O N E

there are flags everywhere

The most she's seen were usually when Maya would be reckless at the playground or she'd get a measly papercut. Something like this never really appeared in Rileytown. Then all of the sudden she's growing up, and even at the age of fifteen, Happy Little Riley, the girl of dream castles and flower crowns, has never seen this much blood before.

Two boys are taking shots at each other in the middle of the cafeteria, and this hypes up the rest of the teens like a malicious sanguinary high as they crowd the duo. Before her vision is blocked out with the kids swarming inward like moths to a flame, she sees someone completely unrecognizable on top of a boy she's seen around, face red and damaged, punching punching punching.

Maya's up and consumed in the hype. Farkle's up and she's not sure why. Riley is frozen in her seat, not really knowing what to do while her heart is punching punching punching against her ribcage.

Red, pumping through her heart, rushing under her skin, dripping down two faces, drowning the vision of four eyes, coating her lips. Red.

Riley likes red—reminds her of roses, the flowers of romance. It's not a very delightful colour anymore. Roses don't seem that delightful anymore either.

"There's this new guy named Lucas in my afternoon classes," she remembers, because that had been what was new and different in Farkle's life and Riley wasn't that big of a fan of change. She listened like she usually would either way. "At first, he kind of pegged me as the jock type. Then he noticed the pin on my backpack from debate team and asked if he could join. It wasn't the best exchange, since I thought he was going to hit me like the other boys, but it was something different. I actually think I made a new friend."

Somewhere between when everything blurs and when her heartbeat pounds against her eardrums, that inner angel of good hearted kindness awakens inside of her. That heart of justice turns the frozen fear into something that drives her like adrenaline and feels like heroism. She's out of her seat and pushing through the crowd before Maya's whooping for more action can settle.

"Stop! Stop!" She's not heard the first time, but Maya's right beside her and she grabs the brunette's hand on reflex, concern in her eyes as her excitement drains away.

"Riley, what are you—"

Her next words making up an earsplitting screech, leaving her throat raw.

"YOU'RE HURTING HIM!"

The hype dies instantly and heads turn to the voice. The boy on top freezes mid-swing, and when he looks up, his eyes lock with hers.

She's scared. And it shows.

And when his fingers sort of slip from Billy's collar, letting his head crash to the floor (he was so beat up and swollen he could barely turn his head, or even open his eyes), his eyes didn't leave Riley's. They didn't look like eyes of a violent, vehement being. If you looked past the shock, there was some kind of pain.

Her heart pounds like thunder, hard and terrified, and she just has to wonder, looking into his eyes, if his was doing the same thing.

But then, looking at what's coating his face, she wonders: how much blood can you lose before your heart stops?

A teacher with small owl spectacles and on the verge of baldness arrives at the scene. "What is going on here?!" About a dozen fingers point to the duo, and the boy finally gets up and off of Billy.

She stares at him, at the blood, at the blue and black and goddamn red, at the human that reminded her of overlapping darkness and monsters under her bed. But then . . .

He's broken. He's bruised. He's hurt.

(And it's hurting her.)

"Are you—"

"You, Friar." The teacher cuts her off. He's pointing at the boy. Then he averts his bony finger to Riley. "You, Matthews—"

Maya, as always, is lightning fast to defend her best friend. "She didn't do anything!"

"Maya," Riley says.

"She was the one trying to stop it!"

"Maya!" She looks at her, squeezing the blonde's hand reassuringly. "It's okay, I'm pretty sure he just needs a witness."

"He can get another witness," she insists.

Finally having enough, the teacher held a finger to his temple. "Ms . . . or should I say Mr. Hart, if you're done . . . ?"

That's when Maya's face flares with a mix of embarrassment and anger as her jaw locks and her teeth were clenched hard enough to shape like jagged stalagmites.

Maya wore pants instead of a dress, which, according to society, is all wrong.

It wasn't suppose to mean anything, she just thought they were more comfortable. (But that's their society, where kids around her would stifle their laughter because only boys wore pants and only girls wore dresses because that's just how things worked.)

She looked away with a scoff, tongue rolling against the inside of her cheek, before snapping her head back up. "I'm not—" Maya's cut off when Riley places a hand on her shoulder, sending messages through doe eyes, giving her a soft encouraging smile with a slight flame in her eye.

You're better than them.

Riley then walks away and towards the teacher because she hasn't forgotten the matter at hand. The teacher yells at the rest of the students to get to class.

They walk down the halls. Riley attempts to catch glances at the boy with her stomach full if worry. She's too scared to ask with the teacher between them. The clicking of her thick heels against the smooth floor is the only thing sound in the hallways, and as they transfer into the office, her heels get replaced with the ticking of the clock.

Tick . . .

Tock . . .