint-chipped aluminium seats, their eyes raking over Jake with varying degrees of curiosity. I shoot a glare in their direction before replying.
"Are you sure you want to go to school today?"
Jake tries to roll his eyes, but they're so swollen that the movement only makes him flinch.
"We're already at the bus stop."
I look at my feet, kicking at the dust.
"We could wag. Head into the city."
Jake stares at me, and the words he screamed last night ring through my head.
"I'm fine," he says, voice tight. "Stop worrying about me."
I try not to notice the complete lack of life in his voice, try to blur out the reds and blues and greys that swirl across his skin. Crafted shapes of violence.
He'd wanted this. He'd wanted worse than this.
"Are you—"
The bus pulls up and Jake pushes past me, jumping on. For a moment, my head rushes, my vision blurring with despair. But I just turn and follow him, hoping that whatever darkness had wormed its way into Jake's system will leave soon.
