When I awoke, it was absolutely dark. The first thing that came to my mind was how the bed felt like the one I had back home and for a second, I had convinced myself that maybe I was back there. Though alone, it was still home.
Then, I had only moved an inch closer to the middle and I felt the bed dipped down beside me and how it was warm. Immediately, I knew it was Luke from the scent alone and from how I could hear his soft breathing as he slept. It was obvious that after I fainted, he took me back here, knowing that I wasn't up to being questioned by anyone if I was taken back at the Holland's house.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm kidding myself with whats happening. At this rate, I feel like I'm in a comedy show, and the comedian is making the joke about me. Because this time, it feels exactly that—that I'm the butt of the joke.
When my parents died, I'd only gotten used to having to spiral down into the rabbit hole like Alice did when she fell literally. Now, that Nathan's gone, I'd pushed myself to not spiral again, to not let the sadness sit in me for a long time.
Never drink. Never sulk. Never anything.
Maybe I just ignored all of it because I had all these distractions with me—the gang, Chloe, hell, even Luke.
Now that I'm here, I'm thrown into the reality that I don't have any of that even if one of them is beside me.
Alone. That's who I am.
For a while, in the dark, I imagine Luke's face and body. His hands gripping on the blanket above us, his usual hard blue eyes that stares into your soul is now soft, and how he's worn his shirt even though I knew that he wasn't comfortable with sleeping with it.
I can't help but think about how he's been here for me for the longest time. I expected him to walk away right as I was mourning because I was so used to being left alone.
When mom and dad died and I woke up from the God-awful coma, I found comfort in having to be alone. Right after I saw Kara and Jack, I'd closed myself off completely. Not even letting my brother in, no matter how many times he calmly tried.
I've felt abandoned by my parents, by my friend, and ex-boyfriend for the longest time and when I'd gotten past from my addiction, my safety blanket, I had found comfort within my brother.
Now that he's gone, I can't see him or talk to him. Many would argue that I still could if I went to his grave but what good will that do? All I would think is that he's six feet underground, rotting, and I would be enticed by the idea of having to sort back to alcohol again.
Shutting my eyes for a second, I breathe deeply before opening them back and pulling put my phone from my pocket.
Two text messages from a number I don't know.
Hey, Luke gave me your number I hope you don't mind. This is Jesse by the way. I hope you're okay.
I'm sorry about what happened. I shouldn't have ambushed you like that. I've just been meaning to talk to you and didn't know how I should go about it. If you're okay with talking, just text me. I won't change numbers, that way you can think about it really.
Jesse. Right. I did faint in front of him.
Accidentally pressing the power button, I open it again, noticing the time. It's only eleven twenty-two in the evening.
I pull myself up from the bed, wore my shoes, and head towards the door. I didn't notice that Luke woke up until he spoke in his raspy, deep voice. One that would shake you to your core, have you want more of him.
"Come back."
With the light pushing in from the outside, I can see him. In his groggy state. Half-awake, disheveled hair, and just looking like an angel.
Maybe he is one.
"I'll just get something to drink."
He nods and I shut the door behind me.
Instead of heading towards the kitchen, I head towards the door, making sure not to make any sound on the way out.
And I make a run for it. I don't know where. I just needed to get out.
I ended up running towards a twenty-four hour gym. I didn't care if I was wearing my jeans, I just knew that I wanted to kick and punch something.
Even though I was being stared at by people from having to wear denim, boots, and a worn-out shirt, that didn't stop me to walk over the boxing gloves.
"You want to box?"
Looking up, I see this man at my right, a little taller than me, and more muscular than I am. It's clear that he's works as a trainer here. He's wearing a black, Niké sleeveless shirt and some jersey shorts to go with it.
He looks maybe twenty to twenty-three. The way his dark hair is styled looks like it's been fixed by some wax or gel, and the way his almond brown eyes are still wide, it seemed like he's still alert even in this night.
When I didn't say anything more, he'd moved towards the gloves and stared at my hands, probably finding something that'd fit me.
"I'm Carson," he gave a small smile, his thin lips almost disappearing with the gesture. "I work here. The gym sells clothes that'd be more suitable in moving, by the way."
"I'm good," I reply. "I can just cut the jeans into shorts if you have some scissors or a box cutter."
He smirks, his eyes amused. "I have to say I've never heard someone say that. Normally, they would rather change than ruin a good pair of jeans. I have some scissors."
I shrug. "I'd like to borrow them, please."
I spent about five minutes trying to cut the jeans into suitable shorts. Right after that, I went out of the bathroom, not minding the looks people were giving me and pulled my hair up as I walked to the ring where Carson stood there, wearing the focus pads and right in front of him were the black gloves he picked out for me.
He tilted his head, bemused. "Gotta say, they look like they're really shorts."
"Thanks."
Placing the gloves in, we both nod, telling one another that we're ready.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, staring right at the targets in front of me.
Straight!
I punch the left one. The right one. Both taking turns in sync.
That feels better. My anger in me is rising—not because I'm taunted or because I'm frustrated. It feels like the anger is getting released.
He places the pad on top and I do an uppercut with my right hand.
At rehab, they teach you to focus on other things, to not get drunk into your addictions and though I never have done those things, I think they're right.
"You seem to know what you're doing," He comments. "Been doing boxing for a long time?"
I shake my head and raise my feet, kicking the right pad. His eyes widen as I let out a breath. "Kickboxing, self-defense training. Tons of it. I had to learn quick since I was eleven."
"Cool," he says. "I'm twenty-three and has just been doing this for two years. So, I probably am not as badass as you."
Yeah, badass.
"You're like my roommate then," he chuckles. "They guy's also a badass. I think you'd like him. He also works here but only in the mornings. He says he's been training since he was a kid too. He's actually going to come by to deliver some foods. A thank you gesture for lending him my car the past week and a half."
Though I was curious, I didn't bother saying anything. I was too focused in punching the focus pads in front of me, too focused in wearing my anger out.
"You never—" he pauses from my hits, his breath ragged like mine. "—told me your name."
"Rosalie," I answer, doing an uppercut twice as he hang the focus pad up. "I'm—I'm Rosalie."
He nods. "Pretty name. So, Rosalie, did someone do something to you?"
I stop for a second.
Cocking my brow, I start catching my breath. "What?"
He shrugs, pulling the pads off of him. "Normally, people have much lower aggression with boxing and the only time they get high is that if they're pissed, even if you're trained and already a professional with this, you were punching really hard."
"Sorry," I pull off the straps with my teeth, throwing the gloves down at the ring. "Must've been all the pent up energy in me."
He shakes his head and we jump down. "Not really a therapist but I still can tell if people are lying to me. But that's fine, I'm not pushing you to talk. Just thought you could use a friend."
Before I could decide whether to tell him thanks or tell him I don't need one, he looks up from my gaze and into the person that just went in the door.
"There's my roommate," he waves. "Hey, asshole! Bring it over here."
When I turn to gaze at the roommate, everything stops. In any given day, I'd completely shoot him, throw him back to where he came from, but now, I just stare at Jack.
He's holding bags from some place that has a name sounds healthy enough for me to vomit. He's wearing a cap to hide his hair and probably the unshaven look on his face, a white t-shirt, and some jersey shorts kind of like Carson's.
He has more muscle than I lost saw him which was when he tried to talk to me the first week I was here. But Carson's still much buff looking than him.
All this staring, I'm reminded by how he was never there at the war, how he never even came to Nathan's funeral. The disrespect of it was a great punishment in the eyes of the Shadows rules.
So, I don't just stare, I start walking up to him.
He seems to be intuitive enough to realize that I'm not coming over to talk because he places down the paper bag of food and the bottled water.
My kick lands straight in his stomach the second he looks up to me. "Where the fuck were you?"
I was yelling. I didn't care.
"You need to calm down," he says, holding up his palms to block another hit when my foot jolted towards him. "I wanted to be there."
Grabbing his wrists, I pull them down with one hand and land a punch on his cheek. His eyes widen as his face turns halfway from the hit.
"Yet, you weren't," I hiss. "I could've forgiven the abandonment after they died and the cheating but you, not showing up to his funeral? He took you in when you had fucking no one, remember that? You owed him your life!"
His face etches in guilt. He breaks from my hold and takes my hand in his. Locking me in. "Yes, I do—did owe him my life. I wanted to be there for him even at the funeral but I was blocked and got kicked right after I—"
Stopping, he doesn't continue. He doesn't even have to say it. He's the ultimate reason why Johnny took me, because he just lost his fucking temper at Jonas and put him in a coma.
I shake my head, and place my foot behind his ankle and trip him down. His hold on me slides off when he hits the ground.
"Ah!" He yelps at the impact.
"I want you out of the town tomorrow."
He stares at me for a while, eyes pleading. For what? For forgiveness? "Come back Saturday morning. Here. At the gym."
"Why?" I spit with so much venom, I shake in it. "You'll be gone by then."
"I'm not going anywhere until you hear me out. You can either kill me now or whenever the hell you want but I'm not leaving."
After everything he did, I didn't still kill him. Instead, I stalked off but not before giving him a strong push at his shoulders, making him stumble back a few steps.