The increase of intentional injuries on my body did nothing to prevent random scratches and scrapes from showing up on my abused skin. Of course, it was irrational to think that deliberate damage would eradicate accident, but I was never logical anymore, and was still irritated by the scab on the bone of my ankle.
I was clueless as to where it’d come from, having discovered the minor scrape when it started to bleed after I accidently kicked it against the corner of a door. It didn’t make sense for a solid layer of flesh to have come off of me from hitting a flat piece of wood, though, so the answer to the question of the scab’s origin still evaded me.
I’d forgotten about it after the initial realization that I’d acquired yet another undesirable blemish, figuring that I’d just add the resulting pink circle to my list of scars. A grazed ankle was absolutely nothing compared to the lines on my hips.
But as I stumbled out of a soccer mom minivan, leg stuck between the seats and feet tripping as I fell onto the asphalt, the scuffed heel of my Converse banged against my ankle. My nose scrunched up with the pain and subsequent throbbing, and shook it off, righting myself and grinning at the three boys who were shaking their heads at me and chuckling.
It was reality’s way to have me cornered in my room with my insistent boyfriend and exposed cuts one day then returning to my school of cheery smiles and insincere eyes the next. It made me wonder if the teenagers laughing at my clumsiness would be so quick to dismiss me if they knew of the events that took place on my bleached sheets. It was a repetitive thought that flitted through my head, how differently people would act towards me if they were aware of everything that I’d done and thought.
As it was, my peers knew exactly as much as I wanted them to – with the usual exception of Alex, of course – and were as happily ignorant as ever, unknowing that I only smiled at my own idiocy because slumping into myself and revealing my insecurity would make me look even more pathetic. I wasn’t one to solve problems that could be ignored or open up my actual self to judgment, so I laughed humorlessly along with the boy’s that I’d just been joking with while crammed together in the back of that car, ignoring the pulse in my ankle and following mindlessly as we walked to our destination. We’d been shoved into that minivan in order to reach the destination of our current fieldtrip, the art museum.
Alex’s searching eyes spotted me as soon as we reached the front of the building, a genuine smile pulling at my lips with the realization that he’d been looking for me as Alex watched us approach. With a quickened step, I strode over and jumped up onto the cement block displaying the museum’s name, my class lazing around since our teacher had yet to arrive.
Alex frowned while I crossed my legs, shoes kicking against the concrete as he bypassed a greeting and asked, “What happened to your ankle?”
Contemplating how many times one of us had explained an injury to the other, I glanced down, knowing that the small scab wouldn’t be worth noting to him. It was far more alarming than I’d expected, though, my uncoordinated blundering having apparently managed to break the covering and cause it to start bleeding once again. Twin streaks of red went down the side of my foot, already having gone through the white sock and pooled in a spreading puddle on the edge of my Converse.
Immediately thinking over how difficult it would be to wash the seeping blood out of my gray sneaker, I acknowledged the should-be panic-producing sight with a casual ‘huh’. Propping my foot up on my knee to inspect it closer, I furrowed my eyebrows, scowling at the blood that’d surely be annoying to remove and my current lack of anything to clean it up off with, replying to Alex, “I don’t know. The scab’s been there for awhile and I just accidently hit it, but I don’t know where it came from in the first place.”
Deciding that it would be easiest to wait until our tour began and go off to a bathroom to deal with the disturbance, I shrugged, heels clanking on the cement under us as my legs relaxed. Alex was giving me one of those skeptical looks that I was on the receiving end of so often. He looked like he wanted to press the subject yet didn’t find it important enough to take up in public or, maybe, ever.
Softening his strained position – fingers gripping the edges of the sign, stiff shoulders hunched – he slumped against my arm, saying, “You’re way too comfortable with blood.”
“I know,” I responded. I was relatively sure that my boyfriend was constantly supposedly using some sort of strange psychotherapy on me, stating the obvious in hopes that I’d realize how wrong the proclamations should sound. I accepted facts as they were, though, definite and unchangeable. Yes, my nonchalance concerning an open injury was abnormal and somewhat disconcerting, but it was what it was. I was fully aware that my point of view and opinion on certain subjects was unacceptable and worrisome, but I didn’t see a legitimate reason to deny or change my feelings.
Alex, funnily, was quite alike me in these aspects. It wasn’t that he believed that I was wrong and had to be altered and contorted to live properly; my best guess was that Alex was working in the most subtle ways to stop me from becoming him. He’d already spiraled down this vortex long ago, where as I was still plummeting. Alex wanted to be my bungee cord, although we both realized that it was too late to completely repair my many detrimental impacts. A parachute, maybe, was more realistic. Slow my drop to a painless landing.
“Does this mean I have to clean you up again?” Alex teased, decreasing the seriousness that our conversations continuously managed to take on.
Noting the appearance of the last group of students and our slow teacher with sideways eyes, I playfully nudged his side when Alex’s arm linked through mine, stating, “I’m not actually a two year old, you know.”
“That’s debatable,” he said, leaping off the concrete and tugging me down as we were called to come together in a more organized manner.
With a serious expression and monotone voice, I joked, “Do you have a weird thing for little boys? Kinky.”
Ignoring the crack about ‘little’ that surely could have been made there and I certainly would have exploited, Alex smiled, offhandedly saying as we walked to our congregated classmates, “Not plural. Only you.”
It was concerning, really, that that one comment easily made the blood shining and slipping under the end of my jeans worth it. When I’d started valuing miniscule moments of pure happiness over physical health, I couldn’t define, but I wasn’t entirely positive that it was a bad change. I’d become increasingly aware that my scars and Alex may have been a package deal, and if they were all or nothing, I’d certainly take the lot.
___
Our tour guide was blabbering something uninteresting about a dead artist, my attention lapsing and ears tuning in to the birds squeaking rather than the wrinkled woman’s droning. Most of the students from my school had done the same, giving up on learning anything both educational and entertaining, instead chattering in disconnected groups and inspecting statues.
Alex had started talking to Grieco (who was, apparently, a background member of our art period) and walked off with him somewhere in between flicking soapy water at me in the white bathroom and our entering the sculpture gardens. I’d been sticking with Brendon and Jon, two boys that I knew solely because of the single class we shared, and making bad jokes at the expense of different odd pieces of art and our monotone tour guide. Really, that woman was walking humor; I couldn’t help myself.
And Brendon laughed with a muffling hand when I mumbled stupid puns, so it wasn’t an issue. If the outdated guide wasn't stuck in the sixties, I wouldn’t have been obligated to quietly suggest that she’d gotten the inspiration for her hairstyle from the late portrait artist of the 1900’s that she was rambling on about.
Despite what I justified away, I really was an asshole.
Jon and Brendon were observing a metal statue of some medieval man in heavy robes while the rest of our class giggled and gossiped about current crushes. Surprisingly, a couple kids were actually listening attentively to the tour guide’s latest description of an abstract modern piece that was all sharp angles and precise lines. Geometric and simple; a creation of one with inadequate creativity, I thought.
Bored of birdsong and theory, I stepped up onto the base of the sculpture, slinging an arm around his shoulders with and putting my other hand on my hip. I scrutinized his features with critical eyes, eying the coarse texture and blank expression. Jon essentially giggled as I wondered if the statue was so emotionless because he was resigned to being irritated by rude teenagers for all of eternity, and a sudden weight was pressed against my arm as I determined that the metal man deserved pity.
Peeking behind his head, I saw that Alex had returned and copied me, grinning adorably at me from where he stood, propped against the other side of the statue. I laughed authentically at the ridiculous turn that our school trip, meant to be serious and academic, had taken.
Our teacher was seemingly not annoyed by the complete disregard for his field trip’s purpose, though, as he spotted us playing on the art like toddlers, stepping up before us and urging ‘smile!’ before taking his professional camera and clicking shots as Alex and I posed goofily. It appeared that literally everyone had forgotten the real objective of us being at the museum, though I wouldn’t complain. Forget getting an education , I preferred fucking around.
Eventually, the art teacher scampered off to take pictures of some other teenage idiots to preserve the events of the current year and get visual proof that high school was an exciting and happy place, and me and Alex released the perpetually motionless man we’d accosted. From what I could hear, Grieco was animatedly explaining the reasons that acoustic was superior to electric to Brendon, who passionately argued back when he could shove a word in. Jon had disappeared.
“Aren’t we supposed to be learning or something?” Alex questioned, slotting our fingers together and starting off towards another random spot.
I shook my head, quietly glimpsing across the space around us and wondering if the woman meant to be guiding us had ceased breathing, since she too had departed. Grateful that the incessant and pointless lecturing had been terminated, I responded, “Probably. I’m fine with this, though.”
Alex hummed, reaching up to pluck a leaf out of a wobbling tree, crumpling it in his free hand and observing how it folded and tore apart. I jolted away with a yelp when he tried to wipe the green slime left on his fingers off on my arm, insignificantly smeared sneaker forgotten. Dodging having my hoodie discolored was enjoyable enough to overpower the tingling in my ankle and blood on my shoe. It doesn’t take much good to eliminate the bad.
Temporarily, that is.
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I don't actually remember what the point of this chapter is. Is that bad? I don't know. It has some plot, which is a plus. This A/N is lame; it's late. I hope it was ok, please comment and vote!
xoxo
Rose
Edit: So it turns out that I lied and am still not ready to post the next chapter on the appropriate day. Hopefully it'll only be another week late, sorry again.