KARINA'S POV

Scribbling down the answer to the last question on the paper, the bell screamed through my ears as I slammed the point of my pencil into the table, making a far larger full stop than required. Everyone began to rush out of the class, but I was in no hurry. It was last period, it was hot, I was tired - my body really wouldn't appreciate any fast movements.

Eventually finding the strength to pack my things away, I mumbled a farewell to my teacher before dragging myself out of class, my heavy feet taking me down the hall and into the light. Oh, Sun. Why does everyone worship you, burning ball of fire?

"Stare any longer and you'll go blind," said a voice in my ear, causing me to jolt in shock. I averted my eyes from the sky, a large purple blob blurring the center of my vision. Behind it, illuminated by the light emmited from the giant ball among the clouds, was Owen.

"Ha ha ha," I deadpanned.

"I should be a comedian," he winked, hoisting his navy blue backpack up on to his shoulder, which was partially visible as a result of his striped tank top. He looked like he'd stolen the clothes off a mannequin at the mall.

"You should," I agreed, "if you want to be homeless and broke for the rest of your life." I reached into my front pocket, pulling out my half eaten granola bar, and looked at him expectantly. "That is what you want, right?"

Owen chuckled, flashing his perfect teeth. "Obviously," he ensured me. "Isn't that a bit-"

"Warm? Crumbled? Mushy?" I interrupted. "Yes, yes and yes. I fucking hate this weather sometimes." I jumped down on to the first step, and then the second, and then the third. Owen was hot on my trail as I scoffed the bar.

"Appetizing," he joked, squinting as he looked around the car park. "Do you want a lift home? Y'know, to avoid this horrific weather?"

I bit my lip, considering the offer. A lift would get me out of the heat, but it would also get me alone with Owen. No, no, and no. "I'll pass," I said, trying to be as polite as I could be around him. "But thanks."

Owen nodded, telling me that it was alright, and that we could catch up later. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't say yes.

As I turned to begin the walk home, which I was going to do very sluggishly as I toasted underneath the sun, my mind wandered back to the other day. The other day with Tony. I'd seen him in the halls a few times, but he never seem to notice me. Or, if he did, he was very good at not showing it. I didn't understand him, but I was desperate to.

Walking down the sidewalk, hugging a brick wall which blessed me with a little shade, I heard the sound of someone grunting. Not in a sexual way, in a painful way. Like someone was tying a bow in their intestines. Stopping, I listened closely to the noise, which was soon accompanied by a voice.

"You want to fucking explain yourself?" The person growled, their voice cracking and fluctuating in pain. This time, however, it was not physical. It was a emotional.

As the grunts persisted, I slowly approached the corner of the wall, peeking round the corner and instantly wishing I hadn't. There, towering over a man in a leather jacket, was Tony. His foot was repeatedly kicking the man in the stomach, causing him to splutter and murmur insults in return. I wish I hadn't seen it, and blinked in the hope that it was a nightmare.

"Touch her again and I will slit your fucking throat," he warned, spitting on the man with a face of pure disgust. I had never seen him like that - so angry, so violent, so crooked.

Gasping, because simply inhaling was too hard a skill to fathom, I took a messy step backward. In an instant, Tony's head turned to me, and I felt my throat close up entirely. His cheek was cut, and his lip was bust, and his eyes were full of tears. It was not the sight of a ruthless brawler, but instead that of someone who was scared and alone.

"K-Kat," He stuttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The blood smeared, and so did his tears.

I took another step back, whimpering with staccato breaths. Tony moved away from the man, taking small, cautious steps towards me. He knew how back it looked, he knew how scary it was.

"I can explain," he promised, his bottom lip trembling. He looked down at the space between us, and then back up at me, his bloody hand extended.

"Go, do it then, explain," I rushed, forcing back the tears.

Tony took my hand in his, and my heart ripped at the soft touch of his hands. How could someone so gentle do such colossal damage?He wiped his tears away with a clenched fist, taking a deep, unsteady breath.

"Come on," he said lowly, guiding me away from the man and out into the open. I felt like I should have argued that we couldn't leave him there but, honestly, I was scared. I was scared, and I was selfish, and I was shaky.

"Who was that guy?" I questioned in a whisper, practically chasing behind Tony as he hurriedly pulled me down the street. "Tony, talk to me!"

We took a sharp left turn, ending up on a small path that I knew lead to the local park. Once fully out of sight, engulfed by bushes and trees, Tony stopped. A slight breeze blew over us, making my hot skin tingle. All this fucking walking is going to kill me, I thought moodily.

"Listen," he said. "I-I, he's an, um-"

"If you're not going go tell me the truth then don't tell me anything," I said sternly, tugging my hand out of his.

Tony gulped. "H-His name is Bruce. My parents borrowed some money off him, but they're having trouble paying it back, and he's started to get-" Tony inhaled sharply, "he's starting to get really violent, especially with my mum."

I tightened my jaw, taking in his confession. As I did so, his dark eyes watered up, and he began to cry. Seeing him cry with such raw pain made me crumble; I just wanted to make him feel okay.

"Shh," I said, going on my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around his neck. "Shh, it's okay."

Tony nestled his head into the crook of my neck, and his tears dampened my shirt. His strong arms wrapped around me, shaking lightly as he sobbed. Every now and then, he would make an odd squealing noise. Unlike the way people make it out to be, there is nothing romantic or "tragically beautiful" about crying. It is messy, and it is a bit gross.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely audible. He pulled away and wiped his noise with the back of his hoodie, which seemed to be a ridiculous clothing choice considering the weather. "I just want him to stop," he continued.

I told Tony that he looked as though he'd been in a bar fight and lost miserably, which caused him to laugh a little. I was happy he laughed. After some pursuation, he agreed to come back to my house and get fixed up. I knew my dad wouldn't be in for another hour or so, so we had to watch our time, but I wasn't about to risk Tony's health.

When we entered my house, a pang of guilt shot through me. I'd never really seen how fortunate I was. Tony's eyes trailed over the immaculately clean ornaments and oak furniture before landing on the large piece of art hanging from the living room wall, only a portion of it visible from his spot. Silently, I took his hand and lead him to the bathroom.

"This place is beautiful," he said under his breath, sitting on the edge of the bath.

"It's not a home, though," I told him solemnly, raiding the cupboard for the first aid box. When I finally located it, I turned to see Tony's eyes staring at something outside the bathroom. I thought for a second, and there was only two things he could really be looking at - my bedroom door or the picture of my grandparents, who lived over in North Carolina but had recently moved to Florida.

Wetting a face cloth, I put my finger under Tony's chin and raised his head. His eyes, which were still a little puffy, watched my face as I dabbed the cut on his cheek. He winced a few times, but I was happy he did so. It showed me that he wasn't trying to act tough, he was really letting me in.

Once I'd put a plaster over the cut, I moved on to his lip. When I gently put my finger on it, just to see how bad it hurt him, Tony shut his eyes and took a wavering breathe. He hissed a little, turning his head away, and sighed with an unexpected chuckle.

"I guess I'm going to have to wait a few days before I can kiss you again," he said, an adorable smirk on his face.

"Guess so," I shrugged, patting away the fresh blood.

I finished cleaning Tony up without another word. Although I felt bad for him, part of me wondered why he would hurt that guy so horrifically: even though I was aware of the damage the man had done, it still seemed pretty awful. He was just as bad as that man, in a sense - after all, hitting someone is hitting someone. I just wanted him to find another way of dealing with it.

Leading him out of the house, I treasured every moment I felt his skin barely touching mine, his fingers loosely tangled with mine.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said to the ground, not daring to look at him. The sight made my stomach churn, and not in a particularly good way. I wondered if I had more of a crush on the idea of liking a bad boy, rather than Tony himself. It seemed plausible.

Tony leaned in to hug me, but I stepped back against the wall and shied away. I just wasn't ready yet.

"I'll see you," he said, nodding more to himself than me, and then left. I wanted to just walk away, but I couldn't. Instead, I fell to my knees and peaked through the mailbox.

Tony was on my porch, kicking the shit out of one of the large wooden beams. He was swearing over and over, his fists making contact with the wood. I couldn't decide what I thought about everything. Was he right to beat up that guy? Was that the right thing to do? Or, alternatively, was he ill? Did he need help? Was he struggling?

Was he sick, or was he sane?

Notes

YOOO.
So B by won by 2 votes :) THANK YOU GUYS FOR TALKING PART! I started another story called 'The Girl With The Skull Bandana' so feel free to check that out:3

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