The Cutie is a Boxer

PROLOGUE

*A STORY I HAD WRITTEN FOUR YEARS AGO AS @Dychess AND I THOUGHT SHOULD EXIST IN WATTPAD AGAIN AFTER MY DELETING IT*

Prologue

Can that be history repeating?

When I was seven... Well, it was an eventful year. You might wonder: what, that special, could happen to a seven-year-old? You'll be surprised, no, socked; that's the right word, the one with the negative meaning. Because we use surprise for a party, or a gift, while we use sock for an accident, a misfortune.

I was no normal seven-year-old, I was no normal kid in general. I was deprived off that, of a blissful childhood. And the answer to your why is rather complex. My father was the Boss -they actually called him that- of Detroit's underworld. Prostitution, drug-dealing, gangs, all kinds of crime and fight clubs; he was behind.

When I was seven, he taught me how to arm a gun. I had an aggressive nature, I loved the power this small gear gave me. I could puppet with people, be the one to determine wether they live or die. Then I learnt that those actions are paid, maybe later, but certainly paid. I pulled the trigger for the first time when I was seven.

But, it wasn't that, which made this year -my seventh year- so special. It was this guy, Pierce.

Being a little dare-devil, I loved nature. Trees, specifically. There was this tall fir on our backyard, the branches perfectly positioned for me to climb up. Sometimes, I spent all day up there, marvelling the view of the city. It was my hideaway.

My sister wouldn't come up. She was like her mother, dad always said, delicate and a proper lady -as much a proper lady as a dancer's daughter can be. Charlotte preferred a swing we had right next to the front gate. She insisted that I was crazy and tried to convince me that only monkeys climb upon trees, not girls. Obviously, she was a girl, I was a monkey.

So imagine my surprise when I found that someone had invaded my hideaway. Another monkey? No; Pierce. He was funny and would always challenge me to try new things and we would do any mischief together. He always had the greatest of stories to share with me and taught me my limits and that I had none. It proved fatal for him later.

He wasn't only someone I looked upon, he was someone -I started realizing- loved.

Huh, a seven-year-old cannot really fall in love..?

But I knew I did. My heartbeat raised when he was around, I'd blush and act silly. I even asked my mother about it, which was something I had to debate a lot with myself to decide upon; prostitutes are queasy. Yet since she knew of such things, I went to her. And she laughed and caressed my hair, like I was her wild pet:

"You fell in love, Scarlett. This" she tapped her index finger where my heart was placed "is love!"

She might've been true. Maybe I fell in love with Pierce; his sapphire blue eyes, which narrowed when he smilled, with that devilish smile, his ugly ways. What I know for true now, is that he didn't feel the same way. I learned that growing up.

I was the tomboy-ish ginger; she was a narcissist jilt. He chose her.

We were fourteen. We were fourteen when I put the gun on his forehead, and he wouldn't even lift his gaze to face me. He only whimpered, blandishing his dear princess. She was already dead, pallid, lifeless. When I asked him why he loved her and not me, he just shrugged. He didn't even beg for his life, only stared at his cold lover.

"You were my friend, Scarlett." His friend...

I pulled the trigger. And at this point you say: but you loved him! I did. Now my ribcase is empty. I mentioned before of consequences of our actions; that was my punishment. When I took his life, my heart died with him. I am not capable of love. Or so I thought, before I met him; Dylan.