Burn Before Reading(27)

So I keep punching, until my knuckles bleed and my body screams at me to stop.

“Wolf?”

I look up through my haze to see Burn standing there. The exhaustion hits me like a truck, and I feel myself staggering. Burn is there, his strong arms holding me up, and for a split-second when I look up at him I see him as his nine-year-old self, smiling warmly and telling me everything will be okay. And then I snap back to reality, and his face is older and barely has any emotion to it at all. But if I look hard, I can see a tiny spark of concern in his eyes.

“Wolf, are you alright? What are you doing in here?”

“I had to punch something,” I manage. “And you have a whole bag devoted to it. I thought to myself ‘why not?’”

“Your lip –” He cuts off. “Did you get in a fight?”

I can’t have him asking questions. It’s too shameful to admit that I lost control. I push out of his support and stand on my own.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” He insists, following me as I collapse on my bed in my room. “Jesus, Wolf, your knuckles –”

“Stop pretending to give a shit,” I snarl. Burn says nothing, retreating after a while. Just when I think he’s left me alone for good, he comes back with hydrogen peroxide and gauze.

“I don’t need any of that. Get out.”

Burn ignores me, kneeling beside the bed and dabbing my knuckles with something wet. It stings, and I hiss.

“Would you stop trying to play the concerned older brother part? You outgrew it a long time ago.”

“Be as angry as you want,” He says softly. “But I’m not leaving until everything bloody is taken care of.”

I entertain the thought of getting up and forcing him out, but then I remember just how tall and built like a brick wall he is. I glare at the ceiling as he wraps my knuckles in gauze.

“Who punched you?” Burn asks.

“No one.” I grunt.

“Why did they punch you?” He asks again, patiently. So patiently it pisses me off.

“It’s done, okay? It doesn’t matter who or why or what did it. Drop it.”

We’re quiet. We both know he’ll just hear about it tomorrow. I exhale, quick and hard.

“I punched some senior. Harris. He was making stupid comments about a girl.”

“What kind of comments?”

“Like, ‘hurr hurr I’d fuck her’. Stupid shit.”

“Who was the girl?”

I gnaw the inside of my lip. “The scholarshipper.”

Burn’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch. But I’ve been his brother long enough to know he’s surprised.

“You…defended her?” He asks. I fling my gauzed arm over my eyes so I don’t have to face him.

“No. It wasn’t like that. He was just pissing me off.”

“You punched him.” Burn asserts.

“I know.”

“You hate touching people.”

“I know.”

Burn falls silent. To my utter relief he finishes gauzing my other hand and gets up.

“Rinse your lip out with saltwater before bed.”

“Yes, Mom,” I grumble.

“I’m serious, Wolf. If it gets infected we’ll have to tell Dad you got in a fight.”

“Fine. Okay. You’re right. Now just leave me alone.” It feels harsh and I feel like a dick, considering he bandaged me up. He moves to the door, and I call out.

“Thanks.”

Burn pauses, nodding over his shoulder, before he closes the door behind him.

I let my whole body relax, finally. Finally alone. The twisted energy in me is gone – depleted – leaving behind an empty husk. An empty husk who can’t do much more than lie on his bed and wince at the thought of school tomorrow.

At the thought of facing Beatrix Cruz.

It’s easier to read her writing. I take out the essay from my bedside table and read.

My dad isn’t in the best condition. He’s sick with depression. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from researching, it’s that it isn’t his fault. That’s just how things are, in his brain. No matter what, he’s still my dad. No matter what, I’m his daughter and I have to do everything I can to help him get better. That’s what being family means. That’s what love means; it means helping. It means supporting someone, defending someone, giving them your best effort. Flowery poetry and candied cherries one day a year isn’t love.

Love is sacrifice. And I intend to sacrifice a lot.

Us teenagers want a lot. We want a social life, we want friends. We want a boyfriend or girlfriend. But we can’t have it all. I mean, some of us have it all, but those are the lucky ones. The rest of us just make do, fumbling around in the dark for something, anything to keep us going. But in reality, all those things are temporary. Being a teenager is just a blip on the radar of the rest of my life. It’s a few years. A few years I’m more than willing to sacrifice.

I have all I need to keep me going, right here, in my family.

For the hundredth time I’ve reached this point in the essay, I think about what a moron she is. Her intentions are so pure and blazing they practically radiate off the page. Yeah, so she wants to help her Dad – but what about her? Everything she’s saying is a mirror image of my thoughts two years ago, when I was trying to help Mark. It practically stings to read them here, again. Another lamb to the slaughter. Another lamb willing to sacrifice themselves with no intention of getting anything in return.