Chapter 3: Bruises

Kaitlyn's POV

Consciousness and effort come slowly to me in the morning, and I groan in pain and dread at the sound of my alarm that I apparently had had enough thought and sense to set before I dozed off. I look down and grimace in disgust and annoyance as I see and remember that I had fallen asleep in my clothes. I haul myself up into a standing position, taking a whole minute to do so and grunting with the effort and pain. I half-heartedly grab my wash things – towel, shower-cap, soap, clean clothes – and trudge over to the bathroom, locking my bedroom behind me and feebly rejoicing in the fact that I don't meet anyone else in the short distance.

As I enter the small bathroom – one of a few others in Daisy Bank – I check the one other shower stall to see if anyone is hiding in there ready for an ambush. Once I deem it empty, I take the chair that's weirdly in here and wedge it under the locked door as I do every time to make sure my solitude is maintained and my possessions remain safe.

Undressing carefully, I swipe my arm across the dirt on the floor-length mirror so I can actually see what it reflects back, no grey smears to hide behind. As I gasp, tears force their way out of my eyes, regardless of the resistance I put up. My entire stomach is an ugly shade of purple, tender not just to the touch but painful even if I'm not moving. And painful to look at; the obvious result of my broken life displayed so clearly, marking me as a failure, sneering at everyone and myself: Don't be fooled by the smile that's always in place; she's completely shattered, a mess, a ruin.

Another splash of purple brands the side of my right wrist from when it hit the desk as I collapsed to the floor. I sigh; guess I'll have to keep pulling my sleeves down for a couple of days. Lucky I picked up a long-sleeved top for my outfit today.

Lastly, I look up to my face. The girl in the mirror grimaces in time with the tensing sensation in my facial muscles. There's no smile on my mouth now, like there usually is; my mouth's corners are turned down, making my cheeks sag sadly, unhealthily. And my eyes. The light of excitement and happiness I saw there yesterday and on most other days…it's gone. The grey colour doesn't even sparkle. It's…dead. Empty. Hollow. Lifeless.

I sigh again in resignation and turn away from the broken girl.

I step into the shower and turn the water on, standing out of the way of the spray as it takes a while for the water to warm up. It's also not uncommon for the hot water to be turned off altogether, an act of sadistic sabotage by the infestation, but I'm in luck today; it starts to heat up on my hand. Of course, they could turn the hot water off while I'm in the shower, but I'll cross that bridge if I get to it. Even though I obviously can, I've not used my power when they've done that before. At least, not enough for me to have a decent shower; just enough so that I don't get hypothermia while getting clean.

My breath leaves me slowly, luxuriantly in a moan as the hot water hits my skin and washes over the shower-cap. It's not just the fact that this is literally my element; I'm just the same as everyone else who likes a good hot shower to relax. The warmth uncurls my tense muscles, as does the rhythmic pattering of the spray, both the sound against the floor and walls and the massage-effect against my skin. I simply stand under the spray for a good few minutes, letting the water cascade over me, taking any large clumps of ill thoughts with it.

After a longer amount of time than is really necessary, I reach for the soap and use it liberally, scrubbing all over my body, gingerly around my stomach and wrist, the massaging effect spreading to the rest of my body. Once I've finished and rinsed it all off again, I recognise my mind's need; I tenderly reach out with my mind and connect with the water running over me. The strange freedom it feels like, though its source and destination are pretty much determined, the fact that it's just constantly running, always flowing, and so gracefully, too. The purity of the element, though I know the water at Daisy Bank is anything but, is refreshing after so much contamination, so much filth. The healing properties and potentials, though it's not really used as such here hence the hot water often being turned off, activate on, in and through me, and the cares of last night and this morning slide off me so easily and effectively – though not completely – that I absently wonder how they ever had their claws in me to begin with, how I ever thought they had claws in the first place.

Reluctant to lose the source of my new confidence and refreshed happy demeanour, I take a few more minutes before I finally close the tap and step out, hurrying to dry and dress myself as I now have a little less time than I would have liked to get ready. Luckily I can pull a brush through my hair fairly quickly and it'll look okay while it's in this style. After collecting my backpack again and relocking my bedroom door, I race downstairs, grab a banana for my breakfast on-the-go, and dash out the door.

Once I'm around the corner from Daisy Bank, I slow down, having nothing to run away from anymore and having no reason other than my own enthusiasm to run towards anything either. I polish off my banana fairly quickly – I didn't have any dinner, remember? – and dispose of the peel in a nearby trashcan then make my way over to the bus stop.

A few uneventful minutes later, the bus pulls up, and I say a tired but happy "Hi, Ron," in response to his apparently habitual "Morning!" I settle gratefully into a bench and immediately put my iPod in and on, losing myself for the journey until the bench's movement snaps me out of my daze and I turn to see Layla sitting next to me, smiling brightly at me and obviously saying "Hey, Kait," from the movement of her mouth. I beam back in response, pulling my earphones out and trying to stave off tears that are suddenly there in my eyes.

"Hey, Layla. Hey, Will. Where are the others?"

A laugh makes me look to the bench in front, and I start as I see familiar purple highlights sat beside bright orange. Magenta smirks at me, then nods behind me, and I turn to see Zach grinning.

"We sat around you, but you were so spaced out you didn't even notice," Magenta chuckles.

I giggle self-consciously at how stupid and "like me" that sounds, and others join in. Before long we're all howling with laughter at how ridiculous I'd been. My stomach is in agony, but I don't want to stop even if I could; it's been so long before I laughed like this, and my sides would end up hurting with how much I'm laughing anyway, so what's one more source of pain? Especially when I'm sharing it with my friends, both the pain and the good time. My grin softens slightly as I look at everyone once we've all calmed down.

Yeah, I think. My friends.

"So are you excited for the first day of classes?" Layla asks me.

My grin widens again as excitement rushes through me at the thought. "Totally. A little nervous in case it's way too hard for me, but hopefully I'll be able to hold my own. I hope my teachers are nice, too; I've had a few terrifying teachers in my time at school, and they really weren't fun classes. How about you guys?"

Magenta snorts before anyone can answer. "Oh, yeah; we're all really looking forward to 'hero support'," she says sarcastically. "I'm telling you, the classes will be so different between hero and sidekick. Yours will be cool and ours will be condescending and boring."

"Hey," I interrupt, frowning at her. "Don't be so hard on yourself or your classmates. Don't forget that I'll be choosing one of the people sitting around me now for my own sidekick at graduation. And I'll be glad you're with me, and not just for the company."

The others fall silent as they contemplate this before smiling at me gratefully.

And then the moment is ruined as we're thrown forwards – or backwards, in Magenta and Ethan's case – in our seats as Ron breaks suddenly, calling out an apology after.

We're all prepared for the bus ride this time, so it's not as terrifying. The falling sensation then the flying still aren't my favourite things in the world, but I'm sure I'll get used to them eventually. As it is, I'm relieved when Sky High's beautiful architecture comes into view and when Ron lands a little smoother than yesterday. I throw a thanks to Ron as we walk out, and we all make our way up the steps together as we double-check our timetables.

Making our way into the school building, we each call to mind our mental maps made from the brief tour yesterday, and I nervously and excitedly hug the others goodbye as we part ways to our different classrooms.

I carefully pick my route self-consciously through throngs of other students until I finally arrive at my designated classroom. It's about ten minutes to the bell, and there are other students in here, so I less than confidently scurry over to a seat a little towards the back, avoiding anyone's eyes as I choose a seat with no one else surrounding me yet. I may have made friends with the other guys, but since none of them are in my class, it's right back to square one. I feel strangely exposed without them here, vulnerable, and for a strange moment I'd actually rather be a sidekick just so I could stay with them; it's like I don't belong here. My heart drops a little at those thoughts; I had hoped and thought that, after my first day especially, Sky High would be my home, would be the one place where I can just be myself and belong. But if this feeling is here…. I don't know. It seems more than social phobia. But what could it be?

"Hi, there."

The chirpy voice startles me out of my confusion, and my attention is brought back to the solid world. My heart jumps uncomfortably. A smiling attractive face atop a mass of pink beams at me, ratcheting up my apprehension.

Oh, great. Not only is she here, but so is my weird fear of her.

"Hi," I say awkwardly, trying to ignore my discomfort.

She seems to falter slightly at my strange reaction, my minimal and reserved response to her open and cheery welcome. But she recovers a few moments after, her smile plastered on once more.

"I'm Gwen, your student body president. I welcomed you yesterday."

She sticks out her hand to shake mine. My throat swells to accommodate my heart as I glance at it, considering my options. If I shake her hand, I'll have to let go of my sleeve, or she'll think I'm weird. If I do, it'll probably expose the bruise on my wrist, and that'll bring either her sympathy, her curiosity or her avoidance for my weirdness. Plus there's the fact that I don't actually want to shake her hand; something inside me, the same thing that's making me scared, is stopping me from accepting any physical contact from her.

So I resign myself to weirdness and ignore her hand.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "I remember. Thanks."

She openly frowns at me, confusion and disapproval clear before morphing into the judgment I expected. Her next smile is the condescension you'd see from a doctor to an asylum patient.

"Great," she whispers enthusiastically before quickly escaping for the furthest back corner.

As she retreats, I silently groan in frustration and dread, managing to place my forehead gently on the desk instead of dropping it like I want to. Great, now every one of her friends at the very least are going to know how much of a freak I am. I don't even know why this is happening; what's wrong with her? Why do my instincts warn me to shy away from her? I'm only following them because they've always been right with people before. Heck, I used run away and hide from the infestation at Daisy Bank not just to escape their abuse but to also give my autonomic nervous system a break after constantly screaming "Keep your guard up! They'll kill you!" whenever they were around.

My thoughts are interrupted by the door closing as someone who's obviously the teacher walks into the room. Everyone dutifully finds their seats and stops talking, watching the teacher intently and waiting on the edges of their seats for what they were going to learn.

"Welcome, class," the guy says. "Well done on making hero. From here on out, things are going to move quickly, okay? Your first lessons of each subject will involve a quick introduction, then we'll get stuck straight in. So," he continues, and we follow his finger as he points to the back of the classroom, to a cabinet, "over there are your textbooks for Strategy and Tactics I. Go and collect them in an orderly fashion, return to your seats, and then read the first page. We'll come together as a class after that to discuss what you expect will be in this unit."

Taking a deep breath, I get out of my seat and walk towards the textbooks with everyone else. Okay, here goes nothing.

ЖЖЖ

So the first day of lessons isn't so bad. It's a bit weird to be studying these types of lessons, and with my lack of exposure to the super world, I know less than the rest of the hero class certainly, but I'm a quick learner, so it's not hard to pick stuff up. I even manage to speak up in the discussion bit, and got talking with a really nice bunch of people about why Weapons and Arsenal Skills should be a sub-unit of this area. Even so, I would have liked the others guys – my friends – to have been there so I didn't have to start all over again with making friends. I manage to ignore the Pink Wonder, and she ignores me. I think she got the message when I insulted her cheerleader friend yesterday, and from our awkward encounter earlier.

It's a relief at lunch when I see the others again. They all ask me how hero class is, but I downplay it deliberately, saying that stuff is really boring, really confusing or both. Being the good friend I am, I ask them about hero support, and they have a mixture of responses: "the teacher is…nice", "the subjects look like they suck", "the teacher worked for my dad", and "his costume is awesome!"

We have a break from classrooms now, and our first PE lesson is next. We had been given our PE kits yesterday, and I had despaired; the sky-blue tank top is okay, but the white shorts are going to give me grief, I know it. The number of times I have got catcalls when I was out in the street, they were when I had been showing off some leg with either shorts or a skirt. Because of that, I cover up my legs as much as possible now. Well, that, and the fact that I have no idea why I got catcalls; my legs are hideous.

As we make our way into the changing rooms though, I have to work to not stop dead in fright; these changing rooms are communal – as expected – but if I change in front of Layla and Magenta, they'll see not just the bruise on my wrist but the ugly mess on my stomach! Forcing the panic down at the premature disembodied questions ringing in my ears, I turn to the other two with a sheepish smile.

"I'll meet you guys out there; I'm going to change in the shower stalls. I'm a little self-conscious about changing in front of other people. Irrational social phobia."

Layla blinks in surprise, but smiles after, accepting my half-truth. "Oh, okay, no worries. We'll see you out there."

In the shower stall, I sigh in self-disgust. I call them my friends and yet I'm lying to them, covering up an intimate part of myself.

But that's just it, a voice defends my actions. It's an intimate part of you. You've only just met the guys, but give it time and you'll be able to tell them.

Nodding in agreement, I hurry to get dressed. I check myself quickly once I'm done; the bruise on my stomach is completely covered by the longish tank top, but the one on my wrist is completely exposed. I'll need to keep my wrist turned in a certain way to cover it up.

Once I get out of the changing rooms into the gym, I spot Layla and Magenta sitting with the others, but I also spot Speed and Lash walking over to me from their direction. So I do what any girl looking for protection from bullies would do; I sit next to the one person the bullies are afraid of, the bigger bully.

Looking around quickly, I see Warren Peace at the other end of the gym, sitting alone and still somehow looking dangerous in orange and blue. Then again, that outfit shows off the bulging muscles in his arms, so I guess that helps. Making my way over there quickly, as if I was always heading in that direction, I take a seat next to him.

"Hey," I throw casually in his direction, trying to act normal but not push my luck with cheeriness.

He looks at me like I've grown another head. He also looks pissed off, but that's pretty much a given.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"Sitting next to you," I reply, dreading where this conversation is going and hating the fact that I don't have the guts to tell him – or anyone – the real reason for this, I admit, crazy move.

"Just because I gave you advice yesterday doesn't mean I gave you permission to do this."

"I need your permission?" I snap, still not looking at him but nerves making me tenser. My sudden anger makes me bolder, so I decide to go for broke and tell him part of the truth. "What I do in situations like this is I prioritise threats and dangers. Right now, you're the lesser threat – no offense."

He's quiet for a bit, and I fight the urge to peek at his expression. After a few tense minutes of silence, he speaks again, a little calmer. A little.

"And you're not going to tell me what that other threat is, are you?"

"No," I respond immediately. "I'm not going to tell anyone about that other threat yet; they'd just judge me and/or treat me like I'm delicate. I can usually take care of myself, but sometimes I just need a bit of help, that's all. I'll probably tell you later in the year, if I know you'll respect the secret and won't treat me differently and if you don't kill me or push me away before then."

There have been no tricks or pranks or teasing voices yet, so I guess that means that Speed and Lash have backed down. I feel myself relax and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"So what is this, anyway?" I ask, pointing to some kind of arena set up in the middle of the gym. The bleachers that we're all sat on are behind Plexiglas walls, which is slightly worrying. Even more worrying is the pit of spikes and blades that look like they spin.

"PE class," he says shortly, not looking at me.

I scowl at him, feeling my anger rise a little bit again. "If you don't want me to talk to you, then just tell me outright to shut up. Don't give me bullshit answers like that."

As viewed from his profile, his right eye rolls up to the ceiling and back down. I sulk for a few seconds, then forget about it, but Warren surprisingly has other ideas.

"It's called Save the Citizen. There's a doll hanging above the blade pit, and it drops a little more every few seconds. Two people play heroes and two people play villains. The heroes have three minutes to stop the villains and save the citizen. The villains just have to stop the heroes from winning."

"Okay," I say, nodding. "That sounds smart; let's teach the super-powered kids how to act in a situation they're going to come up against. But they're also teaching them to be villains. But then I suppose that doesn't matter if you're cycling through who plays on which team."

"That might work," Warren agrees, startling me into actually speaking through his own will, "if it weren't for the fact that Stretch and Fatboy usually steal the part of villain."

"That somehow doesn't surprise me," I say, thinking of all the encounters I've had with them. A few in particular send shudders down my spine before I can stop them, and I ignore the strange, studying look that Warren gives me in response.

"I like your names for them, by the way," I try to distract him. "Stretch and Fatboy. I'll have to remember those."

"Yeah, well, Self-Absorbed Senior isn't exactly the worst comeback I've ever heard."

I grin, both proud of my comeback yesterday and amused and happy at his reply. "Why, Mr Peace, was that a compliment just now?"

His usual scowl returns double the force. "Whatever."

My grin widens before I turn to him, looking directly at where his eyes would be if he weren't staring straight ahead. "I'm sorry," I say sincerely. "I couldn't resist teasing you, and I knew that that would do the trick."

"You think you know me?" His fists, which are supporting his chin as he leans forward, clench even tighter, and I can feel the fury leaking off him. I need to tread carefully now.

"No," I deny his claim immediately. "I don't know anything about –." I stop myself, not wanting to lie to him. I do know about him; I know about his dad, and I also know about how it has affected him, which he probably hasn't expected and doesn't want to hear. His narrowed eyes flick to the side, glaring at me in an accusing manner.

"Yes, I know about you," I admit. "But I also think you should know that I don't give a shit. I can't exactly say I'm not scared of you – the whole look and atmosphere around you screams 'Bad-boy; approach at your own peril'."

The side of his mouth twitches at that assessment, and I crack a small smile in celebration for calming him down.

"But," I continue, "I've been around enough people who were big enough assholes to know that you're not one of them."

Warren continues to stare at me for a bit before looking back towards the front, and I could swear that his lips have turned up at the corners. A few minutes of now-comfortable silence pass between us before Coach Boomer enters in his ever-ridiculous shorts. As he climbs up into an umpire's chair the room starts to get quieter as people don't want him to use his ability to call for quiet.

Warren glances sideways at me again. "Don't let Boomer catch you with that."

Following the direction of his eyes, I look down at one of the very few valuables I have, and by far the most precious in every sense; a bracelet shaped like a proper chain, the ovular chain sections in white-gold while the links between each of them are gold.

I place my hand over it protectively. "It was a present from my best friend before she moved away."

"I gathered it was precious to you," Warren says, sounding bored. "I didn't ask for its history, I just told you to not let Boomer catch you with it. Health and safety shit means he'd confiscate it."

I never take this off, so the thought about it being taken away from me makes my hand tighten around it even more. From what I've heard, most of the time you need a parent's signature to get it back, and Miller would never do that. I could try to forge it, but knowing me I'll mess it up.

"Thanks for the heads up," I say fervently. Ignoring the horrible feeling that I'm betraying my one best friend, I unclip it and place it gently in my pocket, leaving my hand there for longer than is really needed to check that it stays.

Warren speaks again, his tone still dull. "And don't let other people see that bruise on your wrist either; less indifferent people might start asking questions."

Gasping, I automatically clutch my wrist to my chest, staring at Warren's profile in shock. He turns his head slowly to look at me, his expression neutral even in the face of my terrified and panicked one. I jerk my gaze away from his and swallow nervously.

"A more indifferent person wouldn't have even mentioned it," I note defiantly, my voice shaking slightly.

"I didn't say I was the most indifferent," he replies. "Just that I was indifferent."

A tense – well, tense in my view anyway – silence follows.

"The lesser danger, huh?" he suddenly says quietly.

A small, sad smile twitches the corners of my mouth. "Pretty much."

Pause. "You know," he continues, "not getting beaten up in the first place helps with covering up bruises."

I huff a humourless laugh. "I wish it were that simple. And I guess you'd be the go-to guy for covering up bruises."

I swear I hear his breath puff out of him, like my comment was a kick to the gut. I brace myself for hostility, both silent and loud, but nothing changes between us. No, that's a lie. Something changes between us; an understanding. A sort of mutual respect. Nothing like support or anything. But a simple acknowledgement.

"The nurse might have something to help with covering them up. Possibly to help them heal faster, too."

A statement. Nothing more. But so much conveyed in it. 'Them' he said, meaning the bruises. Plural; he must have figured out that I'm hiding more, even if he doesn't know their extent or source. And the sentences themselves; suggestions of what to do next, of how to achieve what I wanted. Intentionally, voluntarily helping me, for the third time in two days. Warren Peace.

"That'll be helpful. Thank you."

Silence returns as the conversation naturally ends, and we both return to nursing our respective bruises.

Wow, I really like this chapter. You get to see a new side of Kait – of what she goes through every day and how it affects her – and of Warren, too. I'm trying to make their connecting happen slowly – I have a habit of rushing romances – since it would happen slowly between two such broken people, and I think I did okay. Let me know what you think and if you want more.

Fly on,

NitnatRide