The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 25

Xavier

I miss being someone. I miss getting up and doing something I enjoy. I miss liking things. Lately, all I've been able to do is mope, and it's made me feel utterly pathetic.

Time alone has started to heal my wounds, and some sensible part of me likes the idea of moving on. One day, I force the dark thoughts from my head, trying not to focus on Janice or my family or anything serious at all. I open the curtains in my room, welcoming the sunlight back into my life. It feels good.

I have the day off from hosting that asinine contest, and I don't feel like spending my Sunday lounging around inside or talking with any of the remaining girls, so I slip outside.

Most of the flowers in the garden have died for the winter, so I walk through the rows of empty branches, my breath hanging visibly in the air. I walk aimlessly, occasionally giving a dismissive nod to a guard on patrol who gives me a questioning look.

Eventually, I make my way to the area behind the palace, which essentially acts as our backyard. We used to use it a lot, and if I didn't know better, I'd say we still did. Employees keep every inch of the grounds spotless, even if we never use them. Frankly, it seems like a waste of time. If we were a normal family, this place would be covered in weeds and ivy, with old equipment scattered around and falling apart. It's how this place should be. Instead, it's almost inappropriately pristine.

When I was younger, before the war was so serious, my parents played out here with us. That was before I grew up, before my father decided to be a cocksucker, before... everything. We were all different then.

There are a few acres of land back here. Most of it is empty, but a huge chunk of the space is taken up by a full-sized baseball field—not a pitcher's mound and some bases, but a complete major league field. I'm lucky, I guess. How many kids get baseball fields for their birthdays? I think my parents assumed I'd start my own team or something, but I never knew anyone to play with. All of my friends were from boarding school, which meant they all got sent home to their respective states in the summer. So I invested in a pitching machine, and for three years, all I did in my free time was hit balls.

A few yards away from the field is a huge building we call a shed, despite the fact that it could comfortably house a family of four. Inside, I find all sorts of sporting equipment, neatly arranged and maintained. Some of it brings back memories—like our old soccer goal, which I taught Katie on a few years ago—but nothing has the value my baseball gear does.

My helmet sits on a shelf next to a row of gloves. There's a dent in it from the time the pitching machine sent a ball flying into my head, and the foam on the inside is dry and flaking off. I loved that helmet. Even when it got too small for me, I refused to wear any other ones. This one was special—mostly because when I was twelve, I decked it out with stickers.

There's a neat row of bats along the wall below the gloves. Some are dented to hell, and one of the wooden ones has a huge crack in it. The older ones are shorter, and most of the grips are falling apart. The newer ones, on the other hand, are sturdy and in mint condition.

Suddenly, I'm itching to use them. I throw on a pair of batting gloves, squeeze my helmet on, and grab one of the nicer bats. I throw the bat  down near home plate, which it takes a minute to find and clear of snow.

I find the pitching machine and drag it out to the center of the infield, roughly where the mound would be. It takes a second to calibrate the machine, but eventually I get it going and start swinging.

At first, I'm uncoordinated, and I miss several balls. Eventually, though, I let my muscle memory take over. I start to slam balls into the outfield, surprised at how easy it is to slip right back into the old habit.