All Our Bruised Bodies

"Miss Williams! Detention!"

Okay, you might be wondering who I am and how we got here. Let's start at about three minutes ago.

;-;-;-;-;-;

The calming sounds of Jordan Dreyer's voice soothes me into a state of calm as the stresses of all else fades away. But that can go only so far as the petulant voice of my churlish teacher breaks through the cocoon I've set around my weary mind.

"Elara, how many times do I have to tell you to put that thing away!" she snaps crossly. I merely sigh, staring at her with unseeing eyes. When will she realise that I will never put my sacred iPod away?

As she monotonously carries on, I quietly take out my book and flip to the page I left off on, not paying attention to my surroundings; but then again, when do I ever really pay attention? It's not my fault that she drones on day to day, not knowing that she puts all of her students to sleep. She should cut us some slack and not blame us for not wanting to get bored to tears. I make nearly straight As anyway, so why is it even relevant that I want to listen to my iPod? Yes, it shows a lack of respect, but honestly, I really don't care. I don't have a single ounce of respect for that insipid woman.

"Miss Williams!" the nasal voice shouts once again. My dark green eyes merely glance up at her gratifyingly furious face and I let a short sigh out, turning my attention back to my book. With no second though, I fluidly raise my middle finger to her, not even really paying attention to the shocked gasps from my brainless classmates and the angered gasps from my livid teacher.

;-;-;-;-;-;

"Miss Williams, detention!" she sneers, obviously expecting some sort of reaction. I give her no relief, however, and continue to look blankly at her before glancing back at my book stoically, picking up where I left off before I was so rudely interrupted.

I don't dare look up at anything, though it would have been for naught, seeing as the only one paying attention to me was my seething teacher. Except for one pair of kind chocolate eyes that I would never expect to look at me.

-Malcolm POV-

Oh my goodness, she's so... independent and... perfect. I wish I could be like her, not picked on for being a little too effeminate. So what if I'm more in touch with my sensitive side? Plus, it helps with girls. Not that I usually get them. Anyway, back to how perfect she is. I hate how no one else can see how beautiful and strong she is. All they care about is "mute" and "freak", but she's so much more than that. Oh well. At least if I ever had her, I'd have her completely to myself. Hah. If only. She would never like me. I'm just stupid, awkwardly tall Malcolm and she's perfect. Even if no one sees it but me. Maybe one day, I'll get the courage to finally ask--

"Mister Evanson, this is the last time that you'll fall asleep in my class! Detention!" Oh, great. Now I have detention. Alone in a room full of random people who hate me and... Wait! She has detention, too! Sweeeeeet. It looks like I finally have my chance, and there's no way I'll fuck it up.

-Elara's POV-

Wonderful, last period has finally ended, meaning that I have... detention. Lovely, a room full of creeps, idiots, losers, and... me. Well, I'm not exactly saying I'm not strange myself, but I don't exactly want to spend two hours in a room with those judgmental assholes. Oh well. It's better than going back to that empty house and waiting for my parents to call and say that their business trips are being prolonged and they'll be sending me even more money to make up for it. I wish they'd save their bullshit and just tell me that they're staying away for even longer to cheat on each other and get away from their failure of a daughter and we could all get on with our lives.

But life doesn't work that way. Which is exactly why when I walk into the room, sitting in my usual seat is the cheeky little fucker that is Malcolm Evanson. I make short, sure strides over to him, finally reaching the wide-eyed boy. In a weary attempt to get him out of my seat, I clear my throat and stick my thumb out backwards, indicating that he should get his sorry ass out of my seat. But of course, he has to make things difficult and just look up me with those huge innocent eyes, shaking his head with a smile and pointing to the seat next to him.

With a scowl, I throw my backpack down at the next seat and plop down, crossing my arms and staring forward defiantly. All I want to do is just get through this with no one bothering me, but apparently, the world just hates me today, because as soon as I sit down, that little shit turns to me and starts to talk to me. After a while of me giving him apathetic stares, he still hasn't given up, but has instead resorted to rambling happily to me. It's actually kind of nice.

"Malcolm, if you don't stop talking right now, you'll get another detention!" our bitchy teacher shouts at him. With cheeks turning a cute bright red, he finally turns back to his desk, causing me to let out a breath of relief. This will be complete and utter torture.

;-;-;-;-;-;

Nearly two hours later, I stumble out of the classroom, breathing in the wonderful scent of freedom. At least slightly more freedom than before. Now, to leave before that psycho boy can try to... talk to me. Insert dramatic shudders here. I don't think that I've ever met anyone so keen on trying to talk to me. No one else really seems to care...

Get your head out of the clouds, Elara, and try to find a ride home. Oh wait, all of your friends are busy and it's two hours after school ended, meaning that you're going to have to walk home. Fucking perfect. Oh look! And it's starting to rain! Just lovely.

I don't really mind rain all that much, I actually quite adore it. It's just not so great walking home five perpetual, dreadful miles in the rain that is starting to come down in sheets of stinging coldness. With a resigned sigh, I turn my half-charged on iPod on again and begin my weary trek to my poor, desolate excuse of a house, trying desperately to ignore the wetness seeping through my clothes, spreading throughout my body and chilling my bones.

Minutes pass as the songs on my iPod attempt to make me anything but completely miserable, and succeed a little. But the rain is definitely putting a damper on my mood. Hah. Damper. Damp. Anyway, I'm only about 10 minutes into my walk of anguish when an unfamiliar car pulls up next to me, which is driven by an unfortunately familiar person. As the window rolls down, I merely look at him pointedly, waiting for him to stop wasting my time.

"Hey, do you want a ride?" I just shake my head, but internally beg for a chance to get out of this rain.

"Oh, yeah, I see, because you just look so happy walking in the pouring rain," he says, looking at me sardonically. I irascibly huff and cross my arms before turning to start walking again; I don't really want to deal with his bullshit all the way home.

"Come on, I was just kidding! Get in! Please."

After a moment, I finally turn around and scowl before opening the door vehemently and plopping down into the warm seat, letting out a deep sigh of relief at the enveloping warmth in the car.

"Better?" the cheeky bastard asks with a grin. His grin doesn't even falter when I glare at him and cross my arms again, staring out of the window with recalcitrance.

"Okay, so you're gonna have to tell me where you live, so..." he trails off. I look at him and point forward with my finger lazily. The stupid grin reappears and he drives once again.

An awkward silence fills the car as I blatantly ignore his resilient attempts to get me to respond, so, I decide to take manners into my own hands and plug my iPod up. When Dear Father by Defeater comes on, his face immediately lights up.

"I fucking love this song! You listen to them?" I just nod my head slightly, enjoying the song filling up the silence.

"Okay, what's your favorite song? In general?" he asks in the middle of the next song I picked. Many songs instantly come into my mind, but one stands out and I hum, holding up a finger and scrolling through my songs until I see the song, completely missing the shit eating grin on his face.

My fingers tap one last thing hesitantly before the old song stops and Mt. Diablo by The Story So Far starts playing. Once again, he seems completely ecstatic.

"You're like my music other half, I swear," he sighs dreamily, while turning. "So, I don't wanna sound rude or anything, but can you actually talk? Is it like a choice thing or you just--"

"I can talk," I say exasperated, my voice cracking a bit in misuse.

A look of utter surprise adorably comes over his face and then it's like a blinding beam of sunshine is coming from his face because he's smiling so hard. My heart skipped a beat.

"Just don't be expecting me to do it all the time. I never even talk to my friends. I don't even know why I..." I trail off, looking off at the window to try to hide the light blush dominating my pale cheeks.

"Oh, no, no, I'm milking this for all it's worth. I'm going to make you talk about everything," he beams. "Is that so?" I counter. "And how are you going to make me?"

"I won't need to make you. I know you'd be willing. To answer my questions," he winks as I scoff. "Oh, piss off," I grumble. I barely even notice that we haven't been going to my house in a while until we pull up at a nearby park that I go to often.

"Take me home," I order, but he just brushes me off. "Not a chance, my dear! I told you, I'm taking this opportunity and I'm milking it for what it's worth. Now, come on."

"I don't want to talk to you! Take me home!" I try again, knowing that I would end up spilling everything. He only gives me a pointed look.

"You don't want to talk to me, right. Come on. I'm not going to hurt you or kill you or anything, don't worry. Come onnnn," he whines.

"Fine, but don't expect me to fucking enjoy it," I snarl before getting out and slamming the door close, pouting next to the door. Malcolm chuckles and takes my hand, dragging me off into the small woods until we find a dry place to sit down.

"So, tell me about yourself," he says simply. My head shakes and my mouth closes to keep all the words I want to spill so desperately in. "Come on, Elara, just let me in and let me see the great personality I know you have."

And that's when I snapped.

"You don't even fucking know me!" I start, shooting up and clenching my fists at my sides. "So stop acting like you do! Just fucking leave me alone! I don't get it! What do you want from me?!"

"Elara--"

"No! Leave me the hell alone, Malcolm, I swear! You don't fucking know a thing about me, and if you did, you'd be out of here faster than you can think, so just leave! Just... leave..." I trail off wearily. "I was fine before I met you, and I'll be fine after you leave. So just... go. Please."

He takes a step closer to me, but I turn my head away from him, pointing away. "Go." Shaking his head, he steps even closer, taking me into his sympathetic arms.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers to me. With slow, careful steps, we end up sitting back down, still wrapped in each other's arms. "I don't really know anything about you, so that's why I need you to tell me," he reminds me after a few seconds. He starts speaking in a soothing, rhythmic voice.

"So now, tell me how your story goes. Have you ever suffered? If so, did you get better or have you never quite recovered from it? Did you find your lover laying in your bedroom with another and then did you let it hover over you and everything else well after the fact? Show me all your bruises. I know everybody wears them. They broadcast the pain-how you hurt, how you reacted. Did cancer take your child? Did your father have a heart attack? Have you had a moment, forced the whole heart to grow or retract?"

I respond to him with tears in my eyes. "Or just shrink. Does the heart shrink?"

With a soft smile, he starts again. "Tell me everything. Tell me everything you know. Were you told as a child how cruel the whole world can be? Did anybody ever tell you that? Tell me what your purpose is. Who it was that put you here and why? Did anybody really put you here at all? And what of those necessities? Like how to cope with tragedy and pain? Did anybody ever show you how?"

I shake my head and speak fluidly, the familiar words spilling out of my mouth with purpose. "When it hits, will my heart burst or break or grow strong? Is there really only one way to know now? I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to find out the hard way how strong I am. What I’m made of. I’m not sure I am ready yet to walk through the fire. I’m not sure I can handle it. Do you think if the heart keeps on shrinking, one day there will be no heart at all? And how long does it take? Am I better off just bursting or breaking? Cause I don’t see my heart getting strong."

In a smooth motion, he wipes away my tears, smiling sadly and resting his hand on my cheek. "Tell your stories to me. Show your bruises. Let’s see what humanity is capable of handling. Tell me that you’re terrified of life. Tell me that it’s difficult to not think of death sometimes. Tell me how you lost. Tell me how he left. Tell me how she left. Tell me how you lost everything that you had. Tell me it ain’t ever coming back. Tell me about God. Tell me about love. Tell me that it’s all of the above. Say you think of everything in fear. I bet you’re not the only one who does."

By this point, sobs are ripping through my throat in a painful release and I speak the final words. "Everyone in the world comes at some point to suffering. I wonder when I will. I wonder. Everyone is out searching for someone or something. I wonder what I’ll find. I wonder. I wonder what I'll find."

As he wipes away more of my tears with a morbid smile, I stare into his chocolate eyes and sniffle slightly, finally saying in my own voice: "I wonder what I'll find."