The Hidden(5)

He scowled and started copying notes. “Forget it.”

“This is a joke, right? Did Beth put you up to this?”

He stopped writing and looked up. “Who is Beth?” he asked, pronouncing her name like it’d left a bad taste in his mouth.

I stared him down for another few seconds, scrutinizing his face. He seemed to be telling the truth. And he seemed just as confused as I was, if his expression was any indication.

My features were grim as I faced forward. “Whatever.”





My eyes flicked over to the girl several times during class. I couldn’t help it. She was like a festering sore I couldn’t stop picking at.

She wanted to blow me off and act like she had no clue what I was talking about? Fine. Excuse me for trying to make conversation with the one goddamn Healer I’d come across in the last few decades. I was such an asshole.

As Her Highness gathered her things after class, she avoided eye contact–probably trying to pretend the big, mean man sitting next to her didn’t exist. I should have left without dignifying her little tantrum with a response, but I just couldn’t do it. Something in me needed to pick at the sore and see what came out.



I leaned forward and she paused, her eyes watching me from the corners. Lowering my voice, I whispered, “Just so you know, bitchiness is not an attractive quality. You should probably work on that.”

The look on her face was priceless–a mix of shock and indignation–and was exactly what I’d aimed for. I stuck my pen behind my ear, smirking as I stood up and walked past her. The humans in the crowded aisle next to her parted as I left the classroom and walked into the hall.

Damn, that felt good.





Chapter Three

It took a second to get over his verbal slap in the face, and I sat there, shocked. I was the bitchy one? Did that seriously just happen?

Heat blazed across my skin as I tensed, my nails digging into my palms as my fists clenched. I bit my bottom lip until I tasted blood, trying to refrain from giving in to what my middle school counselor called my “violent tendencies.” At least that’s what he wrote in my permanent record. It also stated that I bite.

The Incident, as it came to be known, happened in sixth grade, when I was eleven and Chris Donaldson kicked my chair as he walked past my desk. It was an accident–I knew that–but at the time, I didn’t care. Something inside me snapped, and rage filled me within half a second.

I got out of my seat and lunged at Chris, knocking him down to the ground and pinning him there as I beat the living hell out of him. It took three teachers to pry me off and now each one had a crescent, mouth-shaped scar courtesy of yours truly.

Was I sorry? Absolutely. Chris Donaldson didn’t deserve that. I still felt like shit for what I did to him, and I always would. I really couldn’t explain why it happened, either. I remembered every second of it, but it was like someone else had taken over me.

And the really fucked-up thing was that a small part of me enjoyed it. It enjoyed making someone my bitch. I mean, what the hell, right?

Thankfully, it had never happened again. Sure, there were times I’d get really upset and just want to break everything in sight, but who didn’t feel a little stabby every once in a while?

However, this guy was seriously asking for a fist to the face.

Before I could stop myself, I flung my bag over my shoulder and ran into the crowded hallway. I had no idea which direction he went. I stood on my tip-toes, trying to scan the top of the crowd, and finally spotted him through the exit doors, heading down the outside steps.

I ran after him, weaving in and out of people, but it was only when I caught up to him that I realized I didn’t know what to say. I was so mad and infuriated that I was at a loss for words. After all, how could you articulate the desire to nut-punch someone?

I settled with the first thing that came to mind.





My skin tightened at the sound of rushing feet behind me.

It’s not who you think it is. It’s not–

The girl’s shrill, demanding voice broke through my train of thought. “What the fuck?” She grabbed my arm, and I tensed, causing her to release me.

My nostrils flared as I seethed in silence. “Your eloquence makes up for your lack of common decency, no doubt about it.”

“What the hell is your problem? You don’t even know me!”

I knew enough. She was just like the rest of them–spoiled, manipulative, and completely narcissistic. In other words, she was not worth my time, not worth wasting the air in my lungs just to tell her to go to hell.

But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t feel good. I turned to face her, not bothering in the slightest to mask my contempt. “I doubt there’s much to know.”