But goddamn it all to hell, this is fucking different! His fear and mine are different, much more heightened and on another level, and neither one of our parents are here.
“Fucking hell!” I bellow. With a burst of anger, I kick the damn chairs neatly placed by the wall, sending them tumbling down. They scrap the floor with a loud screech that I’m sure will draw attention, but no one would dare throw me out. Not if they know what’s good for them and their funding.
It shouldn’t shock me that my parents aren’t here, but it does. I’m stunned at the level of selfishness my parents have sunk to.
So, I kick the chairs again and again, all my pent-up rage and frustration that I never allow myself to feel when I’m around my family comes bursting out from within, like a volcano erupting. White hot anger blinds me for a second, demanding to be felt. Demanding to be expressed with immediate effect and the hospital hallway is my best outlet.
I grab an ugly painting hanging on the wall and throw it as far as I can. I hear the glass shattering, but all that noise isn’t enough to drown out the noise in my head. It’s not nearly enough to relay how twisted and fucked up the Fitzgerald family is.
Headline after headline, my father always finds a way to drag our family through one scandal after another; and my mother, ever the sensitive heartbroken, money-loving woman she is, forgives him.
I ball my palm into a tight fist and drive it into the wall beside me.
Blinding pain shoots through from my knuckles up my hand, but for some reason, that felt good.
Because I’m a fucking unfeeling jerk and a glutton for punishement, I do it again. And again, aware that I’m hurting myself and that what I’m doing is stupid, pointless, and reckless.
My knuckles start bleeding. I feel some satisfaction as I watch the metallic red stain the otherwise unharmed white wall, dismantling this clean façade that hospitals carry.
Breathing hard and fast, I can still hear the loud beeping of machines they hooked my brother on in his hospital room.
But then it’s the look on Aiden’s face when he woke up two hours ago, looked around the room, a look of hope and optimism on his face, only to find the large hospital room empty of the faces he wanted to see. It was just me, without a good explanation for the absence of his family.
“Fuck!” a soft whisper escapes my lips like a litany, feeling a ball in my throat. It’s like the life has been sucked out of me. I want to punch the damn wall again, pretending it’s my father’s face wouldn’t make a single iota of a difference either.
“Are you done?”
A sweet, amused, and sarcastic voice speaks from behind me. I spin around, ready to tell her off. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy, let alone if it’s someone from my school. Worse if they’re from our rival school, here to get some dirt on me to exploit me.
Paranoia or caution? I don’t know, they both kind of bleed together for me.
When I turn around, words fail me when I come face to face with her, the girl I saw dancing in the rain earlier today.
Twirling and spinning in puddles, her delicate arms reaching up to the heavens, as if she was trying to catch raindrops. She had her beautiful face up turned to the sky, as if to let the rain wash away the sadness in her eyes. But as I look at her now, I don’t think the rain did a good job—though it tried.
She’s still sad. Pissed, curious, annoyed, yes, but still sad.
My chest expands, I stand there frozen, knowing better than to breathe because if I so much as breathe wrong, she’ll disappear. I mutely stare at her for a full minute, as if I’ve just seen an angel but the more I stare, the more I notice the devil’s glint in her eyes.
“What?” I grunt.
“I said are you done punishing the wall for your sins?” she questions, this time walking toward the chairs I kicked. “Because if you are, then you should apologize to the wall. It did nothing to receive your wrath.”
For some fucked up reason, that annoys me and intrigues me all at the same time. The fact that she somehow thinks whatever’s going on is my fault, makes me frown. That I sinned and now we’re here, makes me suck in another breath, watching her because it’s true. I did cause all of this. I wasn’t there when Aiden needed me.
“Who are you, the hospital hall monitor?” I mock, rolling my shoulders back, standing at my tallest, knowing that my height intimidates almost everyone, and I’m still growing.
“Please, I last did that in middle school.” She places a hand on her hip, still watching me like I’m a feral, wounded animal. But the thing is, she’s not afraid. Not one bit. “And I was quite good at it if I remember correctly. I never allowed a slip-up, from anyone.”
I narrow my eyes at the raven-haired beauty with aquamarine eyes, there’s a hint of yellow specks in them that make her look like the perfect devil’s advocate—since she’s talking about sin and shit.
“Aren’t you still in middle school?” I question, studying her. She’s young. Maybe even Liam’s age. She’s tiny, petite, with a hell of a lot of promise to the way her body curves. She’s gorgeous, this girl, and the tragedy is, she’s fully aware of her beauty. And mine is I notice it.
“How old are you?”
She perks up, puffing her slightly flat chest out, flipping her hair over her shoulder twice. She’s definitely nervous but going for brave anyway.
“I’m about to be a freshman, just FYI.”
Figures. She looks like she’s clingy and nosy with her pink training bra peeking through her white Saks shirt.
“Here’s some free advice, freshman. Go mind your own fucking business.” I keep my voice low, trying to control myself from lashing out at her. “Or else your lifetime accomplishment will remain, and will always be, a fucking hall monitor.”
I’ve seen a lot of spineless douchebags and bratty girls immediately make themselves scarce when I use that tone, but she doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she lightly shakes her head, a cold smile on her face.
How can a girl like her have a cold smile so early on in life?
“You’re rude,” she counters.
It’s the way she turns down her nose at me, looking unimpressed that makes me pause. It’s not a look I get from girls at all. Honestly, I shouldn’t give a shit, but I do. I don’t know why it pisses me the fuck off coming from her.
“I’m not here to impress you with fairytale manners,” I grit out, wanting to piss her off.
“Yeah, you’re just here to punch an innocent wall and be rude to strangers, got it,” she counters, folding her arms.
She’s got a lot of body movements like she has spasms or some shit, but I know it’s because she’s a dancer. Do dancers always have to move any part of their bodies all the time? Or maybe it’s just for sad-eyed beauties who can’t mind their business?
“What’s your fucking problem?” I demand, my words clipped.
“You.” She points at me, then at the discarded chairs all over the place, then at the broken frame at the end of the hall. “You are my fucking problem.”
“Cry me a river, freshman.” I turn away, the pain in my hand now throbbing. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you try shoving your nose in some else’s business, not mine.”