Thursday, September 29th....

"Watch it, douchebag," an arrogant voice says just before I'm shoved, hard, into the side of a locker. To any of the bystanders, it probably just looked like I was standing in the way, got pushed to the side, which, easily enough, made me clumsily fall into the locker like any other fumbling teenage idiot with zero coordination skills.

When, in reality, it was the complete opposite.

My muscles tense beyond their capacity as I hold myself back from using the momentum I'd gained from bouncing against the locker to slam Chase in the face. Anxiety squeezes my chest and twists my stomach, even as my temper boils to the surface.

I'm getting sick and tired of him coming out of nowhere and "accidentally" making me trip or fall into something. I'm quite certain this sudden fascination with me is called 'bullying', and, by all means, I should report it, but my stubborn side doesn't want to admit to the fact I'm letting some snob get to me.

So instead of doing what my body wants to do, I simply grit my teeth and stare down at the floor, trying to ignore the stares from the bystanders. I hear Chase and his cronies laugh and high-five before they're up the hall, leaving me standing by the lockers with my head hanging and my hands balled into fists.

Mack and I had been heading to our last class of the day when Mack suddenly realized he'd grabbed the wrong book for that class. He'd run back to his locker to retrieve it while I ventured off on my own to the classroom. He'd wanted me to come with him, probably afraid something like this would happen and he wouldn't be here to help. Which would by why I told him to go ahead and leave me. It's my fourth day here, I can find the class by myself.

Though, I think, subconsciously, it's mostly because I don't like using Mack as a shield I hide behind. Wuss.

Then, the Looney-Goons had struck again, just like they always seem to when neither of my friends' are around to witness it. Yup. Bullying to its finest.

Gathering my wits back around me, and when I can finally uncurl my fists, I head back down the hall, hating the tingling sensation on the back of my neck that signifies eyes watching me. It seems to never go away....At least here that is.

My back tenses as sudden loud footfalls ring out from behind me, hands gripping my backpack strap with renewed vigor as I subconsciously brace to get rammed into a locker again.

"Alex!"

Mack comes to a stop beside me, panting and holding a book to his chest. "Geez, you been walking at snail speed or something? I thought for sure you'd already be in class," he rambles, running a hand over his forehead that's beaded with sweat.

I shrug, keeping my eyes down as I begin our walk back down the hall. I feel his gaze scrutinize me. "Did something happen?" He questions, once again making me feel like he's much more incisive than people give him credit for.

A sudden dawning look gleams in his eyes, along with hate. "Was it Chase again? Because you know-"

"It's nothing, Mack."

He abruptly drops it, knowing I don't usually add his name to my sentences unless I'm serious about something. That, and the cold tone of my voice might have something to do with it.

He frowns. "Fine." And with that, we silently make our way up the hall, guilt squeezing my chest so hard it's making it hard to breathe. An apology sits on the tip of my tongue, but, for some reason, I can't get it to come out, which just makes me even more upset at myself.

Idiot. He's just trying to help and here you go treating him like you're no better than the other kid.

I clamp my mouth shut, certain I'll be pounding the punching bag the minute I get back to the browns'.

~*~

Turns out getting back to the Browns' was going to take longer than I'd anticipated. I'd, apparently, forgotten I have stupid therapy every Thursday evening after school. So, here I am, skipping soccer practice, something else I could've used as an outlet for my suddenly overwhelming emotions, and finding myself, instead, seated on that damn sofa with nowhere to go and nothing to hold my attention.

"Alex?"

My gaze snaps up to Mrs. Waver, and I stare blankly at her. She lets a slow breath out, but I can tell she's even getting a little irritated after twenty straight minutes of me zoning out on her.

"That's the third time you've spaced out on me today, Alex," she says, reminding me like I actually need reminding. "Is there something on your mind we should talk about?" She questions, letting a hint of concern into her usual neutral voice.

I push myself up into a more comfortable position on the sofa, keeping my gaze down as I repeatedly twirl one of the bracelets around my wrist. "It's nothing," I say, glancing up to meet her gaze for a split second. "I'm just finding it hard to concentrate is all."

She nods, like she actually understands what I'm saying. "Do you know why?"

Because I have a buttload of feeling's twisting and turning in my stomach and chest and I don't have an outlet for them at the moment.

"No," I lie, getting the sudden urge to bite my nails even though I'd broken that nervous habit a while ago and wasn't fond of starting it up right now. She hums, seeming to let the subject drop for the moment.

"So what made you decide you wanted to take-up boxing?"

And there it is; the dreaded question.

I blow a breath out, feeling my stomach clinch. I keep my eyes down on my bracelets. "Because I like how it makes me feel," I get out through clinched teeth, surprising even myself with the answer.

If the answer bothered her, she doesn't show it. "And how does it make you feel?"

I shrug, trying to figure it out myself and make it not sound too terrible. "Like I'm in control..." My voice fades off, and I tug on one particular bracelet. "It well, for lack of better words, lets me blow off steam....I guess."

She nods, switching her legs. "Ah, so it's an outlet."

I grimace, the conversation going exactly where I didn't want it to go. No such luck. Not that I should've expected anything less.

"I suppose so."

She jots something down on her clipboard, looking thoughtful. "Outlets are good - just so long as they are used in a positive way." She tosses me a meaningful glance, making me look away before she could probably even notice me looking.

I tap my foot on the floor, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation topic.

"You haven't been doing anything else as an outlet, have you, Alex?" I don't miss the double meaning in her words, and it takes everything in me to meet her gaze for a total of four seconds.

"No."

Her soft smile returns, and she flips her ponytail back behind her shoulder. "Alright. So how has soccer been? That also could be considered an outlet too."

I fold my arms over my chest, already tuning out of the conversation.

~*~

I ram my gloved fist into the bag, hearing the satisfying thwack of a well-aimed punch against the material. I keep my feet moving along with my jabs and hooks, ignoring the sweat that streams down my forehead and into my eyes.

I'd already discarded my jacket after ten minutes into my warm-up, for once, not caring about anyone possibly seeing my bare arms. No, as soon as we'd gotten back from that therapy session, I'd grabbed my gloves without changing a thing on my attire, booking it out back where, I hoped, I'd finally get the release I so desperately need.

But, unfortunately, fifteen minutes in and I can already tell it's not helping as much today.

The knot in my stomach just doesn't want to leave and the tight tension in my chest only dissipates slightly. My overcrowded mind keeps replaying my whole day over, and over again, paying special attention to the small things I did wrong, or that aren't considered 'normal' things people do.

Why'd I make Mack feel guilty earlier, and why couldn't I apologize?

Smack.

I saw that kid's face when he saw me jump at the sound of the early bell. What must've been running through his head?

Smack.

I'd walked right into someone as I was turning the corner and basically had a small panic attack in front of a handle-full of kids.

Smack.

One of my teachers asked me to read a paragraph out of the book we were reading and I stuttered through the whole thing even as my chest grew increasingly tighter and my breathing was practically nonexistent.

Smack.

Chase rammed me into the lockers again. There had to have been something different I could have done? Anything?

Smack.

And just like that, my thoughts take a turn for the worse.

Razim is alive. What if he's here? Scheming some revenge plan against me that could end with the Browns', Polly, and Mack getting hurt? Or worse, killed.

I punch the bag harder, stepping in as it swings back on its chain.

He left the drive that day, I know it. It wasn't just some bazaar coincidence - it was him. Then, when I was in the room, alone, with him.....

Fear races up my spine, making my hair stand on end, and I swing around, landing a solid roundhouse with my foot on the side of the bag.

He could be here now - watching me....

I grunt as I slam my left fist so hard into the bag it jumps on the chain. I stand there, heaving for air, hands still up but my arm muscles refusing to budge. My arms tremble from the strain of holding them up from so much abuse, yet the release I'd wanted still isn't there.

It needs to go - all of it just needs to. Leave. Me. Alone.

Clinching my jaw, I pull my trembling arm back, preparing to hit the bag again in hopes it might work this time.

"Woah, champ."

The sudden voice, after being out in the quiet so long, makes my heart spike and my chest squeeze in panic. I swing around, arms raised as-if to fend off an attacker. Don holds his hands up in front of him, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Sorry. Should've announced myself before busting in like that," he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck. I take a slow breath, shrugging like it didn't bother me, when we both know it did by my obvious reaction.

I turn back to the bag, fully conscious now that my arms, despite the darkness, still show in the porch-lights glare. I raise my screaming arms up, focusing back on the bag.

"Don't you think you've beat that bag up enough this evening. You've been going at that for an hour straight now."

An hour? It hasn't been an - One glance at my watch and it confirms Don's statement.

Hell. No wonder my shoulders feel like they're on fire.

I instantly wash away the hellish image of the branding iron slowly being lowered to my shoulder, shaking my head to help clear it. Don mistakes that as an answer from me.

"I'm insisting you come in now - Lucy's worried."

My arms unconsciously lower to my sides, and my head moves in a slight nod. I glance over at Don, who's holding my jacket in his hand, then I head towards the back porch, unwrapping my hands as I go.

Opening the screen door, I rub a hand over my face in an attempt to clean it some, but I probably just made it worse. Don catches the door behind me, following closely behind. I make a move to head upstairs for a shower, only for Don's voice to stop me.

"Go in the living and I'll grab some Ice packs for your shoulders. Don't want you too sore for school tomorrow. Then you can go shower."

I glance longingly up towards my room, then let a long sigh out before turning and heading for the living room. I hang my gloves and wraps on a hook by the door, followed by my combat boots.

Plopping down on the sofa, I let the cushions support my sore and aching body despite the sweaty mess I am. Laying my head back, I stare up at the ceiling as an episode of America Ninja Warrior plays quietly on the telly, letting my frustrations fall to the back of my mind for the moment.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Lucy comes walking out, holding a bowl full of, what I can only assume, are ice packs. She comes to a stop in front of me, placing the bowl on the coffee table before putting her hands on her hips.

She looks my sorry form over with skeptical eyes. "Alex, I'm going to have to start timing you if you keep this up. You already did it this morning for god-only-knows how long." She scowls, trying to make her petite form look fierce. "It can't be good to do that much."

Instead of feeling upset or even riled at her concern, I find my lips moving in a small, genuine, smile. I forgot what it felt like to have someone fuss about you.

"Sorry," I pathetically apologize, not even having the energy to lift my head that suddenly feels fifty pounds heavier. She sighs, all the fight draining from her as she looks me over again.

Don walks back into the room, and I'm suddenly achingly aware of my bare arms.

They aren't covered every inch with scars like most of my back, but they do have a few that cover the skin from mid-forearm to mid-bicep. Still, I can't help but feel subconscious about it after all this time of hiding them. Even if it is just Lucy and Don.

Lucy scans me with a critical eye. "Now, how to do this," she mumbles as she balances an ice pack in her hand.

And that's how I find about ten pillows propped up around me to hold even more ice packs to every inch of my shoulders possible without taking an ice bath, a heavenly numbing sensation around my shoulders replacing the burning pain of overused muscles.

Fifteen minutes later, Lucy pats my knee from her seat beside me. "Alright, Alex. Let's get these off you so you can go shower." She begins to unpack the, now room temperature, ice from around me, placing them back in her bucket. Once I'm cleared, I somehow manage to get my exhausted self up off the soft sofa and up the stairs.

It becomes apparent that, after one attempt of trying to lift my arm higher than my shoulders to remove my shirt and almost yelling out a swear word that deserved a bar of soap, washing my hair is going to be a bit of a problem.

Letting the hot water cascade over my sore shoulders after I manage to wriggle out of my shirt, I manage to loosen the muscles up enough to reach my head if I duck down low enough.

I almost have as much difficulty putting a shirt on as I did taking it off once I finish with the shower, serving as a reminder that tomorrow isn't going to be any better. Glancing at my watch after putting my clothes away, I decide 8:32 is a little early for bed for me tonight. Especially seeing as I'm still antsy.

Slowly making my way back down the stairs, I push open the door to the living room, finding Lucy leaning up against Don as they stare at the tv. Lucy smiles once she notices me, immediately patting the sofa on her other side. Don watches me, a small upward tug at the corner of his mouth.

Taking a seat next to the armrest on the other side of Lucy, I prop my elbow up on it, placing my head in my hand. A rerun of an old tv series flickers across the Telly, but I can't seem to concentrate on it as a sudden exhaustion falls over my heavy eyelids now that I've settled down for the first time all day.

My eyelids begin to droop as the exhaustion becomes too much, and soon, not even the swirling anxiety in my chest can stop me from falling asleep after so many nights of barely, if any, sleep at all.

Something touching my back abruptly brings me back to awareness sometime later, causing me to jerk in panic and raise my head up from its spot against the armrest, heart thundering in my chest.

"It's okay, Alex. It's just me."

Lucy's calming voice instantly eases me, my tense muscles, taught only milliseconds age, uncoiling. My eyes flutter shut again once I'm positive nothing's amiss, hands unclenching as I let my body relax once again.

Lucy's hand rubs gentle circles on my back, occasionally moving up to bother with my hair which generates a feeling of comfort and belonging I haven't personally felt in a long time. The sizzling sensation every time her fingers skim over a particularly sensitive scar dulls to a light buzzing, and I let a long sigh out before letting the exhaustion, once again, take over.

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A/N

Heya! So I hoped you enjoyed this mildly cute chapter because, let me tell you, that roller coaster I told you about is getting ready to start. The drama dial is gonna be turned up! 👌🏻

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May the 4th be with you. 😜

Maggy