Ultraviolence // muke

chapter seven

" old habits die hard, and sometimes they don't even die "

-

All it took was one wrong sentence from the wrong person for my good mood to break. I had woken up to Luke tossing rocks at my window, and we went out to get breakfast before he drove me to school. It started off so well, but that bitch, that whiny, overly involved, fucking mutt from last night had to open his mouth about the man.

"He must be retarded if he actually hangs out with Michael."

"Honestly, he's not even attractive, what does he have going for him? Just his American accent."

My blood was boiling, and each of my nerves were being scratched away as he and his pathetic friends ran their mouths, taunting me and making fun of someone who just doesn't deserve it. All Luke did was hang out with me, talk to me, actually treat me like I mattered, and suddenly he's a bad guy.

So when the bell rang, I didn't dare go to my next class. I ran to the bathroom, immediately hiding inside of the stall as I tried to calm myself down.

I saw red. That's all I saw.

Red for the pumping blood I could hear flowing inside my veins and red for the anger that had me nearly shaking. Red for the beginning blossom of a bruise and red for my bottom lip as my teeth dug into it.

I reached into my backpack, pulling my knife out before holding the handle tightly in my fist and flipping it open. I looked around for something stable, something with resistance and stability. Something I'd have to force the weapon through, and all that came up where the bathroom stalls and the tiled wall.

I immediately began chiseling at the wall, my teeth clenched as I began carving the boy's name into it. Of course it wasn't easy, my hand slipped and the blade slid down the slick tile many times, but I was too angry to stop.

I needed release. I needed to get this anger out before I did something publically to set people off.

I didn't want to wait, though I knew I'd have to before I could get my hands on that boy. Before I could slam my fist into his fragile bones, rip out his smoke-ridden, blackened lungs.

He only smoked for the aesthetic anyways. In fact, ever thing he did was for aesthetic and to fit in with that group of ignorant assholes who have no real personalities. He didn't have an ounce of individuality in his bones, wearing band tees just because they look cool and wearing glasses because it makes him look like some kid off of YouTube.

He's a fucking joke.

I gasped as my hand slipped, the blade running down my hand a bit. I immediately cradled it to my bag, getting blood all over the notebooks I rarely use. I grabbed the toilet paper and began trying to clean up the wound, wiping away whatever blood dropped on the floor so they couldn't trace it back to me.

I picked my knife up, shutting it before shoving it inside of my bag. "Fuck..." I muttered in pain, throwing the bloody tissue in the toilet before grabbing more of the toilet paper.

-

Luke noticed my injured hand immediately as I was walking, and he quickly set his water hose down before running up to me. "What happened?"

"I tripped and fell." I lied as he examined the poorly bandaged injury. "What are you doing?"

"I'm washing my car." He answered and I nodded as my eyes ran over his soaked t-shirt and black jeans. "Yeah, I shouldn't have worn jeans, but I uh, had to head down somewhere."