Ruining Xenon

1 | Alright?

c h a p t e r o n e

—alright?

n o v a

• • •

A few bystanders keep throwing me looks as I passed, the wince caused by the slicing pain coursing everywhere through my body gone pretty unnoticed behind the dark hoods, like I hoped for.

It's probably the harsh fabric of the loose gray T-shirt I had worn underneath the hoodie that's rubbing at the pain of the now purple bruise printed over my stomach. As alternatively called, the gift of my life, since I never step anywhere without receiving it in packs; when the rest of it has been kindly postponed for the rest of the days my heart has yet to go.

Fucking long, many days.

"This slut has really started getting on my nerves," I hear someone whisper from behind. "I mean, seriously? What's with the face now?"

"You're right. I heard she's a witch out to eat the beauty she lacks of." They giggle stupidly, and I really had to fight all my existing wills to not flip the bird at them both and tell them not to spew any more kindergartner leveled s**t. I always seem to refrain myself from doing that a lot when inside this stupid, worthless school where everyone needs to be taught what minding their selves' business mean, rather than wasting hours replaying basic concepts of Algebra.

Ignoring the shoves through the crowd and looks and false whispers about me that gather from all the four sides, I walk over to my locker to grab classroom essentials, trying after one other fail to get my mind off of the throbbing pain that shoots inside my body within every step. Last night it was because of a petty squirrel trying to put up a fight before his certain lose, and only I know what worse awaits tonight when I get home.

"Oh pathetic," another annoying someone tusks from beside me when I pull a book out of the locker.

It didn't take a glance to find out who the source was. It's my life, you just know who wants what evil at the moment and whose voice is calling more trouble for the day without any hints than a single one, now being the nasal voice, added to the deliberate, venomous clicks of sharp heels against the Highschool floors. "Are you lost, dearest pup?" The fake Latino accent shines through brighter than the words like it had been doing for ever, not asking a genius to spot the unauthentic sign to it.

However, I've never heard anyone make a comment about the Queen's accent that, to my ears, causes nothing but severe grimace spasms whenever crossing by.

She and her minions giggle. Their sounds are as simultaneous as always. Maybe Beatrice's a little to earlier seconds, having the rest catching up a while after.

"That hood of yours though," Camilla says - one of the popular girls surrounding me. "What, did a dog lash at your face for a mate thinking you're a b***h?"

"He got that one, all right." They chorus a laugh.

I just stay muted, and neither had ideas of doing more. One can't burn ash, can't kill a corpse - let them have the fun all they want like they do every other day because I'm already destroyed; just f*****g leave the hoodie covering the scars and proofs of the existence of personal hell.

I sink back into the hood as I hear whispers from the crowd forming a circle around us five. It wouldn't be any later that all would start encouraging a fight to ensue, and if anyone of the Queen Bees exchanging looks in front of me accepted the challenge, I certainly won't do also. I know from now that I won't act anything else but grip harder on my hoodie, preventing it from being blown away by the slaps or punches coming my way to display the fresh bruise circling my cheek.

But if the following attempt is on lowering the shadow casting above for a reveal... Well, that's a whole different story that has it's own... irreversible outcomes.

Too bad it turns out to be the latter, and I was forced to defeat the hand not subtly creeping a way to the back of the hoodie.

Camila yelps, pained, as her arm gets unnaturally twisted against her back at instant and she finds her front pressed to the locker. Everyone gasps with evident surprise glowing around their faces, no one daring say a word while observing the scene presented for the glorious day.

"f**k off," I mutter lowly into her ear so she herself could only hear, and quickly release my grip once locked around her arm that's turning into a reddish color at the sudden pressure.

Without a word uttered afterwards, I snap the hanging open locker shut, immediately turning away to stalk to homeroom before a teacher decided fishing out the hell that had let loose.

Damn, that was really one big deal, I sarcastically thought to myself as I step into the room void of a human being. She wanted a reaction from me, she got it. I can't see any complications in that.

Since I surely prefer the darkest section possible to sit at, I plop on the chair further behind the classroom, not near to the population of the school I couldn't bear even if I atypically struggled to. Not when they're nosy, bitchy, some bully, stupid and, well, they still had their breaths.

Then, I just lean against the back of the seat, engulfed in a complete, comforting silence, and wishing for it to last until I was half-asleep at the very least.

It's ordinary. Simple. And thus I grew to love it.

Because like already seen before, Nova Vernon has lived to be called everything in the world but simple which is one of the many things she's not.

An illegal, silently killing underground fighter for instance, isn't simple. A girl who had no self at all properly talking to her, isn't simple. The one leading a f****d up life which presents one new bruise minimum two times if it's a lucky week, isn't simple. Nor a shattered glass of once a human, that had more scars over the heart than everywhere else combined, and having only the previous statement display the biggest amount to even think of counting, certainly isn't simple.

I glance up at the students talking loud while filing in constantly through the door, either smiles or noticeable grunts plastered across their faces when they choose a seat next to their dear partners to enjoy both first period and homeroom with, causing a desperate sigh to escape my dried, jagged lips.

One who wants impatiently for death to come f*****g sooner to get away of the dark world eating her sanity slowly, but surely, isn't simple, or one who just...

I stop thinking, cringing slightly at the screech of a chair echoing after.

The screech continues as the i***t whoever it was keeps dragging it to wherever he or she was heading to - forcing my scowl to deepen, itching to ask, what happened to f*****g lifting a chair?

And it stops. Having those words follow instantly after, ones I - even if I'm absolutely sure aren't said to me - haven't heard in a really, really, really long time, but appear to helplessly dread to some time nearer to now in order to have at least one motivation in life that isn't a cage.

"You alright?" A he asks, husky voice surprisingly closer than I expected it to sound from that I couldn't help but look up, startled, only to collapse with two blank silver gray eyes peering over sideways not at me, a stoic - annoyed even - expression caressing his face when still observing the class presented in front of him as he talked.

Of course, I recognized him with a snap. Anyone having working eyes and the mind to comprehend in this place would.

The very same he is none other than the overall perfectly created Blake Carson, the absolute feared bad boy of Ocean View Highschool - actually, the whole town in general.

And he was talking to me, of all the people.

He was bloody asking me if I'm alright.

I stare at him for a couple more seconds, not even near my mind to consider closing the slightly parted lips and widened eyes waiting for someone to serve an explanation of what the bad boy sitting just beside me wanted right away.

Then I remember. Beatrice's boyfriend... boy toy... friends with benefits... Whatever his role actually occurs as, I'm aware he's a close companion of hers and her stupid friends, and so I know what the hell he wanted to do with me; demand an apology in front of the whole cafeteria constituents, beat me up until I knocked out, humiliate me or, most probably, teach me a lesson scarring me for until death.

But, why start with that sentence?

Probably he's talking to someone else, I think and casually erase all Beatrice thoughts when looking away.

"Nova," he averts attention to me, his voice ringing through my ears as I refuse to turn around from where I was gazing aimlessly at the black board. My throat tightens at the mention of my name I had no idea he knew.

"Nova, are you OK?"