Lonely, Drunk and Beautiful

When school starts off as shitty as this, I make it a general rule not to bother with first period.
I slip into the kitchens, high-fiving the one cool guy back there, and go out of the fire exit. The wind has a bite to it today, so I shrug off my hoodie, pulling on Alex’s shirt and stuffing the hoodie in my bag. It’s a little bit too small, so the line of my hips is exposed to the furious whip of the wind, as well as my arms. The slight burn all across my body makes the sting worse, and I allow myself a rare smile as I stick a cigarette between my teeth and search my pockets for a lighter.
I’m blowing out my first exhale, staring at the depressingly grey horizon, when I hear the door bang.
“You can’t smoke out here!”
I raise a brow, slowly turning round.
“And yet I’m doing it anyway. Amazing.” I reply boredly, blowing a long stream of smoke in the lunch guy’s face.
“I’m telling the principal.” he snaps, and I snort with laughter.
“Why, not man enough to face confrontation? Too much of a pussy?” I jeer, flicking ash off the side. His face darkens.
“You arrogant little-“
I push his shoulder.
“Finish that train of thought. I dare you.” I growl, and his fists clench, but he falls silent.
“Didn’t think you were man enough.” I laugh, and he steps forward, one fist raised.
Arms close around his biceps and pull him back.
“Jeff, you can’t take a swing at a student!” his colleague yells. I begin to laugh manically.
“Come on Jeff. Take a fucking swing, I dare you!” I yell, flailing my arms.
He breaks free, which admittedly I didn’t anticipate, and gets one good punch to my stomach before his friend grabs him again.
I sink to my knees, groaning and swallowing a mouth full of vomit.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” the colleague yells, and whether he’s addressing me or Jeff, I don’t know.
Jeff gets dragged back into the kitchen, where I hear him being chewed out, and I collapse onto the ground, arms around my stomach.
I light another cigarette when I can breathe again. The pain in my abdomen has faded to a dull ache, but I stay on the floor, staring at crushed chewing gum.
I’m more frustrated than usual, it seems.

_________________________________

When the bell rings, I grab my shit and go back through the kitchen, winking at Jeff and nodding at the same guy from before.
I do slam my shoulder on the door on the way out, much to Jeff’s amusement. If that guy carries on, I’m going to throw him off the roof.
Anyone else emerging from the kitchens would get a million questions from the people swarming around, but with me, nobody even double takes.
I’m walking down the corridor at this point, and people are shying away from me. An inch, maybe half an inch, but everywhere I walk, people flinch. Pretty much everyone in this school is terrified of me.
It’s been this way ever since I was a freshmen. It started off when a senior tried to locker slam me, and I broke his nose with a three-hundred page textbook. It wasn’t even a hard blow, but a mixture of the early morning, the element of surprise, and my fast reflexes slammed him to the ground. Ever since, I’ve built up a reputation of being a maniac. Sophomore year was the worst, when I experienced bouts of random, uncontrollable rage and took it out on everyone around me, whether it was name calling or random assaults. That same year, I took out three jocks on the football field.
Junior year really twisted the fear knife in everyone though. Having silver bracelets slapped on your wrists and being dragged to a police car mid-day tends to do that.
The hilarious part is, to this day, nobody knows why that happened.
I’ve made a point of befriending all the jocks this year. I’m more careful about my rage fits now, and since junior year the jocks have gotten a hell of a lot stockier. I’m not saying I couldn’t hold my own if it came to it, but it would require energy which I could spend procrastinating.
Generally, people are too terrified to go within five feet of me. But from time to time, I get presented with a few challenges. Most of the time I manage to win them with words and a few charming, sarcastic smiles. My words are more powerful than my punch, after all. I’m excellent at zeroing in on people’s insecurities. I haven’t had to resort to physical violence in quite a while.
But I have a feeling that streak is going to end soon.
My eyes fix on two guys standing near my locker.
Dawson and Merrick.
I nod at Merrick, who nods back. He’s the quarterback, one I gave extra energy into manipulating, because fuck, that guy could destroy me. But Dawson gives me a cocky smirk, not moving whatsoever, even when I brush by him.
I don’t bother shouldering him out of the way, but I do shoot him a glare. The hint of fear in his eyes is enough to sate me for now, even when he masks it with another arrogant grin.
I scowl at him, continuing on my way. The tension between us is becoming unbearable, and I know that he’s close to making a play for alpha male.
Idiot.

_________________________________

The day leaves me in a bored stupor. I’m practically cationic in math, mouth hanging open as I squint in confusion at the board. I have no idea what the teacher is rambling on about, and spent half the lesson convincing myself that this class is, in fact, the embodiment of hell.
The bell shatters my dreamlike stupor, much to my relief, and I gather up my shit and hurry out, hitting as many people as possible with my backpack on the way.
I’m on my way to my locker when I hear a crash.
Scowling, I sling my bag over my shoulder and force myself to go see what’s happening.
Rian Dawson has some poor kid pinned against my locker, grinning insanely. He’s got one hand holding the kid up by his shirt, the other raised and clenched.
I stare at the kid’s hair, which is hanging over his face, matted, because it’s sparking a memory.
Rian punches the kid, hard, in the face, and lets him drop into a heap on the floor.
“Where’s your boyfriend now, fag?” Rian spits, smirking and scooping up a red backpack.
Red backpack.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
I slowly step forward, eyes fixed to the back of Dawson’s head, stalking him like I’m a tiger and he’s a gazelle.
He’s oblivious, in the process of emptying the bag’s contents all over the floor, laughing as he does.
People are gathered all around us, but nobody says a word, everyone staring in horror at the scene unfolding in front of them.
I’m on the balls of my feet, breathing heavily, less than two inches away from Rian.
In an instant, I reach out and seize the back of Rian’s shirt, easily yanking him off his feet and throwing him against the locker. I use the shocked daze he’s in to flip him so that he’s facing me, not once losing his grip. A feral snarl escapes my lips as I get right in Rian’s face, hands shaking due to the molten rage spilling through my veins.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
In comparison to my current mental state, my voice is eerily calm and quiet. But fury is filling me up. My eyes have physically darkened due to narrowed lids, lips pulled up in a snark.
There’s a reason half the school is afraid to sneeze in my presence, because my fits of rage are famous. The rumour that I black out when I get angry enough infested the school like an insect swarm; everyone heard it. And right now, I’m betting I look pretty close to murdering Dawson, never mind simply blacking out.
Realisation that he can’t beat me in any violent confrontation in a million years, especially with adrenaline giving me extra strength, dawns on Dawson, and his expressions turn into one of pure terror.
Really, he’d have been better punching me in the fucking face. Surprise might’ve given him an advantage. But attacking someone I like against my fucking locker and being stupidly oblivious to my arrival is a sure-fire way to throw me into a murderous rage.
The kid is crumpled next to Dawson’s elevated feet. I have him at least three inches off the ground, against a locker, and I’m almost nose-to-nose with him. Just about every pupil in this hellhole is present right now, creating a wall of unspoken silence around them. This would never get back to any authority.
“Apologise.” I growl, pulling away my hand.
Every teenager holds their breath as a broken-looking Dawson crawls over to the kid, chokes out an apology, and looks up at me.
It’s like a sick portrayal of ownership. Dawson on his knees in front of me, who’s barking orders at him.
I gesture to the bag with an infuriated expression, and he hurriedly crams all the books back into it, gently handing it to the stirring kid.
I motion for him to get up, and smile a little bit. Dawson almost collapses with relief, and mutters begin to start.
I hit Rian Dawson in the face so hard that I actually do black out for a second. He lets out a twisted scream and staggers back into the lockers, clutching his bleeding face and staring up at me with terror.
“Leave.” I say softly, and he trips three times in his haste to get away.
I turn, fixing my glare on the group around me.
They disperse instantly, exploding into forced, nonchalant chatter as they quickly backtrack.
I wait for the corridor to become deserted, and drop to my knees. The pain in my hand is agonising, but I block it out.
“Alex?” I murmur, shuffling to the crumpled form next to the lockers.
Alex groans, uncurling himself and only having the energy to grudgingly turn onto his back. His eyelids squeeze shut, the artificial light glaring down obviously causing him discomfort.
I use my left hand to gently brush the hair from his face, analysing the damage.
His nose is bleeding, but it doesn’t look broken. A few bruises are scattered across his face, his lip is a little cut. Nothing too bad.
“Did he hit you anywhere else?” I say softly, and Alex opens one eye a little.
“Tummy.” he complains quietly. The corner of my lip twitches.
“Think you can get up?”
Alex sighs heavily and winces, unsteadily climbing to his feet and leaning heavily on me. I wrap my arm around his shoulder, and he leans his cheek against my chest. I can feel him shaking.
“I’m taking you home.” I decide. “You got a car?”
Alex nods, grimacing, and gropes around in his pocket, tossing a set of keys at me. I catch them easily, shoving them into my jeans, and Alex takes a step forward, almost collapsing on the spot.
I let go of him, and he sways, but I scoop him up and carry him bridal style down the corridor.
He lets out a tired giggle, and I bite back a smile.
In the parking lot, he points out a beat-up Mustang, and I head over to it, sitting Alex on the hood as I fish for the keys and unlock it. I yank open the rusty door and sit him in the passenger side, slamming the door, sliding over the hood and climbing in the driver’s side.
“Y’okay?” I ask, kick-starting the engine.
“Jesus, your hand.” he murmurs, and traces the already-forming bruise on my knuckle.
“Don’t worry about me.” I chuckle softly, putting my arm on the back of his seat and reversing out of the spot.