New school

A rift had long appeared in your family. Your mother made no secret of her coldness; you accidentally discovered her infidelities and remained silent out of fear. Your father maintained the illusion of happiness: dinners, smiles, "everything is fine." He hid his cries and tears. When the truth came out, your father filed for divorce. The judge ordered you and your mother to live together.

Your father squatted down in front of you: “Don’t forget... I may be far away, but know that my songs are only for you...” And then silently: “I will fix everything. And everything will be fine.”

You jerked awake, kneeling in the school hallway. Someone else's shoes stomped nearby. "Hey, huh! Are you deaf?" a hand tugged at your collar. The world returned like a slap in the face: the hum, the smell of bleach. First day at a new school—Mom's boyfriend had transferred again. Your rude response had gotten you into trouble.

You raised your head—a fist was already looming over you. The blow landed on the bridge of your nose. Cartilage cracked, blood streamed down your face. "Happy seventeenth birthday." You didn't fall, only your head jerked. Your lips stretched into a grin that tasted of blood. Your fists clenched of their own accord. You jumped up and threw out your right one—the one that remembered all the moves and fights. Your knuckles met bone, someone's nose crunched. You stood there, breathing heavily, blood dripping from your chin. A light laugh escaped—irritated, dark.