Subject Me To Life [Book One] ✔️ *EDITING*

Chapter Eighteen

*Somewhat edited* Not proofread*

Chapter 18– Where's the question?:

        I had never experienced a torture quite like this; never experienced something so painful, so mentally and physically exhausting that it was almost impossible to breathe.

        Something like the English fucking language.

        I had doubts that Dakota was going to be able to improve my reading and writing so that they were up to his standards, and I was right. It had only been three days since he had started tutoring me, and no improvements have been made whatsoever. On Tuesday, our first 'session', the blonde boy had left me with a list of words on a sheet of paper and instructed me to read through them a few times, then try to write them down in a book (one that he had purchased solely for the purpose of my learning), without looking at the already written words. I think it went without saying that I hadn't done what had been asked of me, and Dakota is not happy. At all.

        Now, instead of leaving me with "homework", he doubles the hours of tutoring so he can go through the words with me himself.

        "Os— osten— ostentat—."

        "Ostentatious," Dakota grumbles as he sits in my desk chair, looking over at me as I sit crossed legged on my bed.

        I huff, "You're fucking ostenti— whatever it is."

        The blonde rolls his blue eyes at me, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, "Do you even know what it means?" He retorts with a raised eyebrow, staring over at me.

        "Of course I fucking don't," I snap, "I couldn't even pronounce the fucking word until now."

        "And you still can't," he murmurs under his breath.

        Today is the first day I have witnessed Dakota in a bad mood. At first I didn't care for it, but now it's just plain irritating and I'm one more smart retort away from plucking his eyeball from its socket like a fucking nose hair. I haven't bothered to ask what's wrong because I don't give a fuck, but now I'm curious as to why he feels the need to take his frustrations out on me, muttering smug comments under his breath.

        "You know I'm not opposed to cutting out your tongue, right?" I threaten, putting down my pencil and watching as it rolls off the paper sitting atop my closed school book and on to my black covers. "Which I will do if you keep up with your fucking bitchiness."

        His eyes narrow, staring right into my own grey ones challengingly. Upon seeing my equally intense glare, he sighs, dropping his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbles causing me to grimace slightly. I fucking hate apologies— fucking hate them. They're meaningless. "I've got a fight tomorrow and I'm not really looking forward to it," he further explains, his voice tired. It's only then that I take the time to notice how exhausted he looks, how worn-out he seems.

        I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it, and nor do I, so I don't say anything more on the subject; I just sit quietly as the blonde rests his head on my desk, watching me write down words on the lined paper, every now and then helping me out with the pronunciation.

        I don't pity Dakota. I don't pity anyone, fuck that. But I do know, to some extent, what he's going through. Although I haven't felt scared since I was smaller, I still remember what it feels like.