Page 6 of Killer Confections
Down the hall, I hear light footsteps nearing me. It’s not a teacher. I recognize the sounds of footsteps are affected by a person’s weight. Yet another training I had to undergo.
Whoever is approaching is smaller, maybe a girl? I still refuse to look up, thinking she’s probably heading to the bathroom or something.
My brows furrow when she stops in front of me. Bright white Converse with colorful patches sewn into the high tops come into view. Her shoes are decorated with little cakes and flowers, the colors vivid and popping against the white.
She steps right into my blood, smearing it across the floor.
“What?” I snarl.
I’m surprised when she crouches down, chasing my eyes. Long strawberry blonde hair, tan freckles, and deep brown eyes laced with concern stare back at me. Her face is rounded and soft. Her eyebrows are a little darker than her hair and thick.
She’s pretty.
But sometimes, the prettiest people have the darkest hearts. I sit back a little, weary of having her so close to me.
Her eyes soften, “They should have sent you to see the nurse first.”
My heart hammers. Her tone is mellifluous, pleasing to the ears, and full of sincerity. There’s a look about her, almost like she wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s completely incapable of being deceiving.
The realization startles me. She’s experienced nothing like what I’ve been through. The world hasn’t taken that innocence from her. I can see it clear as day in her wide eyes.
She’s not tainted.
The rational side of me wants to brush her off, tell her to leave me alone and never speak to me again. But the irrational side, the side of me that tends to grow attached to things I can’t have, festers. I’m so intrigued by her. She’s normal.
“I’m not allowed to see the nurse,” I answer.
Her head rears back slightly, like my words have hurt her. I think they may have. It’s unnatural to see someone so caring in the world I’ve grown up in. Experiencing it first-hand is like getting a front-row seat to a movie I shouldn’t be watching.
I can’t look away.
I don’t want to look away.
“Why can’t you go to the nurse’s office?” She asks as she lowers herself to her knees.
I quickly reach out, grabbing her thin elbows as I stop her from kneeling in my blood. Her skin is warm and smooth and the subtle hint of peppermint and vanilla touches my nose.
What am I doing?
“I’m bleeding,” I say, helping her to stand. When I realize I’ve been holding onto her this whole time, I let go, regretting when I no longer feel that tingling sensation in my palms.
“Oh,” she looks down at the floor, stepping to the side and plopping down on the seat beside me. She sits close, our shoulders nearly touching. “Why can’t you go to the nurse?”
I think better than to tell this girl anything. If she were to speak to her parents, they would probably call the cops.
But I don’t want to let this go.
I don’t want her to go.
“My dad didn’t sign the consent form for me to be seen by the nurse,” I shrug.
Her eyes widen, “Why wouldn’t he sign it?”
Because if I hurt myself, he said treating it wouldn’t toughen me up.
I want to say it, but this moment feels special. I feel like a real kid getting to know someone. Ruining this by introducing this girl to the world I live in would crush her.
And I can’t do that.
