XAVIER

"Jesus, kid. Ye been here fer hours. Quit punchin' at that damn bag."

Kenny places a calm hand on my shoulder and hands me a glass bottle full of foreign liquid.

He may be old, but it takes a lot to intimidate the guy. I see no fear in his eyes, walking towards me while I angrily hit the punching bag with as much strength as I can muster.

I stop and stare at the flask in his hand. "I don't drink beer."

"Maybe not, but ye need it. Trust me."

I don't need alcohol. I've never needed it in my entire life. I don't want to end up like my father: cruel, drunk, insane, and everything a father shouldn't be.

Shrugging Kenny off, I continue punching the bag.

After I visited Delta in the hospital, I immediately headed for his place knowing going back home wasn't going to do me any good. If my dad was awake, he'd be waiting to scold me as soon as I got back. If he wasn't, I was left to stare at his unconscious body, trying to come up with ways of how I could leave him behind.

"Xavier, stop," Kenny orders, watching me hit the bag one last time and nearly send it flying off its hook.

"What? What do you want?" I snap, growling dangerously in his face.

He stares at me sternly in the eyes. "I want ya to give yerself a break," he says. "This ain't healthy fer a boy yer age."

The bandages around my knuckles tighten as I ball my calloused fists. I sense the bruise on my hand from punching my father earlier today, but I don't feel the pain. I don't feel anything anymore.

"I don't deserve a break," I scowl, savagely ripping off the gauze on my fingers. "You don't know what's good for me—"

"And neither do ya," Kenny interrupts. His voice is slow and calm, sending a wave of frustration through me. But I let him talk, and talk he does. "Look at yerself, kid. Yer a mess."

"I don't need reminding."

He sits on the floor next to me, watching as I grab my shirt off the ground and lazily put it over my sweaty chest. I notice his eyes never leave my tattoo, the one plastered right over my heart; the day Foster died. The day I died.

"Y'know, there's another fight comin' up."

"I'm not going, Kendrick." I've never used his real name before, and it seems to surprise him almost as much as it surprises me.

"Last one a' the year," he starts. "December eighteenth. Friday."

I stare at him, all the anger inside of me either dissipating or getting worse. I can't really tell the difference. Subconsciously, my hand rubs the permanent ink on my chest. My eyes nearly begin to water.

"Where?" I ask.

"Here. The Ravine."

I choke on the words caught in my throat, on the bile that bubbles deep within my stomach, threatening to come up. The tears sting my eyes, they send a prickly feeling through my skull. It's a feeling I've never liked, but the only one I've felt for as long as I can remember.

"Who am I fighting?"

Kenny sighs, placing the bottle of beer that I refused beside him. "Some dude named 'Sharky'. Ye prolly never heard a' him."

Brawlers usually own titles that they live up to, apart from the one I took.

Staring at the bottle of beer on the other side of Kenny, I point to it with a bruised finger and smile. "Beer?"

He laughs. "Go ahead, kid. Take yer swing."

He opens it and hands it to me. I take a long hard sip, feeling the chilling liquid slide down my throat and bury itself in my stomach. It has an awful taste, but it sends goosebumps of satisfaction on my skin, urging me to drink more.

So I drink. I drink and drink until the room is spinning and Kenny's silvery-white hair turns purple and blue. I drink until the tattoo on my skin somehow melts away and the fizzing in my gut rises to my throat. I drink until I forget where I am and what the name of that old man hovering over me is. I drink until I throw up, and that same man is patting me on the back while I vomit everything I had ever consumed.

"There ye go, bud," he says to me. "Lost yer alcohol virginity, did ya?"

He must be joking, but I nod anyways, watching the puddle of golden beer pour from my body like a waterfall.

__

I didn't take a car to Kenny's, and I'm not about to take a car back.

The roads are still busy this time of day, and the headlights blind me as various vehicles pass by. A few honk their horns and I don't exactly know why.

It's cold outside. Extremely cold. Why did I decide to walk with only a sweater? Did I even bring a coat? Probably not. I have nothing on me, and I'd left my gym bag at Kenny's basement... not that there's really anything useful inside of it.

"Honey, where you going?" someone asks.

I turn around to face a woman: tall and beautiful, maybe in her late twenties. Her blond hair cascades down her back like rainfall. She's wearing a short little dress and a large fur jacket. Flaming red lipstick covers her mouth like paint. It makes her look fake.

"Nowhere you need to know," I say, my words unnaturally curling off my tongue.

"Oh, sweetheart. We don't need to use that tone of voice, do we? Not on a night like this."

"Fuck off," I scowl, turning back around and ignoring her presence completely.

How come no body told me women were quick in heels?

The woman marches in front of me in her high-inch stilettos and stops me in my tracks. "What's a pretty thing like you doing, stumbling on the streets?"

She comes closer. Her breath smells of smoke and vodka and something else I'd rather not say the name of. I notice the copious amounts of makeup on her cheeks and forehead, covering the holes in her skin that went unnoticed before.

I push her away with very little force, not wanting to hurt her. "Fuck. Off."

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn't they?" Her voice is playful and irritating. It almost makes me want to rip her esophagus right out of her throat.

"I said fuck off woman. When someone tells you to leave, you leave."

I wouldn't say I'm crabby. Just tired, sad and drunk. A combination of things I didn't know I'd be by the end of the day.

I think she lets me go, long enough to walk a few steps ahead when I suddenly bump into something in front of me. My vision is blurry, my head spinning in multiple directions, but I have the strength to lift it upwards and stare into the face of a large man.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" he asks me. It's less of a question and more of a statement.

"Son of a bitch. Move out of my fucking way you bastard."

I look over my shoulder for a moment. The blond woman is still standing there, but this time there's a menacing smile plastered to her face.

"Watch your mouth," the burly man snarls.

"Move out of my way," I recite, looking back at him and furrowing my eyebrows. I don't need this. I don't need to fight him, I know that. But I also know I could beat him in a brawl right now, even if it feels as though I might fall.

"Hurt him," the woman says from behind me. Her voice is no longer playful and sweet. It's groggy and rough and broken, like she's a princess that turned into a frog. "Hurt him bad."

Those words are enough for the man to throw the first punch, but I easily catch it and swerve to the side, immediately landing a blow on his face as soon as I get close enough.

The drivers that pass by, they don't stop to help. They don't stop to break us both apart. The headlights of their cars are the only things that illuminate the streets, and as they do, the bruises and the tears on my face become more visible.

Short chapter! I know :/

Get ready for a surprise next chapter ;)