His Sour Lemon #2.1

Part 5: Being Wrong

CHAPTER 5: Being Wrong

January 1st, 2026.
6:22 am, Outskirts of New York City, America.
Fitzgerald Orphanage, Range Recruitment Centre.

I've been wrong before, but when I still see the blood dripping down the girl's wounds in my sleep-if I'd call it sleep-I'm restless, yet my bones are more than breakable as my knees scrap against the ground, the longer I fight against the male's grip, the harder he wrings the tool against my feet. The whip I guess.

Last night, I broke through the shackles and climbed through the metal poles to the outside. It took me eight days to stand properly and not fall flat on my face against the snow and dead rat infested ground. The cold ripped at my already bloodied lips and my bones grew all the more destructive when I slid up in between the cracks, scraping the fabric I was given.

My heart beating fast at the bright light I saw through the silhouette of the trees and that was when I felt it. The orange ray that made me reach my bony hand up, I didn't care for the storm, the second it touched me, the second I felt my first shred of warmth...it faded within the five seconds I stood out in the open, "ONE'S LOOSE!"

I remember screaming. Whimpered howls for them to...just...stop.

I dreamed of golden sunshine every time I was knocked out.

They broke two of my ribs and my left eye was clamped shut, I couldn't stand either...yet to keep me alive, I was treated to stop it from infecting. Because once their entertainment dies, they kill more.

*******

March 8th, 2042.
5:09 pm, London, United Kingdom.
Advanced Business Engagements Academy (Private Business Institution), Sylvan Lakeshore.

"Oh, it wasn't an offer. I'm making you dinner."

She looked as though that fact was the worst set of proposals that left my lips. I stand stoically on the outside, but on the inside, I was a fucking nervous wreck-I've never asked a girl to dinner, and the anticipation that builds up as I wait for her answer because I wasn't the type that was going to force her to have dinner with me. Despite what the others may think...I watch as she furrows her eyebrows in confusion, all before laughing.

AT.

MY.

FACE.

it felt so damn good for my self-esteem. The butterflies deflated and my veins constricted, infusing pain and subtle karma through each vessel as I stare at her, "What? No, you are not." She then gestures I leave, which was discouraging, in the very least. Not to mention, a metaphorical punch to the damn gut.

"Lemon, it's just dinner." I tell her, acting casual, smooth-I could be smooth and casual and laid back-fuck it, there's not a single bone in my body that's laid back or even remotely ease-worthy in this stupid situation that I found myself regretting every second she looks at me longer. As if I painted myself blue and wore red pants-a day that would never come.

She sighs and seemingly walks to the door, before her curls brush down her bony, small and slim shoulders as she looks at me, I kind of liked it when she looked at me, I guess the fact we weren't fighting in a catastrophic manner felt different, weird. Of course it was a 'good' weird, I still forced myself not to get use to it.

She suddenly speaks with more attitude, "Turn around, you're not learning my keypad." She says to me, I narrow my eyes in irritation for staring too long, muttering something about a thumbprint scanner, I turn around, almost hoping she wouldn't choose the moment to trick me and slam the door in my face like I was sure she would. I almost felt guilty when she flicked the lights on and opened the door wider.