Blinded by Perfection

18- Cat Fight Alert

Chapter 18 | Cat Fight Alert

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After Noah had taken me home yesterday, I had snuck into the apartment successfully, making a quiet run for it to my room. He'd also told me to give him my fathers set of keys to the Jeep and a key to our apartment for the time being, so I did with little hesitation.

Ever since then I've locked myself in the room, sitting down on the bed and staring at nothing. I am normally one to pace when stressed, but right now my body isn't up for that. So, by default I am forced to sit while my mind races the speed of light. I have so many questions running through my head.

Who was that guy?

How did he find me?

Did he have a motive to do what he did?

Should I have ignored Noah and my ignorant self and told the police?

Soon enough an hour had passed. My stupid alarm rings annoyingly, signaling for me to get up for school. I had been awake the whole night, so it doesn't really do much.

I know today is guaranteed to be a horrible school day. If my muscles hurt as much as they do getting out if bed the entire day, I'm sure it will takes years to get to each of my classes.

I could try convince my mom to let me stay home, but I can't. Something would slip and she would ask for a reason why and be all nosy. I already know I can't keep a secret, so my big mouth would tell them with a mind of its own. It doesn't have a filter.

With a strangled sigh I get up, and almost immediately Noah's shirt drowns my body down to my upper thighs as I stand. I spread my arms out, momentarily gazing at its comical appearance on me.

I can faintly smell his essence in its fibers, but I don't allow myself to bask. Carefully, I pull it off my body along with the basketball shorts.

I know I can't put them in the dirty clothes without my mother noticing, so for now I just throw them under my bed. After I change into loose sweatpants that won't irritate my battered skin, and I'm about to wear the only crop top long sleeved shirt I own to cover my cuts when my eyes notice something folded on my dresser.

Curious, I limp over to see what it is. A note lies on top of it, reading in neat, slanted handwriting: Wear this, you uncultured swine who only owns a single long sleeved shirt.

I stare at the slip of paper, intrigued. How did he know I only own a single long sleeve? I mean, I guess it's a little obvious if you look into it. I came from Florida and I wouldn't have worn that stupid crop top if I had something longer to cover my stomach. But still, it's not something I'd expect him to remember.

I fold the note and slip it into my pocket, then divert my attention to what I assume to be a shirt. When I pick it up and unravel it from it's neat folds, I'm looking at a white Champion T-shirt. It has the logo on the right upper side of the shirt and the letters Champion are written on the right sleeve.

Unable to contain my smile, I pull it over my head. It's a better fit than I imagine it to be and sure enough covers every battered inch of my skin. The sleeves are even a little extra long, so I can pull them over the punctures on the palms of my hands.

There's nothing I can really do with my face. They're some minor scratches, but if anyone asks I will just tell them some lie I'd create on the spot. I know it's a bad idea, but I also am aware applying makeup will be extremely difficult if I can barely move my arm without soreness bursting in the throbbing muscles.