A/N-
Drabble-Fic!
This new thing will be short, snappy chapters. I aim to post once per day -maybe even twice- until it's done. Lord knows when that will be.
It'll be a fucked up ride, and you'll hate both of them equally most days.
*TRIGGER WARNING*
This fic will contain substance and drug abuse, scenes of a sexual nature, cheating, mental abuse ... the list is endless. You have been warned.
For those of you who stick around after that warning, thank you, you crazies!
Massive thank you to Jemster23 for pre-reading and putting up with my crazy.
The banner for this fic can be seen on Facebook and by following the link on my profile.
I own nothing but the plot.
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Exuberant jeering rings out, washing over the school like a tidal wave of testosterone-filled excitement; the heavy footsteps of students deafening as they push past, not caring who they trample as they try to get closer to the action. Heaven forbid they miss a moment of the madness.
Jovial shouts echo, winding through the rapidly emptying hallway, kids calling overhead to their friends, locker doors slamming shut in haste.
"Fight!"
Rolling my eyes, I don't need to push my way to the front of the ever-thickening crowd to know exactly what's going on. It's always the same -it's a circus, a show. Weekly entertainment in the form of flying fists, blood and a certain undefeated champion of trouble.
The teachers don't even care any more -it's futile. He's a lost cause, apparently -at least, that's what I overheard a few days ago as two math teachers discussed him in the hallway, unaware of my presence.
There's no point trying to make my way to my car, I won't be able to drive anywhere, not with the crowds currently congregating on the grass in a wide, erratic circle around the violent entertainment, and spilling out on to the parking lot.
Looking to my right, I meet Rose's eyes, who shrugs, looking just as unimpressed as I feel.
"That boy might be beautiful," she says, sighing, "but he's fucked in the head."
I nod in agreement, pursing my lips, coming to a stop at the top of the steps, peering over the mammoth sea of students who watch the fight, knowing who'll win but appreciating the drama anyway.
"Usual Friday shit-show?" Alice asks, joining us, never lifting her eyes from her cellphone as she types; perfectly manicured nails clicking a steady rhythm on the screen.
Rose and I nod in tandem, staring longingly towards where our cars are parked, knowing we won't get out of here any time soon.
"Who won?" Rose asks Mike Newton as he passes us, heading back in the direction of his abandoned locker. The crowd is dispersing, slowly; students talking animatedly between themselves, fuelled by adrenaline.
"Who do you think?" Mike scoffs, laughing, turning toward us, walking backwards for a few paces. His footsteps don't even slow, and then he's gone.
We don't discuss it, hardly even acknowledging the usual Friday brawl, knowing who won -who always wins. It's a wonder people continue to instigate fights with him -they know they're going to get their asses kicked. I don't even think he cares; rumour has it, he has a lot of pent up rage, and he's always more than happy for an outlet -an opponent. It's the only reason he's still in school -he never starts it, but he always, always finishes it.
We hold back, purposely; resigned to being held up, no longer caring by how long. We've come to terms with it, even this early in the year.
Wordlessly, we all watch as Sam Uley is listlessly dragged towards his ride home, his limp arms slung around the necks of two friends, his legs dragging unceremoniously behind him in the dirt.
He'll feel that in the morning.
And then, like the Red Sea, the remaining crowd parts, and he's standing there, smoking a cigarette, looking as bad and oh-so-good as he always does, not a mark on his beautiful face.
Edward friggin' Cullen.
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A/N-
Let me know what you think!
Thanks for reading.
