To Love What Draws Your Blood-6

Echoes of watery mashed potatoes sliding from those dirty, disgusting cafeteria ladles and splattering onto the dirty plates with wet glops filled the chaotic cafeteria. Everyone was laughing and yelling. The populars were re-enacting their favorite scene from the movie Heathers: Writing an erotic letter to a geeky girl, signing it with a Jock’s name and watching as she approached him only to get laughed out of the room. The jerks had no class.1

Marlow Hinman slid into a chair at the table with the best view of Angli, dropping his tray of potatoes at the tabletop. His eyes stared hard at the girl as a stream of drool fell from his mouth like a graceful yo-yo, landing safely on his plate. He just sat there and studied her full lips he so admired, noticing the tint of blood at the corner of her mouth, circled with black-and-blue skin. His heart leapt into his throat, wishing he could simply sit by her and lick her wound, amongst other things. Her blood would taste delicious, he imagined—tastefully tart like a fine wine. As if he’d ever had wine.2

He’d been lusting over her ever since he’d learned how to lust. He found it gay to like skinny girls; finding they resembled young boys rather than women. Angli had hips, a waist and boobs. He always said she was the “spitting image” of his wet dreams’ goddesses. He called her the “spitting image” because in all his sex dreams, there was always an image of her spitting rather than swallowing. He admired that. It was safer.3

He was relapsing into one of his top-ten dreams when he stood up and maneuvered through the clutter of gray tables and orange plastic chairs until he finally sat beside Angli. He snapped out of it when her scent entered his nostrils—she smelled like mud. He’d never loved mud so much as he had in that exact moment. He kept looking at her, that bloody and bruised girl he so admired—recently realizing she didn’t know he was there. His tongue was slowly escaping his lips and his body was suddenly moving closer. Anyone would assume he was about to kiss her ... but no.4

Marlow inched closer and closer, frequently checking for any sort of mood divergence. She was still sitting, staring ahead, her chin propped up on her fist, the spider ring on her middle finger digging groves under her chin like she had a spider scar. She never seemed to take that ring off—it was evident from the green tint it left on her finger.5

The tip of his freakishly long, purplish tongue traced along the scabby wound about her lip, tasteless until it touched the fresher part. Her blood tasted of the pennies he used to lick (as if he’d stopped by then), bitter and just as he predicted: Like a dry wine. His tongue only stopped caressing the corner of her mouth when he heard a disgusted gasp from behind. He turned around, grinning with the taste of her blood.6

Jules Myore’s hand clasped over her mouth but her eyes gave it all away—she was just about to let loose that half cracker she’d eaten earlier that day. “That ... is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” Jules said wincingly. “Ugh ... Angli!”7

It took a few seconds for Angli to register that her name had just been called by a voice that sounded like a strangled goose’s squawking. No wonder Jules was so sexy. She blinked hard and looked up at Jules and her disgusted face, slowly turning to look at Marlow who was licking his chops and staring at her mouth, wanting just one more sample of her.8

She touched the bloody corner of her mouth and glanced at her hand, slightly spotted with his saliva mixed in with her blood. That blood that her lovely mother had caused—punching her once she’d returned home against Caleb’s will. He’d known she wasn’t going to be safe but she’d been a zombie and ignored him.9

Angli didn’t fancy punches much—especially when the puncher was wearing the huge sapphire ring her disgusting lover had given her. It had taken skin from her lip with it. Her mother was probably planning on disinfecting it of Angli’s blood and flesh—the person she despised for a reason Angli could not quite uncover. She’d tried to figure her mother out—she spent years wondering.10

She stood, her hand recovering her wound, and jogged off. Somewhere in her mind she knew what she was doing but mostly, she was just watching her life like a movie. Angli slid into the ugly Girl’s bathroom and sat down on a toilet, pushing the stall door shut in front of her with her foot. The damn doors were so heavy; they’d broken all the locks that were supposed to keep them fastened. She sat there, one foot on the ground the other leg outstretched, struggling to keep the door closed and her fingers on her bloody mouth.11

It still hurt, she realized after pushing on it hard enough that it ached more than it should have. The wound reminded her of her mom and for some reason, she suddenly felt lonely and missed her mother. She hated her mom but at that moment, she wished she were there.12

Jules’ disgusted look replayed along with Marlow’s grin and innate lusty eyes.13

Angli kept pushing at the corner of her mouth until her nail clipped it and she began gently picking at the scab, continuing the picking even after it had fallen so that it was lightly scraping the open wound. She kept on picking with that long nail of hers, sharp from lack of tending. She picked at her lip so long and so hard it began bleeding again. The pain was insignificant but it was odd—she’d been so numb for the past few days and this was different.14

It was scary.15

It was sort of like waking from a weird dream that you thought was reality, even if all you saw was night and fog; like waking up and being stuck in those first moments, wondering where you are, how you got there and whether the foggy night was reality or not.16

Suddenly, she gasped and blinked. She’d snapped out of her trance. She looked down at her hand now, seeing bits of her bloody flesh curled underneath her nails. Her stomach ached and churned at the site, like seeing your pet butchered; that sort of disgusted sadness. All at once, she felt like puking but she couldn’t—she felt guilty but above all ... crazy. She was clueless but it was certain: she was a freak who just scraped her own cut for ten minutes. She had her own skin and blood under her nail! What had she done to herself? She felt sick but she felt and she hadn’t a clue why.17

After realizing where she was, her boot slid from the door with a squeak and she slowly stood up, leaving to the sink where she washed off all that access make-up from her eyes and the blood from her mouth and flesh from her nails. She stood up straight and sighed—this time actually staring at her dark reflection and her clothes and everything. She hardly remembered dressing or showering for the day—she hardly remembered how she got that scrape on her lip. All she knew was that she was back and out of the foggy mindset and it all scared her so much that she was exhausted.18

She kept staring at herself, trying to remember everything that had happened in the past four days once she realized it was Thursday. She went through everyone’s name like a roster.19

Craig ... she remembered the taste of smoke and the aluminum condom wrapper; the ache in her chest and her arm where he’d grabbed her. It all fled back into her as soon as his name came up. She touched her arm, flinching at the sting and did the same to her breast; both bruised badly from his grip. She remembered his aching moans once she touched her knees.20

Caleb ... she remembered milk and wet napkins, aching feet and a bumpy truck ride home. She touched her elbow and smiled, remembering him guiding her lightly out of the building and away from Craig. She remembered feeling safe—remembered feeling good to some extent.21

And she remembered feeling alone again as she thought of her mother. Her cheeks flushed and lip twitched after the thought of her black clothes, 666’s and spikes returned. Yay for another bad memory at church!22

At least she remembered something, unlike the times in her childhood. Maybe remembrance would be habitual from then on. She could only hope ... but she hadn’t time. It was time to think.23

For the rest of the school day, she kept thinking and remembering, always wearing a strangely confused expression on her face. Hey, at least she looked semi-intelligent, always pondering.24

After school, Angli pondered herself down the cement steps and toward the street, still trying to put together all the days and events like jigsaw puzzle pieces. She kept walking, maneuvering around a big black truck that was parked in the lot, until she realized the odd recognition from it. She stopped, frowned and turned to look at the huge thing and the person who was leaning against it, striking a bigger recognition.25

“Hey,” Caleb said, and waving to her with spirit fingers. He pushed off the side of the truck and stopped beside her, noting the confused look she was giving him.26

“...Hi,” she said slowly, like it was a question.27

“How are you doing?” He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled kindly. Now that really freaked her out. Caleb Schumacher had just showed up at her school and put her hair behind her ear. Everything was just adding to her newfound hobby—spiraling into the pit of bewilderment. She was still trying to figure out if she’d dreamed up yesterday or not. “How are you?” he said slowly, louder.28

Her eyebrows narrowed at him. “Fabulous,” she said cautiously. “What are you doing here?”29

“What happened to your face?” he asked, gently touching her chin, turning her head to the side to see her beautifully licked and picked wound more clearly. Now that bugged her—he didn’t answer.30

She moved so that he couldn’t see it anymore. “I was born with this face. You can either chip in for the plastic surgery or shut up.”31

He smiled adoringly at her—not freakish adoration, either. The kind girls want. Apparently sarcasm was a turn-on for this one.32

“I fell,” she lied, stroking her lip with the back of her fingers, remembering the day before now and that damn ring.33

“Really?” he said skeptically, now wearing a nice frown of his own. “You fell ... into someone’s fist?”34

She scoffed and kept walking before she could go off on him. Apparently her mood changes went from Pathetic to Non-existent, to downright Moody—all within a week. With that attitude, I do believe she could now join her sister in the Brat Triathlon.35

“I saw how she treated you,” he said diligently as he caught up with her.36

“What you are talking about?” she said impatiently, as if she didn’t know, stopping at the sidewalk as cars passed. Everyone and their mother were taking that damn road.37

“What am I talking about?” he exclaimed. “Try looking in the mirror. The bruises might remind you.”38

Damn him and his insidious honesty!39

She clenched her jaw and turned to the passing cars, waiting angrily for some sort of pause. She was actually quite glad the traffic hadn’t let up—more time for her and Caleb. She subconsciously enjoyed his attention, even if she thought she was actually mad. She wasn’t.40

“You didn’t deserve it,” he said seriously. Now that one gained some eye contact. He seemed just a bit nervous through those humble eyes, passionate about proving a point. “How you’re being treated...” he went on, staring her down hard, “you don’t deserve it.”41

She scowled at him, taking a step back as if he was physically getting too close. Words of kindness about her were not accepted. She pictured herself a robot; bright, bold red letters flashing across her face, reading: DOES NOT COMPUTE. DOES NOT COMPUTE. DOES NOT COMPUTE. He was stepping onto the uncharted territory of receiving pure flattery. It gave her the feeling like someone had just poured imported water from the north Atlantic down her back during the winter.42

“So,” she asked callously through a persistent frown, she needed a good answer from him ... to prove he really cared, “are we gonna go somewhere so that you can clean my wounds and talk about my feelings? I generally try to stay away from clichés.” She knew that was crap—all of her relationships with anyone and everyone were just one big cliché. 43

He shrugged with a smile, which made her even more suspicious. “We don’t have to go anywhere.” The corner of his mouth curled up for a split second as if an invisible string floating in the air had pulled it and then dropped. “We can stay here ... talk about the illegality of plowing cotton fields with elephants in North Carolina....”44

Angli gave him that look—the kind that you give people who have just proved that they are perfectly, absolutely, certifiably insane. She’d gotten that look often.45

He shrugged again and plowed his hands into his front pockets. “Or ... that Americans eat up to an average of twenty-two pounds of tomatoes every year? Whatever works.” Apparently the boy had endless storage space for useless information in that deranged mind of his.46

That “I know now that you are completely mad” look she was giving him turned into a vague confused frown.47

He nodded and nibbled on his full lower lip. A fidgeter, this one. Physically incapable of standing still, I find.48

Angli imagined him as a little boy in a highchair, always twisting his fingers in his hair and nodding and shrugging sporadically.49

Caleb kept nodding quietly until he pulled out a pack of Camels and plastic, black lighter. Its simplicity sort of fascinated her. Still, she should have pegged him for a smoker. It must have been his white teeth that lead her astray ... he must have brushed his gums open to get such white teeth.50

“You smoke?” he asked through the cigarette between his lips. It took him ages to successfully spark up the damn lighter.51

She almost laughed ... he was still nodding. “No,” she mumbled slowly, watching as white smoke slowly drifted from his mouth as he turned his head to exhale away from her face. “I mean ... I have but I don’t.”52

“Hmm,” he grunted, taking in another puff. “That’s good. Only the really shitty people smoke anyway.”53

She chuckled and then relaxed her face, just realizing she’d been frowning this whole time. “Are you of the Shitty clan?”54

He chuckled and just kept nodding as he flicked the butt of the cigarette with his thumb, watching as the ash plunged and scattered on the ground. “That I am,” he said with a click of his tongue. “That I am.”55

Every time Angli met someone knew and then found out they were a smoker, she always felt like she could see through them just a bit—see that they didn’t care enough about their health to keep tar from engulfing their lungs, or were so addicted to the damn things. She usually wondered if they were really dependant or smoked casually rather than being a chain smoker or puffing away whenever stress paid a visit.56

This time, she hardly cared. She didn’t even care enough to wish she cared.57

“So ... Sunday, my friend’s having this party thing for his birthday and I’m invited,” he began slowly. She wondered if his neck ever hurt from nodding so much. “It’s just gonna be this stupid thing with idiot high school guys and slutty cheerleaders. And I was thinking—”58

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, which made him stop. “You’re not really trying to invite me to some jock party, are you?”59

“Gawd no!” He laughed and dropped the last of the cigarette to the cement and stomped on it with his right combat boot. “See, I’m going to this little youth group thing at a church ... and I wanted to know if you wanted to come? I go there sometimes ... it’s pretty cool for a church.”60

Church? Angli thought. Whoa! Did not see that one coming. “So are you some kind of missionary who took up smoking to appear to be a normal sinner or something?”61

Now that made him laugh, which she didn’t mind. She liked his laugh. “A missionary? No ... no ... not one of those. I just go there after I leave the coffee house. The people are really cool, even the youth leaders.”62

Church people are many things, Angli thoughts, frowning hard at him as if he were supposed to hear what she was thinking, but cool, they are not.63

“You don’t need to preach to me,” she told him gruffly, recently noticing she could have crossed the street about twelve times by now. She lightly pulled at a lock of her hair and shook her head, annoyed that he tried to pull that cheap “I’m Christian but I’m Cool” trick on her that she was already all too familiar with. “I already go to a church.”64

He smirked at her disdain and then went back to nodding. “Listen, I’m not trying to pick you up (DAMN) ... or preach to you. I’m just trying to figure out ways you could get out of your place and have fun. I’m just saying it’s a cool place ... a place to go.”65

She stared at the small, silver loop earring in his ear and rubbed her earlobe between her fingers. Suddenly, she wished she had her ears pierced ... like she needed them pierced for them to have something in common. “I don’t want your pity,” she told him sullenly, tearing her attention away from his earring.66

He smirked and chuckled all at once. “You can’t really pity the strong ... can you?”67

Strong? she thought as she rolled her eyes, kicking the weed growing through the crack in the cement. He was proving how off he was by the moment. She didn’t ask about it. She could tell he knew she was thinking about it. He was looking at her in such a way like he had the day before, staring at her through the glass door. Staring, seeing through the glass door that was her front. Seeing through it ... to her. And to think he saw strength.68

DOES NOT COMPUTE.69