Blue Lips

Entry #1 - Fight Club

I'm in a bathtub. I can't remember how I got here. I can't remember my name. There's a boy sitting on the toilet across from me holding a phone to his ear. He's talking super quietly. I don't know who he is. I think he's talking to the police. I touch my hand to my head, feeling hot blood dripping down my temple. It's in my hair. My dress is covered in it. There's mud and dirt and blood all over me. My temple throbs, and I try to speak. I can't. All that comes out is a high pitched whine.
The boy speaks even faster into the phone. He tells whoever is on the other line to hurry. My vision darkens, and my head goes fuzzy. I can feel my head bobbing. I can't hold it up. I'm blacking out. I can hear my pulse. Am I supposed to hear my pulse? I can hear my breath too, but I think that's normal. People usually hear their breath.
I'm ducking out. The boy gasps, and rushes forward and catches my head. He moved too fast--I heard and felt his knee hit the side of the bathtub.
"Please, no, baby, no. Please, baby." He isn't speaking english. He's speaking mandarin. How do I know mandarin? Why do I understand him?
I don't know, but I'm glad I do. His voice hurts my head, but his words are a comfort. He kisses my forehead. I flinch, and try to raise my hand, but all I get is a tiny twitch.
Who is this boy? Why do I like him so much? I'm dying, so why is he the only thing I care about? Where are my parents?
I can feel the strength leaving me. My hands feel fuzzy, my legs do, and my head, and my torso. I can't move anything. The boy strokes my face and whispers the same word over and over. He's saying, "Joba." I think that's my name. I can see the window out of the corner of my eye. The blinds are illuminated by flashing of lights. I can't hear any rain. Why do I feel like there should be rain? I hear a moan, and realize it's coming from me. Is that it? Is that my last breath of life? It feels like it should be, but it isn't. Another breath comes, then another, then another, each weaker than the last. I wish they weren't. I would have been happy to end on such a noble, strong breath.
The boy has a split lip. He has bruises on his face. There's an oval-shaped bruise on his neck, and a cut on his cheekbone. I hate that he's hurt, but at the same time, he looks strong. I like looking at him.
Then it hits me. Fights. Fists. My head hitting the sidewalk. Hundreds of writhing bodies in promwear. The gang in the street. They wanted me. Daniel fought for me.

Daniel loves me.