My opponent beams at me with a nasty look in his eye, and then he’s standing over me, his meaty legs caging me in. I wait a few seconds to act, pretending like it knocks the breath out of me when I go down. As he hovers above me, I use my right foot andpush it against the ground. I slide upward to create distance, but he matches the movement and follows.
My stomach twists around itself. My neck and shoulders go rigid. This guy is about to knock me into a new goddamn dimension. I’m stuck, but it’s a good shitty position to be in. One that will give me what I ultimately want.
I’ve already decided that I’ll fix up Mom’s house once it’s mine. I’ll work my ass off to pay the mortgage. I’ll take care of it, make it into something she never had the chance to. Into something I deserved to have when I was a kid.
That’s what I look forward to as my opponent’s heavy fists come down. I block my face pretty well until he shifts and moves his focus to my ribcage. My torso absorbs blow after blow. His legs are so close to my body, it’s impossible to roll to my side and protect myself. I’m wide open.
Agony twinges just beneath my skin. It’s not long before it embeds itself into every part of me. When I have no choice but to lower my hands to protect my body, he uses it as an opening to my face. My head flies to the side, spit flying from my mouth when he strikes my opposite cheek. Stinging immediately takes root inside my mouth, and blood coats my tongue.
My body is an inanimate object as he beats me to oblivion. The only part of me that isn’t hurting are my legs. My torso is on fire, and my face tails behind for second place. Wetness coats my forehead. I don’t know if it’s from the grass, the spit coming out of my opponent’s mouth as he yells, or blood from a part of me that isn’t my mouth. Perhaps a combination of all three?
Fuck. I don’t know.
My head spins, and I have never felt like this before in my life. I get this false sense of motion. Like I’m running, but I know I’m not. I’m on the ground, my body flush with the crust of the earth.
My body becomes heavy. I try to keep my eyes open, but someone, or rather something, pulls down on my eyelids. My muscles shout to give up and give in. For seconds that feel like minutes, I fight it, but then my neck gives out, and my head lolls to the side.
Darkness consumes me a minute later.
FORTY-THREE
VIOLET
I stareat the little red candy in my fingertips, sour white specks over the sweetness that lies underneath. I pop it into my mouth and ignore how the roof of my mouth is cut up from the bag of Sour Patch Kids Olive and I consumed yesterday.
I’ve always loved these candies. They take me back to being a kid. Back to when the only thing that mattered was what color we picked from the bag even if we did argue over which one was the best.
The hallway deposits Olive into my room as I rummage through the bag to find another red one, the redberry flavor my absolute favorite.
She balks. “You’re eating SPK’s right now and didn’t even invite me?”
I take in her pajamas, a pair of flannels that cling to her skinny legs and an oversized sweater that drapes off her body. I don’t understand how she can sleep in all of that. I’d overheat the second I got under the covers. I can’t even wear socks to bed without feeling like I’m suffocating, but the craziest thing of all is that I don’t need to wear one article of clothing to feel like I’m submerged in a pool of defeat.
“Sorry,” I mutter, squishing the candy between my teeth. “Didn’t know I was supposed to send out invites.”
A sheepish expression comes over her face, the apples of her cheeks tingeing pink. She feels bad for me. Sad that I’ve kept to myself and my bedroom. It’s the only place where I can let myself feel what I need to. After knowing how it felt to deal with Dad’s infidelity, I don’t want to hide from the emotions of Colson’s and my breakup. As much as it hurts, I need to feel it all if I’m ever going to get to the other side of it.
“I hate seeing you like this,” Olive tells me. She comes in to sit on the edge of my bed where there’s an extra blanket she brought from Florida. She drops her chin but only for a second. “I know what you’re going through. I mean…I may not have gone through a breakup, but I know how much it sucks to be where you’re at. The heartbreak, the sadness, the feeling of not having anything to be hopeful for and everything being out of your control.”
My brow wrinkles, and I instantly feel bad because this is a sensitive topic for her. We don’t talk about what happened to her much but only because I never want to trigger her back into that time of her life. “Olive Garden,” I murmur, patting the spot next to me where my Sour Patch Kids reside. I set them on my nightstand.
A sad smile quirks her lips and pretends like it has been there this entire time. She climbs up and flops down beside me, nuzzling her cheek into my arm. “It gets better,” she vows. “Even if it seems like it won’t. I promise it does.”
“I know,” I mumble. I watched her get through the hardest days of her life. And if she could do it, it’s possible for me, too. I just don’t know when that’s going to happen. When things will shift and this pressure on my chest will be more hope than dread.
The truth is, I’m spiraling after what happened on New Year’s Eve and my choice to get up on that stripper stage. I know Olive meant well taking me out, but what happened at The Landing Strip fills me with a sense of shame and embarrassment. That feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar room has stayed with me the last three mornings also. And then there’s the fact that I would’ve never been there if it weren’t for Colson. If I wasn’t broken over what transpired in that stupid walk-in closet.
“What’s on your agenda for the day?” Olive asks after a few quiet moments. “Should we do something? We can walk around campus or go for a jog. Maybe go over to the strip and get lunch?”
“I was thinking about going out for a smoothie later.” Then I plan to come right back here and laze the day away in my bed. Once classes start back up, the opportunity to take my time with my emotions will speed up, and moments like this will be almost impossible.
“Just a smoothie?” She lifts her head to look at me. “Nothing else? Have you eaten anything besides candy this morning?”
“I’m really not that hungry,” I admit. My constant stream of thoughts has zapped my desire to eat anything with real substance. The only reason I want to get a smoothie is because I know it’ll provide me with the energy I need without feeling like I’m really eating food.
She sighs and tugs me into a side hug. “I think now is a good time to admit that I’d love to kick Colson in the balls a whole lot harder than I wanted to inflict pain on Webber’s.”
I pick up the bag of Sour Patch Kids and offer her a handful. If there’s anyone who knows exactly how she feels, it’s me.
