blow to hurt. Suddenly, a loud roar emerges from behind a tree, and Miles comes rushing out. Where did he come from, all of the sudden, and why? Was he following me?
I don’t know what’s going on, but what I see terrifies me. It all happens in a flash. Miles hitting the redhead on the jaw, making him stumble backward. Miles punching his stomach so hard, the kid bends over and pukes. Miles shoves him until he falls to the ground and then jumps on him, punching him in the face.
“Don’t. Touch. My. Friend.”
He punches and punches, until the kid is bleeding from his mouth and nose. I scramble up to stare at them in horror as he keeps hitting, even after the kid is out cold.
Everything feels like a blur, until an older lady comes running toward us. “Stop!”
She takes out her cell phone and dials a number, I think it’s 9-1-1. Then she pulls Miles off the kid. “Stop it!”
I cover my mouth in shock from seeing the kid lying there in a pool of his own blood. Tears well up in my eyes as I look at Miles, whose face is completely red from anger and whose clothes are bloodstained. But the thing that strikes me the most is his eyes … those eyes, so dark, so violent … stone cold. Like the eyes of a killer.
***
Present
I chug back the tequila shot; the burn in my throat is a tiny distraction from my thoughts. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? I should be long over him, and yet he keeps drifting back into my mind. That day when he beat up those bullies wasn’t the last time he’d lash out the way he did. So vicious and without remorse … I knew that day there was something about that boy, something different from anyone I’d ever known. He was cruel and unrelenting, like a beast without a leash.
And, to this day, I still wonder why he followed me. Was it curiosity that drove him to chase me? Or was it some kind of primal instinct, like he knew they were going to attack me instead? Was he there to protect me?
I don’t have the answers because I was too afraid to ask him about that day. I wasn’t even allowed to think about it, let alone him. My parents were pissed that I even attempted to be friends with him. I remember it like it was yesterday, the moment that the ambulance came to pick up the boy and I had to explain the whole ordeal to my parents. I had to tell my mother why there was blood on my shirt … and I had to tell her that I’d failed her. I hadn’t come home in time. I hadn’t finished my homework. I was hanging around with dangerous kids. At least, that’s what she called him. She called him many things, none of them positive, to make sure that I would never look at him the same way.
Because of him, I was punished. My parents sent me to my room with no toys, no friends, and nothing to do. For a week, they didn’t allow me to go out, except for school. All because I tried to be friends with that boy.
I guess it didn’t pay to be nice. To be kind. To try to make the world a little better.
It still doesn’t pay.
“Hit me up,” I say, beckoning the bartender to give me another drink.
“You sure?” he asks, frowning, as he dries a glass. “You’ve already had five.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
I give him my charming smile, which makes him put down the glass and pour me another drink. So easily manipulated. Like a puppet on strings. It always comes easy to me because I know how to use my best assets. That’s what my parents taught me to do, so I’d be successful. Or at least successful at finding a husband and manipulating my way through life. God, I’ve lied so many times just to get what I want that I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.
“Here you go.” The bartender slides the drink across the bar, which I catch and hold up.
However, right before I chug it up, someone clears his throat next to me, so I turn my head. I didn’t notice anyone sitting down, but the man in the seat next to me looks rather scary with his hoodie and his tattooed hands. I