38. Sharks in the Swimming Pool

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XAVIER

Kenny grabs the underside of my chin with his large hand, sharp nails digging into my bruised skin like a hawk's talons to its prey.

"What the fuck—"

He has never been easy with me when it came to injuries, I'm not about to go through the same routine with him again.

"Where the hell did this come from?" he growls, pointing to the nasty purple mark etched into my jaw like cross hatch. "Ye been gettin' inta fights I don't know about?"

I scowl at him, menace in the look on my face when I grit my teeth at him and grumble, "It was just a few punches. Nothing more."

"Dammit, boy. Don't lie to me." Kenny kneels down to my height, though his frame is short and studded compared to mine. He doesn't need to lean down too far until we're face to face, the coldness shining through his dull eyes sending shivers down my spine. "Ye got a fight tonight, and yer goin' in that ring lookin' like y'already lost."

Throwing him a nasty snare, I keep my mouth silent and continue drawing the lines of dark ink on my face, ignoring him angrily glaring at me from the side.

He wants an explanation, a reason behind the nasty marks that cover half of my face. I don't give him one though, because a voice at the back of my mind tells me I don't deserve to.

If I tell him why, he'll start to worry about me more than he already has. And I keep telling myself I don't need that, I don't want it, I can't have that: the luxury of someone stressing over me, actually caring about me.

Delta's parents wouldn't let me see her. Her mother looked away from me every time she saw my face behind her front door, her father managed to hit me a second time at some point, before I fell to the ground and desperately heaved for air.

No matter how many times their anger pierced my in the heart, I couldn't be mad at them. They're parents, parents to a teenage girl most of all, protective of their child when it comes to relationships and playboys that brawl against big tattooed men and rotting corpses of loneliness.

People were trying to save her life because alcohol and medication never mix well, because a stupid teenage boy rammed down her hospital room door in the hopes of seeing her again, only to have her heart beat so fast the monitor couldn't even keep up.

I feel Kenny's calloused hands pulled at the bandages around my fingers, tightening them in frustration and cutting off the blood circulation to my fingertips.

"Cool it, would you?" I snap, sneering in his direction while he kneels to the floor.

He just stares at me, forever staring, his eyes brewing a storm of disbelief and irritation: a combination that doesn't go well together when it comes to Kendrick Stanley.

He pulls at my bandages even harder, nearly snapping my wrists in half.

"For fuck's sake! Watch what you're doing, you ass hat—"

"One more peep outta ye, and I'll shove ma fist down yer throat," he snarls, pointing a dry finger right between my eyes like he's pulling out a gun to my face.

I gulp, obeying and keeping my mouth shut.

He helps hurl me off the gym bench and on to my feet, giving me a proud smirk. Yellowish teeth gleam back at me and a tattooed arm hikes around both my shoulders.

I rub a hand over my heart, feeling the outline of today's date burn under my touch.

"He'd be proud a' ya," Kenny chirps, opening up the door. "Ye done good, kid."

__

Sharky is even more weak than I'd originally thought, falling to the floor in hysterical laughs and tears while his pupils dilate from big to small in just seconds.

I continue to punch him, puddles of anger gathering at the bases of my eyes and clouding my vision to fog. I like the way he looks when I can't see him, because that means I can't see the pain I'm inflicting on him, the hurt I'm causing.

Outside is cold, and its teeth bite at the back of my neck, goosebumps exploding across my skin like a paint bomb. It's difficult to ignore the feeling. Somehow I feel like I deserve it.

The only thing keeping the red tint of colour inside of my skin is my raging adrenaline.

The man underneath me is scrawny, frail, shorter than I am, and way out of this world than the two of us can possibly imagine. His eyes are now more black than blue, the effect of multiple ecstasy pills piling on him like bundles of sand.

The scariest thing about him though are his teeth. A silver grill covers his top and bottom jaw, filed down to tiny spikes like the teeth of a great white shark.

He really lives up to his name.

"Punch me! Yes! Punch me!" he screams, insensible words being spat in my face as I continue to hit him.

In between blows he laughs and cackles, the spirit of an evil witch buried deep in his heart. His mouth is bloodied over, his face covered in gashes while his eyes are nearly swollen shut.

The MC, a man in the corner of the brawling ring who hadn't said a word the entire fight, finally pushes me off of my opponent, struggling to shove my frame away from the skinny body lying on the floor.

"No! No! Let 'em at me! I can take it!" yells the crazed male in the middle of the ring, though he doesn't move from his spot. He's just a hill of skin and bone, ink splattered across his pale skin from my sweat, tears, and paint.

"Coward!"

Anger contorts my every feature, but beneath the darkness that engulfs the skin of my eyes and dips down into my cheek bones, no one can see the frustration.

Because these lines of ink that bury themselves in my pores are like a mask, hiding the scared boy underneath them.

The MC screams my name in victory and lifts my hand into the air: something he did countless times before, and something I'm already used to.

Everyone around me cheers, crack heads and alcoholics throwing large glass bottles on the floor, some people shouting my brother's name. My shoulders grow stiff as the weight of his past lingers on my back, but I let it be until I leave the ring.

And when I do, when I finally push past the angry rave of an audience, all I can do is cry.

"Stop crying. Stop Crying. Stop—"

I listen to the change in my voice and the screaming echo of my stone heart cracking. It bleeds into my hands and stains the bandages wrapped around my palms, feeling heavier with the streams of water seeping into the lines of my fingertips.

"Fuckwit. Fuck up. That's all you do. Fuck everything up."

I pull at my hair, growling into the foam of the basement mats and biting my lip bloody to keep myself from screaming.

Angry tears pull my hands away from my hair to wipe away the water cascading down my cheeks.

I can't be here. I can no longer be in the same room my brother trained in years ago, I can't stay here with someone else's blood hot on my hands, I can't even breathe with the rough fingers of guilt wrapping themselves around my throat, choking me.

"Fucking shit," I grumble, frustratingly heaving myself up from the ground and dragging myself upstairs.

Loud music pounds in my ears, the stench of burnt herbs waft through my nose and bury itself in my sinuses.

The people around me are not themselves, jumping up and down while liquid poison falls down their throats and runs through their veins.

I shove my way through everyone, not caring that I'd tripped someone over and slapped someone's arm a little harder than necessary.

As soon as I reach outside, the frozen air hits my skin again. My bare chest accepts the chilling pain of the breeze, feeling the slightest touch of winter snowflakes slice my skin like knives.

"You're gonna pay for what you did."

Too soon, someone yanks my arm and nearly pulls me to the ground, cement scraping my knees and my palms before I'm even able to catch my entire body.

All the weight shifts to my back foot, and my startled reflexes place both my arms in front of my face.

My eyes widen when they land on Sharky. Dried blood falls down his chin like face paint, and his pupils are still trying to decide whether they wish to shrink or grow.

"You're a pussy, too undignified to fight me in that ring. You don't have any respect for your opponents, do you?" he gnarls, pointing to the back of the building.

He suddenly punched it. The crack of his knuckles are audible, but I don't think he even feels any pain. "Come on then," he urges, waving his fingers in my direction. "Make up for what you did, and fight me."

"I'm not gonna fight you."

At this moment, I think I really do have a heart, because whatever is left of it suddenly drops to my stomach as Sharky pulls a gun from the back of his tattered pants, pointing it right in my direction.

"Yeah, you're scared, aren't you?" he taunts, watching me raise my hands to the sides of my head. "Fight me, or die runnin'. Your choice."

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