Chapter Eight
Zayden
It’s been days since the fight, and the more I try to escape from the infection that is Thiago Safra, I simply can’t.
A shiver runs through my body; it’s not windy out, yet the cold lingers with the lack of sun.
I like practicing while it’s still dark out, enjoying the colors displayed in the sky when the sun finally rises.
Through clenched teeth, I let out a huff of breath, trying to push my body harder, making warm blood continue to cycle through as the icy grass crunches beneath my cleats, dribbling and tapping the ball between my feet.
We are a reflection. He has a family. I don’t.
He has power. I have none.
My arms shake, recalling the nights I would stay awake, cowering in the corner, listening to my father as he cursed the woman who abandoned us.
Abandoned me.
I’m so unlovable that not only was I given a neglectful parent, but also one who refused to stick around.
The one who carried me within her, felt me, and still had the balls to leave me behind with someone who hates her.
And I’m the constant reminder of it. I didn’t know which one was worse.
My breath comes in short and uneven gasps, clouds forming with each exhale.
Blood surges through my ears, and the veins in my arms bulge, as I continue to hold.
Lifting slightly, to shift from one side to another, helping the burn spread more, the cold from the frosty turf bites into my palms. A welcome refresher, dropping my body into the cool soil, turning on my back, and looking up at the sky.
“I hate you!” my father shouts, spit flying into my face as his nails dig into my cheeks. “You look so much like that whore,” he sneers.
I can feel the tears building within my eyes.
I hold it in… he hates it when I cry. He hates it when I remind him of her, so much so that he barely looks at me.
Usually, when he’s too drunk, he will just fall asleep in a puddle of his piss.
Sometimes I use the lit cigarette that dangles between his lips and burn myself.
The smell of charred flesh and the sharp sting from the burn have me falling on my ass, allowing my brain to flood with dopamine.
My relief always comes with pain. Nights like tonight, I wish my mom had stayed…
Or maybe even taken me with her. But she abandoned me and broke my heart way before anyone else could, and now I’m fifteen—still trying to pick up the pieces of two hearts I didn’t break.
Blinking away the memory, I lift my hands and watch as they steadily shake.
My eyes roam over the inked centipede crawling up my arm, with spider lilies blooming around it until the centipede morphs into butterflies that dance amongst the flowers.
Tattoos that cover my scars. A reminder that pain can evolve, that even the grotesque can learn to fly.
I just wonder when I’ll learn. My pulse is racing, trying to throw me off course.
Through my nose, I breathe in the morning air, the crispness of it, and the salt of the ocean that steadily crashes into the rocky shore, which does nothing to drown out the sound of rushing blood.
My phone alarm rings, signaling that my one hour is up, and it's time to get ready and head to class. Dragging a hand down my face, the sweat spreads through my pores, allowing the cold to seep even deeper. Psychology is my first class of the day, and also Thiago’s, and thankfully, I haven’t seen him since that night.
From what I’ve gathered, he’s been busy alongside Ezra and Peter.
It’s been days now, and school hasn't even started yet. He’s out there doing business; there's no need to worry about training or classes when you already have a marvelous life planned out for you—a white picket fence and a beautiful wife who will pop out mini assholes. I can’t help the pang of jealousy that grows inside my heart, vines stretching and clutching to my very psyche, reminding me that not only am I alone, but I am also powerless.
It’s funny, actually… so funny. I actually laugh.
Using my legs, I push myself off the grass and run towards the locker room.
Thankfully, it’s still empty when I reach it, locking it behind me because old habits die hard.
I don’t want to be caught off guard or used.
This school is full of monsters dressed in designer clothes with polished appearances.
I’d rather be prepared. Call me paranoid, but I'd rather see it coming than be taken by surprise.
My feet drag towards the back, and my mind checks out as I turn the water to the hottest setting.
I stand under the spray until the scald of the water is all my bare skin can feel, tuning out the small voices in my head.
Today, they seem louder than ever, and for a second, I think of calling him.
That’s the thing about loving an addict: you can understand their pain.
What I could never grasp is why am I not good enough?
Why does someone who is supposed to love me hurt me in the way he has?
My hands ball into fists and slam against the tiles, over and over.
Only stopping when I feel the sting of my skin splitting, and I see the crimson washing down with the water.
Only then do I stop; inflicting pain on myself is like a hit.
A high that I always chase, to feel anything but the agonizing ache that remains rooted behind my ribs.
After my shower, I head out of the locker rooms and towards the Psychology building in the left wing of the campus, right beside the dance and music hall.
The bitter cold harshly kisses my skin, causing me to shiver despite the sherpa inside the university uniform blazer.
I decide to cut through the inside. The warmth of the central heat in the hall is a welcome reprieve.
The soft tune of piano keys catches my attention, and as always, I gravitate toward the haunting melody.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my messenger bag.
The closer I get, the more I don’t recognize the melody, but it’s like an angel calling me home.
Soft and melancholy. Nostalgia will one day be the death of me, that is for certain.
From the small opening of the door, I peep inside, and my eyes widen when I see who’s playing.
Thiago sits, bathing in the sunlight from the tall windows, the room dark around him.
His school jacket sits neatly beside him, and his fingers move with grace.
Even with his eyes closed, he doesn't miss a note; his brown waves fall messily around his face as he leans into the grand baby piano and continues to press on the keys.
I stand, watching and listening, completely mesmerized.
His song calls to the hollowness inside me, making it hard for me to move.
“Yo, Zayden,” Wyatt’s voice calls from somewhere behind me, startling Thiago and making him go off key.
I don’t acknowledge Wyatt and just speed walk towards class…
I couldn’t let Safra know I was watching.
If I had known he was the one playing, I wouldn’t have stopped.
I thought he was still away when I stopped.
Fuck, who am I lying to… The fact that it was him playing is why I stayed.
Why I always watch, not just this moment, but all of them, and somehow I missed the part that the guy is basically Chopin.
The conference room screen greets us with a picture of the founding fathers of psychology.
My gaze lands on Shiloh, who sits in the front of the room, her hand curled around a paper cup.
On the other end of the room is Elijah. I take my seat in the back, my eyes fixed on the door, hoping he won’t walk through it.
A couple of minutes pass, and there’s no Thiago.
Professor Piercy clears his throat, and all the girls focus on him.
Villalargos knew what they were doing by hiring the staff at this school.
I swear, everyone here is attractive, and four eyes here is no exception.
Tall, muscular, yet lean and not buffed up.
Perfect chestnut waves, thin lips that match his chiseled features, paired with green eyes.
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Hope everyone had a great winter break.” He presses the clicker in his hand, changing the image projected to us, and the words ‘Positive Psychology’ fill the screen. “This month, we will talk about a branch of psychology that is rarely talked about. Positive Psychology and Dr. Martin Seligman.”
Just as I begin to get comfortable in class, I feel him cross the threshold of the door. The room grows silent, and the world centers around him, walking into class with a smug smile, hands inside his pockets as usual, and sitting in the empty seat right beside me.
“You’re late,” Professor Piercy announces flatly, and Thiago shrugs nonchalantly as always, lying through his teeth when he speaks. “Can’t leave the ladies unsatisfied.”
The class erupts in laughter, and the Professor looks anything but amused. I roll my eyes, not bothering to look his way, and keep my gaze straight ahead. Then, in unison, phones go off throughout the room, including our professor’s. I look at the screen, and my nerves rattle at the sight.
Through my curly lashes, I glare up at Shiloh, who looks over at us and swallows hard.
The entire class goes quiet, and I can practically hear the whispers despite the stillness in the room.
I look over at Thiago from the corner of my eye, and I can tell he’s pissed as he places his phone on the desk.
“Can I be excused?” Shiloh asks, only to be denied.
“Okay, class, quiet down and turn off those phones. We are here to learn, not gossip.” The Professor quickly deters the situation, but it’s too late—the damage is done.