Eternity

Chapter Four~ A Fit of Hysterics

I peek at him through the corner of my eye.

Wayland Everett, the goody-two-shoes who did everything right and never got into trouble, was peeling off his russet soaked white t-shirt, revealing dark purple and black bruises all along his sides criss-crossed with red and pink scars. If I squinted my eyes hard enough, I could see small circles of charred flesh dotting places across his neck and arms— but not his lower arms where it would be too visable.

Wayland winces as the material sticks to the torn skin, but eventually he scrapes it off. In doing this, his normal mahogany beanie slips off, and black hair matted down with sweat is pushed back exposing the sides of his head to be shaved with intricate sharp designs. The sides are shaded a deep, bloody red, and glimmer wickidly against his dyed— probably a more temporary type of  dye— black locks.

A gasp seems to rush throughout my whole body, but I throw my hand up to cover my mouth and keep it from escaping.

But it's too late; he heard me.

~~~

I never expected to see him there, standing before me covered in wounds that were both recent and old. I thought someone had kidnapped me to use me. I never would have guessed that he would be the one, and that I would see him like this.

Now kids, this is addressed to you: never go out by yourselves. I don't care if you have your phone on you. Always have another person with you; whether it's a pet, or that one friend of yours (we don't talk about them), always have a person alongside you. That way you're not alone in whatever might happen. And who knows, maybe it will improve your relationship with whoever you have beside you.

Anyways. As I gape at the glaring boy in front of me, I'm suddenly thinking he's not-so-good. His fists are clenched and the skin on them are torn apart like he's been hitting something. Or someone. He glimpses at the wall, where I, too, look, and we see a blood splattered, punched-in wall. Then my eyes jump to his hand rubbing his other, smearing the rosy liquid over his fingers and scarred knuckles. My eyebrows furrow, my lip quivers, and my eyelids droop. I hope he's okay and all—

But I really hate the sight of blood.

~~~

When I wake up, my skin feels caked all over. My eyes are shut closed, and all I see are luminous red orbs. My mouth feels filled to the brim with a sickly tang. It's not like acid, but more like what a banana would taste like if it always stayed in that almost-ripe stage where the peel is green with a slight tinge of yellow, and where it takes beyond super strength to peel. It tasted like a bitter sweet peppermint mixed with strawberries. The liquid feels slick as it slithers down my throat, and all of a sudden I'm heaved upwards and gagging. I can feel it seeping out my nose and down my throat. I sharply exhale through my nose, grab my throat, gag, anything I can to get the lukewarm liquid out. Nothing works.

At last, something grabs a hold of my shoulders and yanks me back to reality.

~~~

"JOSEY! JOSE,  JEANNA. Honey, wake up!"

My eyes sting during the time I knead them with my hands. I really want that to get out of my mind. I hate blood; completely despise it. Nothing I have done (or been through) has stripped me of the disgust and revulsion I feel towards it. Now, just a drop of blood doesn't faze me, but an open wound, or a bloody nose, or even my period, makes me dizzy at the sight of it. I'm seventeen, this shouldn't bother me anymore... but it does. And somewhere in my mind, a distant reality burns in my brain. I don't want to remember it, to see it again, so instead I focus on my cold skin being gripped by hot hands.