Ways to Go

I

Tristan watched the blood run in streaks down his arm, leaving vague orange trails from his knuckles to his elbow, where the droplets gathered before falling to the ground. One. By one. He thought, maybe if he listened hard enough he could hear them hit the pavement and hiss in the harshness of the midday sun. 

It had been a stupid decision. In retrospect anyway. It felt sometimes like his anger was a being all it's own, trying desperately to escape him, to pour out his throat and overtake absolutely everything around him. Or, apparently, force him to punch a dickhead, and slightly more recently, a concrete wall. 

It hurt like a bitch. But really, he shouldn't have expected any different. It hurt the last time too, when he'd punched an oak and fractured his knuckle. Fucking idiot. You'd think he'd learn, but somehow the memory of pain has a way of slipping away from you, only ricocheting back into your consciousness after you make a dumb decision. 

After a few seconds of blankly watching the trailing drops converge in an apparent effort to cover his entire forearm in ugly orange, he blinked and pulled his hand back toward him to check the damage. Red scrapes marred each of the knuckles on his right hand, but even though it hurt like hell to move, he could flex it without screaming in agony or hearing any unsettling pops or clicks. There was one thing going for him at least. 

***

He felt like a kicked dog, sneaking in the front door as quietly as he could, wincing when the screen door whined as it shut behind him.

“Sophia Ann Moore! What are you doing home so early?” his mother shrieked from the living room entryway. Mission failed. Immediately. Kind of pitiful actually.

He opened his mouth to correct her, thought better of it. Instead, he shrugged, already bracing himself for the lecture and trying to casually hide his mangled hand behind his back as she ushered him into the living room.

Something was different. His mother had calmed herself down, to an extent at least. Her face was still pinched, but she’d stopped yelling and she hadn’t even started throwing things yet. Most people would see it as a good sign, but Tristan had learned pretty quickly that he just wasn’t that lucky.

His father's face was drawn, tight. He usually didn't look Tristan in the eye on a good day but it seemed like his avoidance had grown tenfold.

"We got a call from the school earlier," his mother said, drawing his attention. Ah, so just a lecture? "Enough is enough."

Or...maybe not.

"You've been suspended for the rest of the school year. Suspended!" Her signature shriek was back, she looked to Tristan's father as though expecting a nod, or even a word of agreement. He was too busy intensely observing a stain in the carpet to notice. 
It really wasn't as dramatic as she was making it seem. At least in Tristan's totally unbiased view of the situation. There were only four school-days left until the break anyway. 

"We're sending you to live with your grandfather for the summer. I can't deal with this anymore. I refuse to."

Tristan opened his mouth, though he hadn't quite figured whether it was to ask questions or argue. It didn't matter either way, his mother gave him a quelling look and his jaw snapped shut. He twisted his fingers into the fabric of his jeans, making his abraded knuckles burn. He could feel it again, rising up in his throat like bile. But he bit his tongue, rose to his feet. He couldn't resist one last look at her face. Her chin was jutting out, pride or the result of her biting her own tongue. By the satisfied gleam in her eye, he could guess which. 

He went to his room. And, pointedly, didn't slam the door

The following days were tense, but only minisculely moreso than they usually were in the Moore household. He was surprised by how quickly it all went. Even for all his blustering though, he couldn't help the coil of fear that settled in his stomach. He hadn't left this town since he was too young to remember. And yeah, he hated it there, hated every kid in school, whether they harassed him or just gave him that look, but it was home. It was safe. Well, not really, but it was at least familiar. He had never even met his grandfather! Had no idea how he'd react to him, if he even knew. Tristan's parents were a lot of things, but they weren't violent, weren't outright hateful. But his grandfather was an unknown variable, and so was everyone else in that town. So yeah, he was scared. But there was something else there too, even if it was minute and drowned out. Something like excitement.