A/N: Damn it! I can't stop. I know I'm supposed to be finishing already existing stories, not making new ones, but I can't stop!

The only reason this is Rate M is for the language used. If that changes, I will of course provide a warning.

Fucking Gravity

Chapter 1

I've given a lot of thought to how I'd die.

I've fantasized about dying of old age, far away from here on some blazingly sunny beach, but I never really let myself hope too hard for that. No, my death will probably be before I even get a chance to start my life. It will probably be bloody, and violent.

Well, it looks like my death might excel my expectations. I'd never imagined it would be at the teeth of a huge ass, mutant, wolf.

It stares me down, not three yards away, crouched low to the ground but still taller than my height (if I were brave enough to stand up). Its dark grey fur is plastered to its skinny frame except for the junction of its shoulder blades, which spike up awkwardly- like the hair is trying to bristle under the onslaught of the rain.

I can't see much detail of the wolf through the dark and relentless weather, apart from the hulking size and the large brown unblinking, wide, eyes looking like I'm the one that surprised it rather than the other way around.

I'm supposed to climb a tree. I know I am when I happen upon a wolf in the woods (and I've even had to do it before), but my limbs feel like lead, my fingers are numb from cold, and I remain frozen under my little lean-to huddled between two very climbable options of trees.

It's not the best night to be out camping, but I've done it in this kind of weather before. I'm wearing thermals and wet-weather gear, and I'm still freezing, but I'm mostly dry with my hood flipped up and my slanted shelter running off most of the downpour.

The wolf is still crouched, motionless, staring at me. Moments stretch on to minutes of inactivity, and I start to wonder if it's actually there at all. Maybe my sleepless nights have caught up to me, and I'm hallucinating. Or maybe I actually have managed to fall asleep and am having a nightmare. My nightmares don't usually feature giant wolves, but it's possible.

Only, I don't feel the floaty disconnected feeling of dreams. The cold is immediate, my racing heart is immediate, and my stiff, locked, joints are painfully present at the forefront of my mind.

The wolf is there. I'm having a staring contest with it, and I don't think I'd make it to the first branch on a tree before it would be on me if it felt so inclined as to have me as it's meal. The gold flecks embedded in the brown irises practically glow through the dark.

As the minutes pass, and the rain grows even heavier, I start to think that maybe I won't die by mutant wolf if all it's going to do is study me. My adrenaline gives up at what I guess is a half hour, leaving my body cool even more to the merciless realities of exposure.

Finally, the wolf twitches (just an ear, but it sends that fight-or-flight instinct burning harshly back through my veins). It turns slowly, its head being the last to shift away, before slinking away as silently as it appeared.

I finally sink back against my all-weather-proof backpack and let out a gusting breath of air that I can hardly hear over my racing heart.

I don't end up falling asleep even after the rain tapers off in the earliest hours of the morning.

When the sky turns a light grey, I stiffly gather all my things and set off along the path that will dump me out just behind my house. I let myself in the unlocked backdoor, not bothering with keeping quiet. My dad is usually at work by now, so there's no one to bother.

My gear and clothes get dumped in a soggy pile in the corner of my room to be sorted through later before I make my way, naked, to the bathroom where I turn the shower all the way to the hottest setting. It burns my skin when I step under the spray, watching the pinkness raise to the surface of my skin.

My skin is one of the things I hate most about my appearance. My mom married a Native American when I was too young to remember, and then she died- and here I still am on a reservation where everyone else's skin doesn't burn on every rare occasion that the sun decides to come out. This is the only place I remember ever living, and the other kids still call me 'pale face' and 'cold one' (the ugliest insults they can think of).

When I step out of the shower, I'm more pink than pale, and I stiffly tug on my school clothes for the day, yanking my damp hair from my collar. There's no point in drying it. Everything here is perpetually damp the moment it goes outside. At least wet, it almost looks black. While it's dark, even that feature sets me apart. The dark brown turns almost red under certain lights.

Within a half hour of entering my house, I'm exiting again with my school bag, tugging my hood up over my head.

The walk to school is mercifully short, and I can't help flinching a bit as arms wrap around me from behind, a heavy weight settling on my shoulders suddenly enough to make me stagger.

"Damn it, Kim," I hiss, instinctively reaching up grip her thighs to keep her from sliding off my back. I wince as her ankles hook together in front and her legs squeeze the tender skin on my side.

"Morning, bright-eyes," she greets cheerily, placing a sloppy kiss on my cheek. My lips twist up in a reluctant, lopsided, smile. Bright-eyes is an affectionate nickname in a direct response to the not so nice nicknames I've been given. Like my skin, my eyes are different from my peers. Instead of the dark native brown, they are a pale grey.

"Morning," I sigh, letting my friend down when she starts to wiggle around impatiently. Her arm immediately wraps around mine once her feet touch the ground.

"So, how was your weekend?" she asks, expertly dodging through the bodies of the increasingly crowded hallway.

"Boring," I say shortly. The wolf passes through my thoughts, but Kim doesn't know about my not-so-new camping hobby. It started about the same time we stopped having sleepovers every weekend, and I don't ever intend to share that aspect of my life with her. "What about you?"

A love-sick expression predictably steals across her face and, despite my happiness for her happiness, I can't help grimacing.

"Jared is just…" she sighs dreamily, unable to even find high enough praises for her long-time crush-turned-boyfriend. Jared is the guy she's been in love with since 6th grade, and one of the main topics she'd gush about at our weekly sleepovers (despite him not even seeming to know she exists). Then suddenly, almost eight months ago, he's asking her out and our weekends together are a thing of the past because they want to spend as much time together as possible.

The whole thing is entirely suspicious to me, but when I tentatively brought it up, Kim completely blew up and wouldn't talk to me for two weeks. It was the worst two weeks of my life, so now I just hold my tongue.

A shy look comes across my friend's face as we stop at our lockers. "I wish you'd get to know him better. He really is sweet."

"I'm good," I say dryly. Jared might have been a nice, sweet, guy a few years ago, but now he's a 'Special.' A Special is what the rest of the school calls the group he hangs out with- the volatile, easily angered, group that for some reason gets special treatment from every adult in this damned school and beyond. They skip school half the time and never get punished, and rumor has it that the council themselves talked to the teaches- demanding that they let their behavior slide. I know Paul Lahote got into a huge fist fight with another guy, put him in the hospital, and all her got was three days suspension.

Their entire group tends to have short tempers so I, like everyone else (other than Kim apparently), try to avoid them as much as possible.

A sharp elbow flares out, deliberately shoving me into the lockers on their way passed, and I just grit my teeth.

I have enough aggression in my life already without seeking it out.

Kim scowls at the retreating, cackling, figure who hadn't even slowed in their detour to class. She doesn't comment on it, though. It's, sadly, a very common occurrence.

"Come on, Fay, let's go to class," she mutters, still glaring at the boy as she shuts her locker. I follow suit, less bothered by the event. After all, I'm used to it. I won't even bruise from that one.

…..

Lunch finds me, alone, at my usual table by the trashcans. It's in the corner by the doors so, as long as I'm gone before the end of lunch, there isn't normally any 'accidents' of food getting dumped on me.

I watch my only friend as she flutters around the Special's table in the center of the room, bending over it and chatting happily with the occupants. She doesn't sit down. She usually hovers there for a bit, talking with Jared, before almost reluctantly making her way over to me to actually eat her lunch. If she wasn't my only friend in the world, if I didn't dependent on her so much, I might just tell her to eat her lunch with the group. I don't, though. They already stole my weekends. I'm not willing to give away my lunches.

The number at the Special's table has grown exponentially this year, even taking a freshman into their ranks. There is only one girl sitting at the table.

Leah Clearwater.

She's the one I avoid the most after Paul Lahote. Paul might be a general ass and hot-head, but at least he's happy sometimes. Leah's usually the most angry- the most brooding. While the others laugh and joke and throw stuff at each other, she usually just scowls, sitting back in her seat with crossed arms.

She didn't used to be this way. She used to be happy, used to laugh. I've often wondered why she stays with the Specials if she's so miserable and angry with them.

For the first time I've witnessed, though, today she's not brooding. Today, she's sitting with a straight back, face strangely open, and running her eyes around the room with a clear searching intent.

She catches my gaze before I can look away, and her eyes widen. Panicked at getting caught staring, I drop my own eyes down to my half-eaten lunch.

Keeping my head bowed slightly, I glance up through my fringe.

She's still staring, but she's leaning forward talking urgently to the people at her table. My pale cheeks betray me with a blush when she nods her head in my direction, unmistakably talking about me.

Shit.

Kim straightens up, bouncing slightly on the spot with a huge grin. Then she gestures in my direction, too. Leah stands up quickly, eagerly following my best friend as she starts over.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, shit fucking damn it.

I stare down at my mashed potatoes, almost religiously, until two sets of worn shoes stop on the other side of the table.

"Fay," my friend calls (I can hear the excitement in her voice), and I'm finally forced to look up. "Fay, I'd like you to meet someone," she presents Leah with the eagerness and expectancy I've seen her present my birthday and Christmas presents.

"Um," Leah shifts slightly, dark cheeks darkening further in seeming embarrassment, but her eyes don't leave my face for a second. It's unnerving. "I'm Leah." She thrusts her hand out in front of her.

"I know," I say, staring at her hand apprehensively. We've met. We've had classes together since kindergarten. We've been partners in class projects, some of which she even showed up for to work on with me.

Kim knows this. I've complained about the other girl enough when she didn't help with a chemistry assignment just this past semester (and the teacher still gave her full credit). I turn accusing eyes on my friend for bringing the girl over here.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Leah's hand drop and then twist the fingers of her other hand violently before clenching into fists. It makes my skin crawl, and the hairs hidden under my hoodie stand on end- like I'm being stared down by that mutant wolf again.

Kim's smile dims, recognizing my uncomfortable and ready-to-run tension. "And, um," she continues less enthusiastically, waving at me weakly. "Leah, this is my best friend, Fay."

A few seconds pass- some of the most awkward few seconds of my life. I reluctantly turn my attention back toward the girl, who wears an expression so uncomfortable I wonder why she doesn't just cut her losses and walk away. What does she want?

"So, ah," Leah starts, "You're a junior, too, right?" She immediately cringes as I just stare at her blankly. Is she serious?

Since kindergarten.

"Yeah," I say after another too long pause and stand up. "Speaking of, I forgot to do the Chem homework that we have due next period, so I'm going to go crank that out now." I dump the rest of my lunch, no longer hungry, and unable to help pointing out the shared class we have together.

I make a desperate departure before another tense moment can pass.

A/N: Please review!

~Silver~