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The last time I gave her a gift, she took the pencil case with her trembling hands. She didn’t say thank you or anything, but didn’t give me her dead eyes, which was super cool.
No—there’s no way she won’t like it. I spent so many nights under my blanket, flashlight on, trying to make it special for her. It’s going to be her favorite thing. Ever. She might even ask for another. Maybe a bigger one—one that isn’t plain brown but has big red and black stripes.
She isn’t much of a talker, but her voice is my favorite sound.
The bat shakes in my hand as I run my fingers over the words one last time before I drop it into the fire. There are only eleven letters, but I took the time to measure each and every one of them properly so they span the entire bat. BLAZE & KOHEN
“Are you going to spend another night alone in your shitty house?”
“I was thinking of inviting your dad over, actually,”
“I like them older,” I tack on, because mentioning his father dearest always pisses him off. The dark cloud beside me darkens further, but I couldn’t give a shit. No one is making Kohen talk to me. He’s always been better seen from afar anyway. Kohen scowls, then schools his features into an annoyingly nonchalant look. It does nothing to hide the fact that he wants to strangle me. “Funny, last night your mother said the opposite about me.”
she could score at the end of it. I snap my fingers, pointing toward him. “So you’re who she got HIV from? It all makes sense now. Your father will be happy to know you do have manners with all the sharing you’re doing.”
At the end of the last school year, I thought I would finally get rid of the fucker, but he failed all his exams and showed up in my class the following semester. I could barely stand him when we were in different grades; sharing classes is a testament to my patience.
I roll my shoulders back, take my backpack off the ground, throw it over my shoulder, and walk out without checking to see if Kohen is following. “Look at me, touch me, or so much as breathe in my direction, and I will throat punch you.” “I’m counting on it.”
I wish he were ugly or short or had a terrible voice that grates on my nerves. But he’s the epitome of my ideal type—save for being an asshole who, oh, I don’t know, burned down my house—and he ticks every box on my list.
“No. I sent someone into a coma.”
As if he senses my stare, he turns my way. My heartbeat stutters before I flip him the bird and mouth, “Asshole.” Boris shoots me a warning look, and I send him the same message I sent Kohen. Except Boris leaves his supervisor’s post by the cafeteria door and walks toward me, reaching for the taser at his side. Oops. I jump up, ready to gap it, but both of our heads swivel toward the commotion at the lunch line. The guy ahead of Kohen has managed to spill his entire tray onto the person behind him. There’s something to be said about the predictability of ego and testosterone.
“I don’t know what your fucking problem is or why you’ve been up my ass since grade school. But I know one thing.” My voice is full of malice, and my heart rate spikes with the adrenaline I’ve wanted to feel all night. “You will never be as good as your brother. No one will ever notice you, even if you were the last Osman.” I edge backward, toward the fence. Lowering my voice, I say, “You’re nothing, Kohen. You’re less than trash, just like the rest of us. You just don’t have drugs to blame for it.”
Dad would know about everything you get up to if it weren't for me.” Kiervan uses the same taunting tone every time we speak. He wants a “thank you” he’ll never get from me. “The type of people you associate with. Specifically, a person you associate with.”
“Let’s add Dad to the call, and he can hear about your extracurricular activities,” I say. “Don’t throw threats when there’s a bigger one around.” Kiervan sighs, and it only pisses me off more.
Kiervan knows about my fire-related tendencies, just like he knows about what I’ve kept from my parents for years. The day he realized I had a weakness, was the day he learned he could have it all. It doesn’t matter how much I try to get rid of my weakness or lessen the blow; it doesn’t happen even though I hate its very existence.
“What do you think is going to happen when you accidentally kill someone because you didn’t get your biology degrees yourself?” I pull the phone away from my ear when he whistles. “Bold claims. Rein it in, little man. You make it sound like I didn’t think this through. What do you think the business major is for? Why mess with biomedicine when I could sit behind a table and order people around? You could never see the bigger picture.” “Then do it yourself.” If I spent less time doing his assignments, I’d have more time for shit I want to do.
Maybe one day, I’ll do to my parent’s house what I did to Blaze’s. Maybe next time, it’ll go out with a bang.
My fingers graze over the dented surface of the pen; I wet my lips as I pull my attention away from the thief, to the perfect little teeth marks decorating the top of the plastic casing. The clip has been bitten off, and the spring is long gone. To continue to call it a pen is a stretch of imagination. I tuck it behind my ear and cast my eyes over to her as she chews on the lid of a different one. She’s antsy.
The world can have Prometheus; I have Blaze, the girl with the fiery attitude—completely and utterly unhinged. The girl with hair and eyes the color of flames: blue, copper, orange, red. Blaze is fire.
She’s never fucking chosen me.
I pissed around after school for the past four years to walk her home because half the time she’s plastered, coming down, hungover, or simply unobservant. Not once has she thanked me or shown a modicum of appreciation.
The dumbest thing I’ve ever done was to assume she wouldn’t just fuck any guy who waves a bag in her face. I don’t care if that’s her mom’s MO or any other woman’s game; that shouldn’t be her game—not after everything I’ve done for the ungrateful shit.
When Elijah turns to look at her too, I quickly do the math on whether it would be worth spending a night in solitary if I got the chance to crack his skull. I bet he’s fucked her as well. Fuck. I ball my hands into fists. Blaze prefers everyone but me.
I’m in here because of what she did. If anyone has the right to be angry, it’s me. I’m the one who’s pissed. I’m the one who was betrayed over and over again.
Back at St. Augustine, she would steal something from me on a weekly basis. The little thief had a whole shelf in her room dedicated to everything she thought I didn’t know she took and the things I let her take—not that she knows any of this.
She hasn’t taken a single thing from me, and it pisses me off to no end.
I didn’t want to part with the ring, but I had no choice. She’s been leaving me no other options for years. Now she’s acting above what I have—like she’s better than me. As if there are different guys she’d rather wrap her fingers around.
She’s wearing my ring. She’s wearing my ring, and she’s looking smug about it. The little thief thinks she won this game we’re playing, as if she’s somehow in control of what’s happening.
Blaze woke up this morning, and every morning for the past seven days, looked at my initials on the back of the ring, and slipped it on her thumb even though it’s two sizes too big for her. Blaze woke up, put it on, and walked around wearing my initials.
Why the fuck does she never look at me that way? She’s known that fucker for what? Five minutes? And she’s looking at him in the way I could only dream of.
Elijah’s two brain cells clearly are too busy fighting for first place to work, because he steps towards us and reaches for Blaze. “There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Breathe in her direction again, and we’ll find out whether I can break them one at a time.”
“I’ve always wanted to see what a real human heart feels like in my hands. Keep talking, and I’ll get to find out.”
“You tell yourself you use and steal because you like the high of it, that it makes you feel alive, but that’s a lie. You do it because that’s the only time you feel you have control over your life.” Two sentences. That’s all it takes for her chest to expand as she takes a deep breath. “You act out because you want the attention—at least, that was the reason, wasn’t it? Maybe Mommy will come home if she hears you need help, and everything will return to how it was. Now you act out because no one listens to you. I am the only person in your life who hasn’t turned their back on you, and you know
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“You don’t want to see what happened to the last person who got too close to my fire.”
Can’t avoid me now, bitch. He whips his head toward me, whisper-yelling, “You didn’t tell me you were with that psychopath.” I rear back. “Which psychopath?” One comes to mind, but there’s no way we’re thinking about the same person. “Kohen.”
“Are you insane? I wouldn’t touch that man if he were the last person on Earth.” Mentally, at least, I wouldn’t go anywhere near him. Physically? This slut likes whatever it is he’s packing. My ovaries see him, say “wow, so strong,” and think he’s a suitable mate to procreate with.
I don’t get to finish because he gets me to do exactly what he wants: I shut up. I don’t make a single sound when he kisses me—whether in shock, disgust, confusion, or a wave of lust, I stay completely still. Until I don’t. It doesn’t matter how much I yell at myself to stop, to pull back and spit in his face; my lips keep moving with his.
I see why people seek solace in external sources like God to get over drugs, because right now I’m seriously considering turning to sex.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Blaze. You’re looking at me like you hate me, but you’re riding me like you love me.”

