2: Tyler (1/2)

2. Tyler

My abdomen feels sore and the fabric of my clothing brushing up against it every few seconds makes me flinch and the wound underneath hurts more. When I came home from the fight last night, I climbed up the long thick lines of ivy that reach my bedroom window. It's risky and a bit of a strain to get to the rim of my window, but it's the only way to get back inside without my parents knowing.

They think I've stopped.

They think running off and going into the underground fighting circuit was just a quick phase and that I'm now safe and clear of any other problems. They think that I'm now normal—fixed. They don't know that I keep going back, that a few nights a week I find myself within the confines of a human circle as another person stands opposite me, waiting to punch.

Sometimes I want to scream at my parents. They think it's easy. That you start fighting, lose your way a little and then get thrown on the right track and that's it. No catch. But there's always a catch. And right now, I'm living with that catch looming over me.

The bell to go to second period had just gone and now people are everywhere, milling around the hallways, mingling around lockers. The sound of metal on metal grates my bones. I come out at the end of the hallway, standing by a large window that nearly reaches the entire length of the wall. I lean my arm on the railing and stare out at the little droplets of rain falling lightly to the ground, passing through the trees on their way.

The front pocket of my jeans vibrates, and I flinch briefly before reaching down and snatching my phone out of my pocket. I press the main button and the screen lights up, showing a new text message from Ethan.

I'm in the parking lot. We need to talk now.

I look up, my eyes scouting through the cars parked in the school's lot until I see him, leaning up against his motorbike. His phone is in his hand and he's watching me from across the large expanse of the parking lot.

I sigh as the second bell rings and the hallways become deserted. I'm about to slide my phone back into my pocket when another message comes through, from Ethan again.

Now.

I place the phone in my pocket and don't look back at him as I shove my shoulder against the door to the stairwell, budging it open. I take the stairs quickly, my annoyance showing in my strides. I come out at the bottom and open the back door that leads directly to the parking lot. Little droplets of rain spit down on me as I walk across the terrain until I'm standing directly in front of Ethan.

His blond hair is spiked up and his tall body is hunched in on itself a little. He's wearing a dark brown shirt and light, denim jeans. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at me. Ethan is one year older, just out of high school and not doing anything worth a damn.

”You're quitting,” he says simply. It's not a question or an accusation, just a plain observation.

I look at him and let out the little breath I have been holding in. ”Who told you?”

”No one needed to tell me directly, Tyler,” Ethan says with a little more bitterness in his voice this time, ”everyone knows. Everyone's talking about it.”

I shrug. ”It's not a bad thing.”

”How old did you tell them you were when you first started fighting, Ty?” Ethan asks. ”Huh? Did you say you were eighteen?”

”Stop it, Ethan,” I say. ”Everything's fine.”

”You can't just leave,” he says. ”You know that. You can't just stop fighting. Not with a boss like Carl constantly hovering over your back.”

”Is that what you came to tell me?” I ask. ”You came to tell me what I already know?”