Enemies Closer

The bottom of my face feels numb, and I rub it vigorously. Stupid. That girl. Aislinn whatsherface. If I hadn't already visited Masters today, I would've... Done what? Hit her? No, I don't like hitting people, contrary to my reputation. Violence is pointless. I only do what I have to do sometimes, that's all.

"And she's angry now, folks, what out!" Simon sprints up beside me. His cheeks are still lifted, and I know he's still enjoying what just happened. He proves it by cracking a grin. "I thought I was going to see a show back there, Chuck."

I roll my eyes at him. Let him have his amusement. Tomorrow, he'll be at my feet again, asking me to take care of the big bad bullies.

I stop walking once we reach my locker. The door is puke green and covered in obscene graffiti. The freshest is a bright red smear of a word, made in Sharpie ink. BITCH.

The first time I saw it, I laughed it off. Macy Billings, I had figured, was the culprit because she had been watching me that day, and she had huffed off from her little posse when it had become clear that I wasn't upset in the slightest.

Problem is I don't mind what people say about me. In fact, I may just be the tiniest bit proud of my toughness, the bluntness of my image, and the sharpness of my tongue. I know how to survive without getting hurt, unlike the children that made up my class.

"Your chin looks like an bruised tomato," Simon guffaws. He covers his mouth to hide a gleeful smile. Best friend or not, I want to wipe the grin off his face. Our twisted friendship mostly consists of me wiping up his messes and him enjoying the few times I get beat.

My eyes narrow, and in the coldest voice I can muster, I whisper, "There's Derek Mullen."

Simon immediately turns around, fear evident in his eyes. Derek is the worst of his abusers, a mean and ripped hockey player who doesn't like much of anything. He and I used to date - back in junior high, of course, when I was still a stupid kid - but we broke up when I got tired of his meathead personality.

While Simon is distracted, my focus returns to opening my locker. I dial in the combination and hit the bottom part hard just once before pulling at the handle. It swings open without a hitch, though the hinges make a horrible keening noise. The few books I have in the metal casket go into my bookbag, and I swing the door shut. By this time, Simon has realized that Derek isn't anywhere nearby, and he's glaring at me. I shrug.

"You were asking for it," is the only explanation I give.

"Bitch," he spits out.

I shrug again and smile. This is the life.


Heather is already sprawled out on the couch when I get home. Her preteen laziness seeps into the air, and I lose my drive to get all of my homework done early and plop down onto her legs. She yelps, and I stand up momentarily in order for her to move them before sitting down again.

"Whatcha watching?" I ask cheerily, with a cheeky grin.

She reminds me of a cat when she hisses at me and throws the remote at my face. I catch it easily and change the channel from some terrible pop music countdown to the news. Heather sighs and rolls of the couch.

"Yay, she's going to watch depressing crap again and get all silent and moody. Yay, for us." She rolls her eyes and cocks her head to the side while resting a hand on her hip. I raise and eyebrow at her, and surprisingly, she laughs. It seems like a miracle to me that she's in a good mood today.

But I have been having a bad day. Of course she's going to be happy.

Heather turns and prances off towards the kitchen. I can hear the clanging of dishes and cabinet doors, so I turn up the volume. The newscaster runs over the local news in a monotone voice. Robbery, rape, shooting... it all runs together.

I think we're all going crazy.

Suddenly, the woman stops speaking. She looks confused as she listens to a voice off camera, something I can't quite hear. The look that passes over her face is something I can't name. I lean forward without thinking.

Breathing slows, eyes widen, neck muscles grow taunt. My reaction is early, but the feeling - that sickening feeling that has been haunting me for what seems like forever - comes to the surface. No, please. Stop. Don't speak.

In the most solemn voice, the newscaster says, "Breaking news, I repeat, breaking news. President Lynchard has just been assassinated..."

The look. It's terror.

The feeling consumes me. My stomach turns. My blood runs cold. This is what I have been waiting for.

It's coming.