First Blood
Hayner looked down at his bloody knuckles; why were his hands so numb? The wall had red stains on it, concrete splotched with rusty memory.
He felt lonely now, when only minutes before he'd only wanted that. His eyes scoured the bloody pools where his skin had been rubbed off. He'd never done this before, never been so angry. It'd been instinctual to go down to his favourite spot for condolence, though his only friend had been the wall. The train passing overhead made him jump slightly; making him realize the anger was gone. Setting in its place was only surprise and contentedness. The mixture made him feel overwhelmed.
Where was the pain? He'd expected it to dull his anger; he'd been willing, ready even, to cry. But there was none of it. The thing that surprised him most was he felt good, soothed, as though the sight of his own blood had lulled his troubles, his emotions. He wanted a hug now, a comfort at least, though he'd never admit that out loud.
Minutes passed as he stood there, staring at the drying blood, a new confidence rising in himself. He'd wear his mottled skin around, boast that he'd gotten into a fight, keep it secretive when they asked for a name.
He'd never tell it was himself he'd been fighting.