Alley Mutts. |Brance|

In deep

Bruce had lost Donnas number by 7th period. It hadn't meant that much to him, but as much as it was supposed to. But he didn't care, he was to busy planning a lesson for Vance. He didn't know if Vance would show up, or if he would even pay attention. He probably wouldn't. He would probably make fun of Bruce and tease him.

He sighed as he worked. He had STUCO for seventh, but today most of the people decided to go to other clubs or with their friends, so today was a mostly free day. He had planned out the lesson and the more the thought about it the more his heart raced. He scowled and pushed the feelings down, along with his work.

He didn't have much else to do for the day, so he studied for his next class, Spanish. The one class he hated more than anything, the one class that he dragged his feet to and leaned against his hand. He spoke a little Spanish, not enough to pass. And the teacher didn't bother to help, not that he blamed the guy. He was underpaid and over worked and definitely couldn't wait for the next break.

But it still challenged him, so much that he hated it. He hated the stupid class. The more he thought about it the angrier it made him. He hated the anger, because it kept growing. Making him angrier by the second.

Everything was pissing him off now. The lights were to bright and the silence was to loud. His mom pissed him off and so did his dad. School and class and people, Moose and Grayson, everything. It grew hot and annoying to him,  he breathed out heavily. The bell rang and he was the first to walk out of class.
He pushed past people, shoving unlike his usual graceful movements and polite smiles.
"Hey, Brucey." He heard an ugly voice speak. He looked down, "Moose." He said distastefully. "What's up your ass?" He chuckled and elbowed him gently.
"I'm not in the mood." He snarled down at him. But Moose pressed on, until bruce snapped, swinging his fist and hitting him in the face. Blood rushed out of his nose as he snapped. "I told you I'm not in the mood." He shouted as moose looked up at him.

Bruce's hair fell into his face as he was pushed, dropping his bag in the hall. People crowded around them as they swung, until eventually teachers found their way to them and pulled them away.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Mr. Yamada." He spoke as he set the phone back down on his holder. Bruce rolled his eyes and glanced to the boy next to him. "Your the top of the school, STUCO Vice President. I'm not going to hold this against you since it's your first offense." The principal explained.

He turned to Moose and began to speak, though Bruce tuned him out.  His father would be here soon, and then he would go home and get the shit beat out of him. But he didn't care. He was still angry. It filled him to his core.

He didn't want to be perfect. He wanted to be angry, to fight back. To be free for one, to let go. It hurt that he wasn't. It physically hurt him, it killed him inside.

A knock came from the door. His father, he knew it. The short man walked in, a pleasant look on his face. One that would never hurt a fly. But the grip he put on Bruce's shoulder said otherwise. He put his hand on his shoulder and put his thumb on a bruise he had left. He dug his finger into it and Bruce gripped the side of his leans harshly, careful not to show even an ounce of pain in his expression.

His father apologized for Bruce's actions and then took him out of school. He didn't speak the entire way home, and Bruce knew he was in it deep. So deep he might as well've been drowning in it.

He felt like he was drowning. Like the walls were closing in on him and his throat was closing. He silently gasped for air, gripping the sides of his seat. His eyes started to water as he bit his tongue and clenched his jaw. All his actions were coming back to him in a panic.

Why? Why did he do it? Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself? He was so good at it, so why did he do it then? Panic flooded through him. His vision blurred as his chest rose and fell.

When he saw the house down the block it didn't help, he breathed harder and faster. He couldn't think, or breath. It hurt, it hurt so much.