Black Thorns: Chapter 5

It’s fascinating how someone feels their bad days so deeply when they don’t even notice their good ones.

That someone is me.

Bad days always start with the same thing—the need to hurt.

It pulses inside me like there’s a second person attempting to get out but fails to find a way to.

It beats and claws.

It murmurs, then screams.

There’s no tuning it out and ignoring it won’t help. The only way to placate it is with the promise for violence.

I’m barely focused on Owen and Asher’s conversation as we walk from our cars to the school building. Maybe I can beat someone the fuck up at today’s practice.

Without breaking any bones.

The last thing I want is to get my grandparents involved. The only reason they like to be called to school is when they’re promised to take some honorary awards home.

What’s the best way to get rid of excess energy without broaching my grandparents’ limits?

There’s fucking, but that barely helps. Even when I get rough, it doesn’t really satiate that urge for more.

Asher stops walking and I automatically do, too. He’s been my friend since we were young. His father owns the firm that represents my grandfather.

After constantly being thrust into each other’s presence, we thought, ‘Fuck it. We might as well become friends.’ Or maybe it’s Owen’s obnoxious presence that brought us together.

We definitely don’t talk as much as when he’s the center of attention, making everything about him and his random adventures.

Asher’s dark green eyes narrow and a muscle tics in his jaw. He always has a cool mask strapped on his features and only one thing can remove it.

Or rather, one person.

I follow his field of vision, and sure enough, it’s Reina.

She stands beside her car, laughing at something one of the soccer players is saying.

A sight that Asher doesn’t approve of.

Her eyes meet his and her smile falls for a second before she picks up her conversation again as if her fiancé isn’t standing a few feet away.

They started this stupid arranged engagement a few years back and they’ve only been spiraling out of control since. It got worse after her father died at the beginning of the year and she moved in with her legal guardian—Asher’s father. Now that they live together, they’re always at each other’s throats.

I watch as my friend’s body stiffens, his muscles straining against his T-shirt. His face closes off as well and he nearly rips a tendon in his neck from how hard he’s gritting his teeth.

“Don’t do it, dude.” Owen’s gaze flits between the scene and Asher’s rigid posture. “He’s just talking to her.”

I lift a shoulder. “He could mean something more.”

“Whose side are you on, fucker?” Owen glares at me.

“Asher’s, of course.” I lean in. “He’s putting his hand on her. See? He’s touching her arm. Who knows what he’ll be touching next?”

That’s all it takes for Asher to sprint toward them. Owen flips me off before he runs after him.

It’s too late, though.

One second, the soccer player is standing there, and the next, Asher slams his fist straight into his face.

The sound of crunching bones hits my ears and I briefly close my eyes to commit it to memory.

It still doesn’t help in chasing away the need for violence and the urge to pummel someone into the ground, but it does sound nice.

It looks nice, too.

The soccer player is on his knees, clutching his bloody nose as he spits profanities at Asher.

Reina’s face turns to stone. She’s probably used to Asher beating the crap out of anyone who looks at her, let alone talks to her.

He’s that possessive and she’s that antagonizing. Because, sometimes, she does it on purpose, just to get a reaction out of him.

The player jumps up and lands a punch on Asher’s cheek. And then they’re punching each other as if it’s a boxing match.

Owen tries to interfere while Reina just stands there, her expression tight as she watches the fight. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her nails dig into her skin.

Asher punches harder and gets hit just as hard.

What a nice view.

What’s nicer, though, are the drops of blood on the concrete.

If Asher’s fist was more powerful, there’d be more blood.

Pity.

I release a bored sigh. I should probably pretend to get them off each other so it doesn’t appear as if I’m enjoying the show a bit too much.

There goes my plan to enjoy the fight from a front-row seat.

I’m about to step in when something catches in my peripheral vision.

Actually, it’s someone. Overhead.

The parking lot is situated at the bottom of a hill. At the top, there are countless trees that many students use as camouflage to make out.

For a second, I believe the blur of motion is, in fact, a couple fucking first thing in the morning.

But it isn’t.

I take a step back so I can get a better view and freeze.

It’s a girl.

She transferred to our school this year. I’ve seen her before because she’s on the cheer squad with Reina, Brianna, and the others.

Also, she’s so tiny, her size always gives her away in a crowd.

It’s not her size that makes me stop and stare, though.

It’s her eyes.

Or, more accurately, the tears in them.

Two streaks paint her blushed cheeks as she stares at the bleak sky.

There’s something haunting about the look in her eyes, a wretchedness of sorts.

Or maybe it’s an urge that couldn’t be taken care of, like in my case.

She’s not bawling the way the rest of the girls do. She doesn’t seem to have red-rimmed eyes either.

Her grief is silent and discreet, as if she, herself, isn’t aware that she’s doing it.

I’ve never seen anyone look as heartbreakingly beautiful when they cry as she does right now.

A gust of wind toys with her short black hair and tulle skirt, making them fly in the air behind her. Even her jacket opens, revealing her Metallica T-shirt.

A leaf falls on her nose and she cuts off her staring contest with the sky to clutch it between her delicate fingers.

They’re small, just like the rest of her.

Her dark eyes focus on the leaf as if it’s the first time she’s seen one. And just like that, she smiles.

It’s a slow one that builds over time. Her rosebud lips purse and then they curve in the most breathtaking smile I’ve ever seen.

Her nose twitches and droplets of tears cling to her lips and chin, but she doesn’t stop smiling as she fingers the leaf.

An irrational thought takes hold of me, one that I wouldn’t ordinarily have under any circumstances. I’ve never been the irrational type. Not for any reason.

And yet, the need to go up there is stronger than any violent urge I have ever had. I want to ask her why she’s crying and why she’s smiling.

I want to ask her how it’s possible to look like a fucking angel I don’t believe in while she’s both crying and smiling.

Better yet, I want to be the reason why she has that expression on her face.

Haunted happiness.

As if neither the pain nor the joy could win, so they decided to co-exist.

But I don’t go to her.

Because if I do, I’ll ruin the perfect image in front of me. One that countless artists could try to emulate but would never manage to.

A piece of fucking art.

“Sebastian!”

My gaze strays away at the sound of my name. It’s Owen and he’s glaring, pointing at the fight so I’ll go and help him break it up.

That’s when I realize I completely zoned out from what’s going on.

Weird.

My own need for violence is barely there. It’s definitely not as strong as it was a few minutes ago.

“Just a sec,” I tell Owen and stare up at the hill.

There’s nothing.

The angel I made up is no longer there.

Maybe she didn’t exist in the first place.

Only, she did.

And I’ll make sure to keep an eye on her from now on.

If only to see her cry-smile again. Or maybe just smile.

Or just cry.

As long as I see her.