Do Alphas Apologize? (A Cat's and Dog's book)

Fury at midnight

-Geoffrey-

I had stayed. I was taking online classes now, and I spent more time at home, but... I had stayed. I felt so consumed by a need to distract myself each day that I finished my homework in three hours and had the house clean in another two. After that, I went downstairs to me and George's room and exercised until George got home; on especially bad days, that meant I finished before lunchtime and forgot to eat, working out for hours until George came home. I was sore every day, and I ached almost everywhere, but I didn't dare let my mind wander. These days, a wandering mind usually left me puking in the toilet or huddled on the top shelf of our linen closet. How I got up and down from there, they had no idea, but they knew I managed it.

Today was normal, and I was working out in our bedroom, my daily routine long since completed, when I heard the bell ring. I paused, my fist pulled back and about to be released on the punching bag in front of me. I knew how to throw punches, and I continued to practice. If someone cornered me in an alley, my only chance of getting out without being taken advantage of was to hit the guy hard and fast, make sure he didn't get up to hit me back. I slowly wandered up the stairs and to the front door. There was the boy who kissed me. I slammed the door, his guilty expression only seen for a split second before the thing was shut and I was locking the door. I was about to walk away when a letter dropped through the letter slot in the door. I glanced at it, then out the window to see the guy walking away with a hanging head.

I picked up the letter, my hands shaking as I opened the letter. I didn't feel compelled to obey letters and words like I did voices; just a weird blessing that came with my curse. The letter was short, simple.
It read:

Dear Geoffrey,
Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me and I wanted to apologize. You really are a great kid, and I want to be your friend, but I don't think that'll ever happen now that you and your brother hate me. I'm sorry I kissed you, and I hope you'll forgive me eventually.
Kennedy

I crumpled the letter, not bothering to remember the name. I felt oddly warm, a kind of burning in my chest that left me breathless and tearing up slightly as my mouth twitched. Yes, hatred and fury certainly were fiery emotions, and a scowl as furious tears were blinked down my face let me know exactly how soon I would be forgiving Kennedy. I threw the thing in trash and stalked back downstairs, hitting the punching bag with such a furious series of hits that I bruised my knuckles and left small dents in the thing. When my brother got home, he hugged me to get me to stop; the tears told him in that something was wrong. He wrapped my hand in bandages and told me not to punch anything until he said I could. I, obviously, couldn't even consider refusing him or lying when I agreed. Yeah, any dreams of having a job where I had to interact with people was a no. That left art and authorship, neither one a skill I was particularly good at. Well, I had an excuse to practice now, and it would leave me no time to think.

So began my weeks of learning and practicing art. With hours doing nothing but focus on detail, practicing the lines, and memorizing the colors and their compliments, it still took me weeks to grow decent. Of course, I only spent so much time on it because of the letters and the people. They dropped by almost every day after Kennedy, and I read every letter before shredding it and throwing it away. I took out the trash and mowed the lawn, watered the plants and pruned the trees, washed the windows and painted the fence. No one came close to the house on the days I was outside. A few sometimes walked towards the house before they noticed me, then turned and walked away. That was what was getting to me. If I thought, I began feeling bad about hating them, knowing they were trying to apologize, but I couldn't let myself forgive them after they'd done something so awful to me. So I didn't think, focusing on my art entirely. I still exercised, the activity both healthy and mind numbing enough to block out my thoughts, but art took up three of the five days of my week.