I think I passed three of my four finals. Four more to go. Screw it, I'll have to take that class again anyway.

I don't own Sky High.

I landed on the couch heavily because someone dropped me.

"Uff!" I huffed as all my breath came rushing out. "I hate you." I coughed three or four time and rolled over, only to hit my bad ankle on the armrest.

I muffled my curse and whimper in a throw pillow.

"You're welcome." he said, already turning to leave.

"Not so fast." I said, scrambling off of the couch while hopping on one leg only to stumble and catch myself on the coffee table. Why I fell couldn't be answered -drunkenness or hastiness?

Peace paused, turned to look at me -his mask missing-, and raised an eyebrow like he was questioning my sanity. He didn't say anything. I was starting to realize that he really didn't say much.

"How the fuck do you know where I live?" I had wanted to know for a while. He turned back around and with long denim clad legs, strode out of my living room. Destination: My front door.

"You get off the bus before I do." he called out over his shoulder before he slammed my front door shut behind him and vanished.

It was the first time Peace ever came to my house. I just wish I would have known it wouldn't be the last.

-

I woke up on the couch ten minutes late for work. Normally this is when I actually get in because I have this tendency to be either early or late, never on time. As I was thinking of a decent excuse for being this late I rolled off the couch. Coincidently I didn't remember my twisted ankle until I put my weight on it.

Which, you know, hurt like a son of a bitch. Worse now that I didn't have any alcohol in my system.

"Aw piss." I whimpered, not because I'm a wimp, but because I haven't had anything hurt so much since I broke my left leg in junior high -the bone had pierced through the flesh, and I had cried all the way to the emergency room.

My head gave a huge single throb and I felt like utter fucking shit as I dropped back down on the couch and fished my cell phone out of my pocket. First I called work and told them that I had a twisted ankle and couldn't come in. Anna's pissed and I'm tempted to tell her where she can shove her 'employee policy'. But I need my pay check to pay for my growing nicotine addiction. That and how much it's going to cost me to get my car fixed and a medical bill I will no doubt receive when I go get my ankle checked out.

I need the fucking money, so I keep my mouth shut.

As punishment, she gave me the nightshift tomorrow. That means I'm working a double.

Ah, I HATE her SO much.

Second I fish my cigarettes out of pocket, notice they are bent but not broken, and light one -which takes about five minutes. You'd think that since I smoke so much that I'd be good at this, but no. I still suck at life.

Story of my fucking life.

I burn through three because I hate my life, I'm stressed to fuck and beyond, and my ankle kills.

Third, I call Alex and ask her to take me to the hospital since my car is still in the shop and they haven't gotten back to me about how much it's going to cost to get it fixed. She didn't ask questions, just said she'd be over in fifteen.

It's times like these that I adore my best friend in a completely platonic way.

About five minutes before Alex said she's be here that I get enough courage to actually look at my ankle. It's swollen to the size of a medium grapefruit.

That's about when the shop calls and tells me that the part I need for my car isn't being made anymore and will cost me six months of my salary. I felt like crying. One, I really love that car despite what a piece of shit it is. Two, I don't have that money. And three, I'm having a really shitty day. I told them I wanted to sell it for scrap money.

He told me the first good thing today. He said that was very doable and when I had time I could stop by the shop and get my money.

I thanked him and snapped my phone shut, groaning into the worn fibers of my couch.

Thankfully, the rest of the day was relatively better. The doctor told me that it wasn't a sprain, just twisted (like Pyro had said) and that I was very lucky. He also told me that I needed rest, to elevated it above my heart, and take pain medication.

I got Vicodin, which was pretty much the highlight of my day.

Especially since when Alex took me home someone was sitting of my front porch. And, for once, it wasn't Peace. Personally I would have preferred the Pyro, at least he doesn't remind me of the terrible things I can do the second I look at him.

"Is that-?"

"Yep." I mumbled since the Vicodin was just starting to kick in.

"Do you want me to call the cops?"

"Nah." I muttered getting out of the car. "I can handle him."

"You sure that's not the medication talking?"

"Pretty sure." and with that I limped up the walk and pulled out my keys. I waved Alex to drive away and she did, reluctantly.

"Why are you here?" I sighed.

"I'm here to tell you that you better watch your back." his snide comment came. Surprising how a stint in a mental hospital does absolutely nothing to change some people.

"Whatever Anderson. Remember the last time we had this conversation. I do. Vividly." Unfortunately. Painfully.

"That was then, and this is now. I might not be able to do shit to you because your such a fucking freak, but there are other people out there that could do it for me."

See why this guy pisses me off?

"Are you threatening me?" My tone is so abrupt and harsh that he flinches back.

"Do you feel threatened?" he asks, his hands balling into fists.

"No." That's a lie. I know this guy, and he knows me. He knows who my friends are, and who my mother is.

"You should be." He's right, but I'm not going to own up to that.

"Get the fuck off my property before I send you back to that hospital." I hiss and he scampers off, trying to look tough -it doesn't work on me. It never has.

When I get inside I pop another Vicodin, not thinking about overdosing because, frankly, I don't care if I die. I flop back on the couch and turn on the T.V. waiting for the medication to work. I can't feel my ankle but my chest feels burnt and hallow, like someone burning me alive from the inside. Maybe that's regret or, remorse but I can't tell. Maybe it's because I'm a monster. Or, maybe it's because I'm a super, and for once in my entire life was wishing I was normal.

I burn through the rest of my cigarettes and my chest never does feel quite right.