Walking With The Outcast

Chapter 7 - Lucilia

I'm broken from my horror and disgust-filled state when the soft, musical chimes vibrate through the house again. How did they get my address?

I reach for the door handle, preparing myself to flip the lock when I freeze. Jumping away from the door, I sprint to the hallway mirror and realize that Ethan is not the only ugly duckling right now.

My face is bruised. Although not as bad as Ethan's facial train wreck, it is still not a pretty sight. Ace can't see me like this. I cannot let him see the outward evidence of my weakness: the tear tracks that have dried, the ashen skin tone, the bloodshot eyes aggravated from being rubbed.

He cannot see me. But I also can't leave them out there.

I scramble to the nearest bathroom. After flushing my face with water, I pat my face to get the blood flowing, but wince when it pains my bruise. I study my face again and snort. Well, that looks convincing. The only thing that has changed is my face is colder from the water, and my cheeks are rosier. My eyes, still bloodshot, show my previous emotional breakdown as clearly as the sun lights the sky.

Sighing, I turn and trudge to the door, dragging my feet. The doorbell rings again. Then again and again. One of them is repeatedly pressing it, and after the fifth time, I decide that the doorbell is not all that welcoming a sound anymore. Instead, it is ominous and foreboding, worsening my already depressed state.

Ace and Ethan are going to see the bruise. Of course they will also see the tear stains, but hopefully, they will think it is because of my wound. I cannot let them know the real reason. Not Ethan and definitely not Ace. I will not let them pity me.

Facing the oak door with a glare, my eyes trace the wood, following the grain surrounding the handle. I reach forward, my hand shaking slightly. I can do this. They won't find out. My hand grasps the cool metal, and I flip the lock. The noise must be heard by them because the doorbell stops. I pull the handle, and the door swings inwards.

A malformed Ethan greets me first. The smile he is performing could give kids nightmares: blood stains his teeth and upper lip and cheeks bloated and bruised. I flinch from the sight. My eyes naturally drift to the unnaturally large nose.

Refusing to make eye contact with Ethan's sole eye, I peer at Ace with my head bowed slightly. He is already looking at me. His vision roams over me, starting at my head, going down to my bare feet, and ending back on the bruise. A guttural sound emerges from his chest, and I discern his fury from the blaze in his eyes.

Charging towards me, Ace never looks away from the bruise. He sweeps me over his shoulder and storms down the hallway. I squeal, but do nothing else, except hang limply. Ethan follows the enraged bad boy.

Ace has no clue where he is going, but when I am set down on a chair in the kitchen, I realize that he had a destination in mind. Facing me, Ace and Ethan study my bruise, as if I look worse than Ethan. Wanting to divert their attention and ease my curiosity, I question, "Ethan, what happened to your face?"

His one eye widens. "I was hit." My gaze fixes on Ace accusingly.

"Ace," I growl. "I thought I told you to be nice. Did you hit him?"

Instead of getting a reply from Ace, I receive one from Ethan. "No, it wasn't Ace." The two boys share an indiscernible look. "It was a door."

I blink at him. "A door destroyed your face?"

Feigning hurt, Ethan clutches the spot over his heart. "Destroyed? That hurts, shortcake. Don't you think that they make me look like I was in a tough fight?"

I nod. "Yeah, a fight you lost."

Ethan snorts and flexes his right arm. "Please, shortcake, these guns don't lose fights."