Tattoo || m.c.

11

"Ashton, I have not fucking changed," Michael roared underneath the bleachers.

"You have my friend. You need to get back in the zone," Ashton patted his back, "That's why you need to go call her a slut."

His arm pointed to Mars, eating her lunch underneath a large tree. Michael frowned, how the fuck was he going to get out of this one?

"Fine, but I will only enjoy it for a little bit," He stomped over to the girl.

"Hmm?" She looked up from her book and gave a small smile, "Yes?"

"Don't speak to me, slut," He hissed, "God, you need to go on a diet. Those jeans look like they are about to burst. Did you really think I came to say hi? Ha, why would I want to actually talk to a loser like you? I hope you go home today and swallow every pill in your house. You have no friends because of your ugliness."

"But-," Mars tried to interrupt, her eyes almost brimming with tears," You know what? You are the one that followed me home, made me have a mental breakdown and go to the hospital and you want to call me a slut? Don't you think I know I am already fat and ugly? Don't you know that I want to go home and hang myself today? Do you know how that feels?"

Her mascara was dripping as she sighed. Michael's face driven with terror and sadness. Ashton was wrong, Michael was still a dick and it hurt him that he knew it.

Mars knew he was dick, seeing as how she was crying in the corner of a janitor's closet tearing out each page she wrote of poems describing him. She knew it would be a bad idea to rip every letter, word, and line out but she did. She didn't think of how she could use them to remember her mistakes and stray away from a repeat. But she was destined again to like him as he was to her.