The Silver Fighter | ✓

Don't Touch The Hood. Just . . . Don't.

'The little arse always wants food the minute I wake up.' I thought with a smile tugging on my lips, amused by his innocent little face.

I yawned slightly, tears prickling my eyes as I playfully glared at him and remarked, "Yeah, well that innocent act doesn't work on me anymore since the day you barked in my ear at four in the morning, you little bugger."

I then snorted when I realized I was scolding a dog.

"I swear I'm starting to go mental." I mumbled to no one in particular as I threw the covers off and weakly stood up. Then, I hobbled slowly to the bathroom, avoiding running into the piano that my mum gifted to me before I was born.

I opened my bathroom, took a piss, and without looking at myself, I washed my face. In that particular order.

After washing off the previous night's oils and gunk, I took in my appearance. And holy fuck did I look like death.

My freckles were no longer in full bloom since it was beginning to be wintertime, and my pin-straight black hair was in a tangled mop on top of my head due to my stupid arse falling asleep with it went. On top of that, there were lovely bags under my eyes from the night terror from that night which woke me up at twelve o'clock in the morning.

Fun times.

And as usual, my grey eyes were dull and lifeless.

'That's a surprise to no one.'

My heart then constricted out of the blue and I clutched at my chest, my eyes shutting at the unexpected pain. I searched through my brain to understand why my body was retaliating like that.

Then, the realization struck me like a kick to the nuts, my stomach churning as if it were muscle memory. And in a way, it was.

My eyebrows pinched together as I let out a raspy, "Fuck," and then hung my head over my bathroom sink tiredly.

Every single year since I was thirteen there was always one day that made me want to quite literally die. Usually, I was greeted with a panic attack at seven in the morning, a mental breakdown into a puddle of tears by twelve o'clock for lunch, and then the rest of the afternoon would be spent trying not to cry until I passed out.

Now, I know that we just met, but you should know that the way I process shit is that I repress it.

Is it unhealthy? Fuck yeah, it is. But not crying and trying to push those emotions away makes me feel better.

I call it compartmentalization. Others call it toxic.

Do with that information what you will.

But on that Monday morning, I was too exhausted to cry and too sluggish to melt into a puddle of misery. So I just got my shit together by sighing at my reflection as my heart ached in my chest like someone was trying to crush it within my rib cage.

With a deep, resigned sigh, I silently thought to myself, 'Let's just get this day over with.'

I shook my head of my melancholic thoughts and after washing up, I went back into my room and put on my usual outfit which consists of my dad's Stanford hoodie, grey sweatpants, and my black low-top Converse.