Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.
conscious: aware of and responding to one's surroundings; awake
The sorrows of hell compassed me: the snares of death prevented me. —Psalm 18:5
I couldn't stand the sight of Dean, couldn't stand him anymore than I could stand myself. He had gotten worse, drinkin' himself ugly, disappearing for days on end, and getting in trouble with other downtown hoods. I'd heard some shit from Tim that I don't wanna think about, mostly because it made me hate everything more than I ever had. Ma had started harpin' on me about Dean strolling in at all hours of the night whenever he bothered to show his face around me, and Leon started acting violently, too. He had made it clear that, since I was a married woman, he wanted me outta the fucking house.
Tim had told him off real good, and Ma had sided with him, but only because I was sixteen and still in school. I couldn't stand it at that shithole, couldn't stand the pointed looks people kept givin' me when they thought I wasn't lookin, or the hushed comments that were made about me. And that's the fucking thing, ain't it? People don't stop talkin', don't quit lookin'. Ma always looked at me sideways, always sneered down at me as if she was waiting for me to turn out just like her—she could laugh it up all she wanted to then.
The only things that calmed be enough to act rational were booze and weed. I couldn't function without them, couldn't fucking do anything without them. It was almost like an obsession, a crave that wouldn't go away unless it was taken care of. It made me feel disgusting, but without the tingling sensation of the intoxication or the high, I was a lost cause—it was better than being sober. Dean was driving me crazy, Ma was driving me crazy, school was driving me crazy, everything was. I didn't know how much more of it I could take, but I was wearing pretty fucking thin, and I wanted out.
But there was no escape—there never was.
"Your old lady sure don't like me," Dean said, kicking his shoes off. The side of his lips curled up. "I can't believe I'm stuck with you."
I scoffed. "Well, you can get the hell out anytime you want. Ain't like you bother to do much showin' up anyway." My eyes narrowed as he lit a cancer stick casually, so casually, as if what I was saying had zero effect on him—bastard. "You think this is some kinda game, huh?"
"Nope," he answered, inhaling deeply. "I'm doin' my part, and you should, too." His voice dropped an octave, his hard face smoothing out. "I don't know what the fuck else to do, Angela."
I never hated Dean as much as I did then. All he ever did was make me feel damn lousy, never treating me right, and never bothering to try. This was all just some fucked up game to him, but I couldn't divorce his ass because of the church, and because Ma would wring my neck. She'd probably go on some fucked up spree of drinking herself six feet under because I—her failure of a daughter—had fucked up so much that I disgraced the family, not that it wasn't beyond disgraceful on its own.
That's all it would ever amount to.
But I was livid, and Dean was the one target that I had been after, especially after he hadn't bothered to have any contact with me in a week. I sat up on the bed, swingin' my legs around, so that I could sit beside him. I reached up and grabbed the cigarette from his hand, flicking it out the window, before I crossed my arms over my chest—I meant business.
"What you could do is go get a fucking job."
Dean's eyes were lethal, and for a moment, he reminded me of someone else. "And so could you, you little bitch. All you do is complain about this, and complain about that, and you're so fucking high and mighty. Well, I got news for you, woman"—He inched closer to me, his breath smelling strongly of tobacco and liquor—"I ain't playin' no game here."
"I'm sixteen, dammit, and I'm still in school," I growled, and when he ignored me, reaching for his pack of Marlboro, I swiped the entire thing from the nightstand and threw it out the window and into the rain with his first unfinished smoke. "You're nineteen, and all you do is louse around. You ain't trying worth shit, and you're tellin' me all I do is—"
The stinging sensation in my cheek from where Dean slapped me good and hard was enough to make tears brim my eyes, even though they wouldn't fall. My neck had cracked from the forceful blow, a tingling feeling still burning the sensitive area. Before I had a chance to react, Dean had already moved, his body hovering over mine as he pinned me down on the mattress, my head narrowly missing the wall, the cracked ceiling coming into view over Dean's lithe frame.
His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke next. "Don't you dare talk to me like that, girl. We may not like each other, but I'm still your husband right now and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it, so you can just shut the fuck up. What I do away from you is my business, and I don't owe you any explanations." His grip tightened forcibly, but only for a second—one which made black dots appear in my vision. "You're only good for one thing anyway."
And then he was gone.
"Gonna be a nun some day?"
"Like hell, Winston."
"Could have fooled me. You're as prude as they come."
Curly looked pissed, his hair disheveled and his teeth bared like he was ready to kill something. I was used to seeing both of my brothers riled up, but Curly was always more like an angry animal, whereas Tim remained level-headed, which was more dangerous than Curly's sporadic and violent tantrums. He was glaring at me as he sucked on a cancer stick, his eyes almost an exact replica of Tim's.
"What?"
"Saw Douglas tonight."
I felt my jaw clench. "Yeah, so?"
"He interfered with some shit," he replied harshly. "He's gettin' more brazen every time I see him, him and the Jennings guy—fuckers. Stole my fuckin' wallet, too."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued only a little. "And how did Bryon steal your wallet?"
And that's when Curly dived into the story of how he and some of his cronies were messing around with M&M Carlson, one of those hippie, flower kids, or whatever. He was weird, but I never paid him any mind, didn't care to. Apparently, while Curly was fucking around with M&M, Bryon and Mark showed up and cleared them off, stealing Curly's wallet in the process. In my mind, I thought that Curly deserved what he'd gotten, but I didn't like that it was Bryon who'd done it, and that was the only thing that pissed me off just a little, or just enough, depending on how you looked at it.
I hadn't seen Bryon in quite some time, but ever since he'd ran his mouth about me, I had plans for him, big plans alright. I was going to remind him why people didn't mess with me. Maybe I still cared about him an' all, but it wasn't enough, wasn't enough to excuse what he'd done to me. I could feel the monster inside clawing its way viciously to the top again, and with a sweet smile in the darkness, I allowed it to fill me up.
Mrs. Philips sighed as she studied my file, and all I could do was offer her a sassy little smirk that I was certain unnerved her. She had always been intimidated by Tim and Curly, but I think she despised Curly more than Tim, mostly because Tim was intelligent where it counted. Curly tried too much to be like Tim, but he never bothered to use his brains—I pitied him. Thing is, Tim did awfully well in school, but he'd always been rather smart, smarter than the average hood anyway. Ma almost had a heart attack when he'd dropped outta school an' all, but then she shook her head and went on some rampage that he was gonna turn out just like our daddy.
"Miss Shepard—"
"Mathis," I said, a bitter taste in my mouth. "It's Mathis now."
The counselor blinked, and then cleared her throat. "Right. Mrs. Mathis." She trailed on about my failing grades, along with the fact that my teachers were concerned, blah-fucking-blah, and I zoned out while she did. I didn't get why she cared so much anyway, but then again, she did get a pretty hefty paycheck for pretending to. I could only imagine what she thought of me then—married at sixteen years old, a sophomore in high school—I was certainly raising chins alright, and not in the good way, not that I cared. " . . . and you'll have to repeat the tenth grade."
I nodded absentmindedly, unaware of half of the conversation. "Is that all?"
"Angela," she began, and I thought, here comes the pity party. "You have a lot more potential than what you're showing."
At the tone of her voice, I could only roll my eyes. It ain't like she really cared about me, or anyone from my side of town. Why should I even pretend to care along with her? Or, better yet, why should I have to sit there and take her shit when I could be elsewhere, taking care of other things? I decided that, without Dean's—my useless husband—moving his ass and trying to at least provide for us, I was gonna have to step up and do it. My grades and school could go down the toilet for all I cared—just like everything else in my pathetic life.
So again I asked, "Is that all?"
I was stoned outta my mind one night when Dean came back to the house. My eyes were closed as I laid quietly on my bed facing the wall. I was pretty sure that they were bloodshot, the burning between my lids agonizing. Glory, but they were dryer than the Sahara Desert, I was certain, but it ain't like we had any drops or nothin', so I tried to sleep everything off. My body was numb, my mind seeming to silence itself for once, although I remained highly conscious of everything else, including every small movement of Dean, the smell of his stale cigarettes, the various other scents that wafted off of him every time he moved—I imagined that he had been out drinkin' or something, probably hangin' down the Strip with some loose whores.
He shifted beside me, laying back on top of the covers, his head a few inches from mine. I could hear his breathing, and oddly enough, I found some strange comfort in it. I still hated Dean more than anything, but the longing for someone—something—that was just as alive and conscious as me was setting my feelings of hatred aside for the time being. I might have been tough, I might have been more bitter at that point in my life than ever before, but I needed contact—I needed to be touched, I wanted to be secure for just one fucking minute.
I licked my lips in the darkness, shifting a little as I concentrated on Dean's even breaths. It took a minute before I turned over onto my other side so that I could fully face him, and in the darkness, save for the reflecting streetlights, I allowed myself to envision somebody else laying there. I was only able to see Dean's light hair, which looked almost silvery in the dimness, and his lean body that I had gotten off on several times before, but my imagination was terribly strong at that particular moment, so I pretended, the tightening of my chest loosening only a little.
"What the fuck are you starin' at?"
"Shut up."
I didn't want him to speak, didn't want to hear his voice. I moved to my knees, unclasping Dean's belt and his jeans, slowly sliding them down. I could feel him watching me in the dark, but I prayed that he wouldn't say nothin', because I needed this, I needed to feel something, wanted so bad just to pretend that this was another time and place. My hand slithered across his pelvis lightly, trailing the soft hairs that led me to his most sensitive area. Dean's hips bucked a little as I worked his length, and then I straddled him, easing myself down as I studied his long hair. His soft grunts filled the space around us, and with my palms flat and my fingers spread against his chest, I closed my eyes, relishing in the feeling of his hands gripping my hips, the smell of smoke and faint liquor . . .
His name was always on the tip of my tongue, eager to spill out at just the right time, but just like my sorrows and desperation for something good, something better, I swallowed it down, ignoring the fact that I was never fully satisfied afterward.
At least Dean had kept quiet.
"You're only good for one thing anyway."
I had heard that Bryon was hookin' up with some new squeeze—Cathy Carlson. I almost laughed at the thought; Cathy was M&M's older sister or somethin', the same kid Curly and his stupid friends had fucked with before Bryon and Mark intervened. I thought it was quite funny. After me and Bryon had split, he seemed to be poppin' up in my life more times than ever before. It seemed like some sick fucking ritual, and I decided that I hated him.
Once I got wind that Bryon was taking little what's-her-name to a dance, I figured I would show up, too, just to rub it in his face that I didn't need him, and I certainly didn't want him like he thought I did; I was beginning to think that Bryon was low, really low, especially after what he'd done to me just months before. I was just sick of him and everything else in that stupid town.
I was dressed real good, in a short dress and heels, my makeup done just right—I'd always known that I was a real looker, and that night, it was all about rubbing it in Bryon's face. When I'd gotten there, though, I was surprised to find Ponyboy Curtis hanging around. He didn't have no date, and when our eyes met, he acted like he didn't know me. Well, that was just fine and dandy with me, because I had plans for him and Bryon both.
I wanted Bryon to suffer, and I wanted him to know how he'd made me feel when he started spreading those ugly rumors around about me, so I waited for him to get his ass there, and I didn't wait all that long, either. He showed up with Cathy Carlson, and I almost died of laughter at the sight of her—I couldn't tell her from M&M if I wanted to. Glory, the only thing different between them was that Cathy had a pair of tits, but holy hell, Bryon could have dated M&M and it wouldn't have made any difference what-so-ever.
And to set my plan into motion, I approached Bryon with a smirk. "Hi, Bryon."
"Hi, Angel," he replied, sounding disinterested. "You here with Curtis?"
I wasn't expecting that from him, but with Carlson hanging on his arm, I only uttered a few swears at him, making sure to call him a piece of shit, before leaving. What's-Her-Name asked who I was before sayin' that I was "a real lady" in a sarcastic tone—bitch. But she was outta her territory, and it ain't like what she said about me mattered anyway. She'd apparently come back from some private school or some shit, not that I cared or nothin', but I had to wonder how a girl her age—and she was only a year younger than me—had managed to come up with that kinda money. I'd leave that one to the imagination, because I knew her folks didn't come from much, and supposedly, she had put herself through school.
Bryon always did have a fondness for the . . . less classy, but there was a difference between Carlson and me—I knew the score well, and she was hopeful, too hopeful for a person in these parts. I knew with one look at her that she and Bryon weren't gonna make it. I figured she would be better off with a guy like Curtis, so once I was outta sight, I decided to make that thought come to life, and believe me, what I wanted, I got.
And I wanted Bryon to come after me.
The sun was setting.
I'd always preferred sunsets to sunrises, mostly because the day was ending and in between then and dawn was darkness. I supposed I liked saying goodbye to start anew, even though there wasn't ever anything to look forward to—life's greatest joys, I guess. The street was quiet, the only sound being the cars speeding down the road in the distance, and for once, there was a conscious tone of peacefulness, though I knew that it wouldn't last long—nothing good ever did.
I allowed myself to relax in Ma's rocking chair, lighting up a cigarette and enjoying the warmth that grazed my skin—Spring was just around the corner. Unfortunately, my moment of calm was interrupted by the feeling of something soft brushing against my leg, and with a small jump, I looked down to see a mean lookin', all white cat staring up at me, its haunting eyes gazing into my own. I froze, studying the eyes of that ominous cat, the pale blue irises cold and icy, and my chest seemed to knot up. The air shifted, suddenly becoming thinner, and I gritted my teeth as I tried to tear my gaze away from that . . . creature, all to no avail.
The eyes—they reminded me of him, and I thought that I was losing my mind, that I was going crazy, because that was bizarre and disturbing. I wanted to shoo the damn thing away, make it leave, but I didn't, instead staying put in the rocking chair with a scowl on my face. The cigarette was burning away on its own, ashes scattering onto the arm rest as time moved forward slowly.
"What do you want?" I asked, glaring at the cat. "I don't got any scraps for you, so scram."
But the cat only sat still, and a dreadful feeling crept up my spine as I stared at it and it at me. There was something almost terrifying about it, but at the same time, I felt oddly comforted. I ain't sure why I did, but cats are supposed to be spiritual or somethin', so I went with that. Still, the damn thing only continued to stare on at me, and a nagging feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.
I tried again, staring at it's ugly face—it was ragged. "I told you I don't have any food for ya, cat, and ya can't stick around here."
The thing stood up and moved closer to where I sat, so I decided to test it. Once it was close enough to me, I dropped my arm to the side and wiggled my fingers to see if it would let me pet it. I liked cats, and animals in general, but this one was strange. I was curious, though, wanted to see if it was really as mean as it looked, or if it was just my imagination making me feel so off. The cat sauntered over to me the rest of the way, sniffed at my hand and butted its head against it, before nipping once at my index finger . . . and then it was gone.
"Enjoying yourself?"
I glanced up, squinting my eyes to see Sylvia standing across the street, her figure barely noticeable in the fading light. I smiled, though, and beckoned her over, glad that someone was around for the time being. I hated being alone for too long, especially at the house. Usually, I enjoyed it, but ever since the incident with Leon, and then Billy, I never felt comfortable being there alone. Tim and Curly both were locked up—again—and Ma was out . . . doing whatever.
"What are you doin' 'round here?" I asked, lighting up another cigarette. "You doin' business?"
Sylvia shrugged, stealing a cancer stick from me. "Came back to see the old neighborhood, I guess, but ain't nothin' changed."
"Nothing ever does," I pointed out grimly, wishing I was downing some shots. I could feel Sylvia's gaze on me, and I raised an eyebrow at her questionably. "What?"
She shook her head. "I heard about what happened with Mark Jennings and Ponyboy Curtis." A striking smile stretched across her face. "I'm surprised with you, is all."
The grin on my face was enough to make Sylvia cringe back. "I know what I'm doin'."
"Do you?" she quipped, flicking some ashes away. "You know, I just think you're lookin' for trouble, Angel, but then again, that's all you've ever been dealt, huh?" Her bottom lip curled under her teeth as she stared at me hard. "You just enjoy fuckin' up other peoples lives, too, don't ya?"
"It's what I'm good at."
And ain't that truth, I thought to myself, leaning back in the chair. But Sylvia was half right, too, even though she didn't have the whole scoop. I had set Bryon up at the dance, talked some poor dopey kid into startin' in on Curtis. I wanted him to fight with Mark, though, just to get to Bryon. I knew that Bryon would think that I was after Ponyboy, but I wasn't—I was after him, and what was better than going after something he cared about? I had seen Mark and Ponyboy hanging together outside of the dance, and I took my chance. Mark had gotten hit over the head, the dopey kid I'd manipulated into doing my dirty work getting arrested—poor sap.
Oh, it was just too bad, though, wasn't it?
The only thing left to do was wait for Bryon to come after me, and I knew he would.
"Sure," Sylvia agreed after a moment. "You know your mama is sellin'?"
I couldn't conceal the surprised look on my face. "What?"
"Yeah, I saw her downtown where the Brumly Boys used to hangout," she replied, a smirk creeping along her lips. "I knew y'all had it rough, but your mama, too?"
And there it was again—those cycles. I knew Ma was fucked up, and had been becoming worse off as time moved on, but the thought of her sellin' dope was unbelievable. When I pictured it, though, I was able to see it, just like I was used to seein' her—all soused and languid, useless and hacked off about anything and everything. Would that be me? I was halfway there already.
But death has always been inevitable.
That was the last time I had ever seen Sylvia.
If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. —Psalm 139:8
Word had it that Bryon and Mark had gotten caught up in some murder trial. I ain't so sure of what happened, but Charlie—the guy whose bar Bryon and Mark always hung around—got shot and killed. I had heard that they both witnessed it or something or other. I hadn't seen Bryon around in quite some time; the only thing I knew for certain was that his mama was outta the hospital and back to work. I was almost glad for Bryon, in some twisted way, but life had a funny way of cheating the odds. Bryon's mama made a full recovery, and Charlie died.
Weird how shit like that played out, ain't it?
I had learned that Sylvia was right about Ma—she had been sellin' some cheap shit downtown, and I had a funny feeling I knew what she was up to. Wouldn't nobody believe it, but I knew, and I knew that things were moving fast. One day I was gonna wake up and find that Ma had split. Now it was just a matter of when that day would come. I had been so lonely, so fucking alone, and the thoughts in my mind were enough to kill me, I was certain. There wasn't nobody around to talk to, to tell things to, and one afternoon when I was cleanin' out my room, I'd come across the brush Tim used to run through my hair, and I wondered what I would do when he eventually got locked up for life, 'cause that was just a matter of when, too.
During my isolation, booze became my best friend, more so than ever before. I found myself drunk off my ass nearly every night, not remembering what the hell had happened to me the next morning. Dean quit comin' around, and if him and me ever needed to talk or whatever, I'd usually end up at his place, dealing with his fucked up family—I hated it, hated it all. I was so used to thinkin' that I could get whatever I wanted, that nobody else mattered, so when things quit workin' out the way I wanted, I just quit everything altogether.
I was going to hell either way, so what did it matter?
I dreamed about Billy Walkins.
I was young again, eyes a little wider, smile more toothy, cheeks a bit more plump. The only sexual experience I'd really had was Winston kissing me. I'd never shot up before the night of that party when I was hangin' around Graham Parker, my skin clean and unmarked. But there I was in my subconscious state of mind, in that godawful nightmare, beneath Billy, his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrists as he held me down. I had thought that I would suffocate to death, the feeling of terror enveloping my entire being—so many times had I wanted to die that night, and so many times did I pray that I would after it.
Gone were those wide eyes, toothy smile, and plump cheeks.
No longer were there expressions of innocence flashed in awe at the wonders of life, no longer were there smiles of admiration directed at the little things, skin sinking back because it wasn't being stretched as often.
Death took everything in the end.
. . . and it made me this.
One night, I ended up hanging down the Strip. I was pretty drunk—didn't even know who the hell I was for the most part. I was talkin' to Cheryl Hayes, her and me passing a joint back and forth, as guys passed by us, winking and catcalling. Cheryl was pretty popular in these parts, her name more tarnished than mine. Nobody usually fucked with me, unless they wanted their faces rearranged by Tim. Curly would go after them, too, but he was mostly talk—Tim always backed up whatever he said.
"Outta the way. I want to see Angela."
My eyes widened when I heard the familiar voice, and I was overcome with emotions, too many at once, and glory, I felt sick. The world was spinning around me, but it wasn't fast enough for me to pass out yet, and I thought that Bryon somehow looked good right then. I jumped down off the car I was sitting on beside Cheryl, pushing through the swarm of girls that were flocking around Bryon . . . and Mark—fuck. I'd heard about Mark some, heard he was selling some shit. It was goin' around that Bryon's latest chick—Carlson's—brother was missing, the weird one. M&M. I hadn't really paid any of it much attention, didn't care to. Besides, M&M wasn't my problem; he probably wasn't even missing, the brat.
"Bryon!" I yelled, moving to stand in front of him, the smell of his cologne filling my nostrils. "Bryon, I'm so glad to see you!"
And for a moment, I was. I'd been waiting so long for him to come after me, even if he thought that I was after him and setting up Curtis a while back. Bryon was . . . familiar right then, something I could look at and remember that was halfway good. But, fuck, he really looked good—real good. I wouldn't do nothin', though. But I hugged him—hugged him good and long, because I wanted to feel that, I wanted to pretend that it was me an' him, that everything would somehow be okay again.
"Where ya been keeping yourself, Angel?" he asked, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. "How's married life?"
I'd nearly shoved the son-of-a-bitch away, a glint of anger in my eyes. "What the fuck, Bryon?" My words were practically slurred, but I was angry then. "Why the fuck would you even—" My jaw was clenched, and I suddenly wished for more booze. Make it stop. Don't think. But it was too late, and my thoughts were spilling from my mouth, eyes blurring with tears. "I never cared about him anyway. I thought I was having— I mean, I thought I was, but I wasn't—and that's the only reason I married him, the louse." I swore awhile, mad that I'd almost slipped about the pregnancy. But Bryon didn't even look interested in anything that I was saying, only disgusted. He hated me as much as I hated seeing him, but there was something about Bryon that made me let my guard down. "You're the only boy I ever cared about, Bryon."
"Sure," was all he said, before Mark intervened, offering to get more booze and to let me an' Bryon talk out our troubles or whatever.
I barely remember Mark getting a bottle of rum and some pop, and I hardly remember talkin' to Bryon while Mark went in and got everything. Everything was a blur—and all that I was able to remember was the three of us ending up at the lake and me sobbin' myself senseless. I didn't know what came over me, or what the fuck I was sayin', but I felt pretty damn lousy, and Bryon wasn't helping matters. I only recalled the distinct feeling of something not being right, and I kicked myself for ever getting into that fucking car.
But I was too out of it to care at that particular moment.
"I get so sick," I said in the darkness. "I feel like I can't take it any more, life is so lousy. I'm lousy, everything is lousy. I can't stand it at home, I can't it at school, I can't stand it anywhere. I always thought, hell, I can get what I want. Get what I want and everybody can go to hell. But it doesn't work that way, Bryon. I'm going to hell right along with them, I'm already there."
And that was the truth.
I'd made my bed in hell.
I'd woken up the next morning to find that all of my hair had been cut off. It was short, short enough that it looked like a replica of Twiggy. I knew it was Mark that had done it—Bryon was too drunk, and alcohol always made him emotional. Besides, I knew Bryon, and I knew that he was too sensitive to pull a stunt like that, but I loathed him because he'd let it happen. It didn't matter, though, because I wasn't going to let Bryon Douglas or Mark Jennings get over on me, so I'd just say that I was lookin' for something different and went and had my hair cut.
Those two assholes didn't deserve the credit.
Only I could hurt myself.
But I would get even with Bryon for the last time, so when Tim and Curly got outta the cooler, I told them what happened, told them that Bryon was the one who'd cut my hair. I knew Tim would beat the shit outta him, and that's what I wanted—that's what I told myself. I was a gutsy chick, I was tough, and even though I'd broken down a little, enough to toss my thoughts out onto the table, I didn't break, and I never would.
The morning dew of Summer was thick in the air, the condensation built on the windows and trailing down in small, thin strips. The house was eerily quiet, still even, a rarity in which I took pleasure. It was almost peaceful in a sense to know that I was alone, and for that time, I allowed myself to take it all in with nothing but my senses. It was early, very early, but the sun was bright on the horizon, the sky streaked with various colors.
In the few months that had past after Bryon and Mark had cut my hair, I'd learned a great deal about Bryon—he was different, far more than I'd ever known. I'd heard that he turned Mark in for sellin' all because M&M Carlson had a bad trip. I ain't sure what it was all about, but Mark had been arrested and Bryon dumped What's-Her-Name on Curtis, which I expected to happen.
I remember running into Bryon one day at the store he worked at after school had gotten out, and he'd seemed plenty different to me—I'd even tried taking a jab at him for kicks, but he only responded apathetically.
"How've you been, Angel?" he'd asked, ringing up my items.
"Well enough," I replied, staring at him. "I hear you dumped little what's-her-name on Curtis. Well, they deserve each other." He shrugged, and I continued. "You know, I'd thought for a long time you were really low, Bryon, but what you did to Mark really proved it."
His face had contorted for a second, but he remained bland. "Angel, you look really good with short hair."
Bryon didn't scare me none, but the underlying message in his words was clear enough. I thought about Mark behind bars and shut my trap, the image of a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy taking his place, and a cool sensation crept up my spine, my mouth becoming dry.
I made it a point to never see Bryon Douglas again.
And like the trailing condensation on the window pane, my time with Bryon Douglas dissipated into nothing, another piece of me gone into oblivion.
Only one more chapter left.
As always, thank you so much for all of the support and feedback on this story! :3
