Fighting For Nothing [Zoey]

I will not walk away from this little boy, no matter how far he pushes me, no matter how angry or annoyed he makes me. I will not let him win this battle.

"Looks like it." I cross my arms slowly, regarding him very carefully, trying to gauge how long he plans to stand here so stubbornly.

I see the knife in his hand, and resist the urge pull one of the ones I'm currently carrying out of my own pocket. I see the name Valentine on his knife, but it doesn't mean anything to me. I don't listen to the gossip, and I don't attend the school, so while that trick might work on some, it doesn't work on me. Besides, I really don't care who he is. I can still face him, and win.

I crack my knuckles calmly, picking some of the dirt out from under one of my nails, the disgusting color dirty underneath my fingernails. I stare at him, raising an eyebrow, cocking my head.

"So how long? You never answered it."

He flips the knife around, probably thinking it looks skilled or intimidating, but it's fairly annoying. My eyes keep focusing on the blood dripping from the grazes on his skin, on his pants and shirt. They drive me crazy. I think I might be OCD, because the little bits of dirt or grime just drive me insane.

"No, I didn't think so. But since neither of us plans to leave anytime soon, I figured I might as well ask."

"So how did your mother die?" I ask the question, knowing I won't get an answer, but probing him enough that he might choose to get up and leave my to my own peace and quiet.

"She's not dead, not to my knowledge," he says the words harshly, almost angrily and I can tell there is something with his mother that probably happen long ago, which has made him despise her. I feel almost pity for the poor boy. A mother can be truly good for you. I inwardly snicker, wondering if the lack of a mother has made him so angry.


"Congratulations," I mutter, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice. I'm not normally jealous, but I would rather have a missing mother than one who died the way mine did. Of course, it is somewhat my father's fault, because he is and was so evil and harsh and awful, but I did pull the trigger, no matter how accidental it was.

I slowly take a deep breath, taking one of the knives from the inside of my jacket, and slowly and methodically begin cleaning it, starting at the tip and working my way all the way down the length of it, rubbing the cloth in circles. It's about eight inches in diameter, and looks as lethal as anything. This one is one of my favorites.