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Nikolai surges up and slides down his pants and boxers, revealing his very hard, very pierced dick. “Told you it’s lack of fucking interest. Now, fuck the fuck off before I stab you with it.”
“Highly not recommended, you’ll just break your stick of joy.” I throw a bored glance at his companions for the night. “None of them would do?”
He pulls up his pants, then taps the back of his pocket, retrieves a crumpled-up cigarette, and speaks around it as he tries to light it, but his Zippo won’t work. “They’re as enticing as STD-infested whores. None of them know how suck dick right.”
I pull my Zippo and light his cigarette, then get one of my own. “Then go to someone who does.”
He pauses with his cigarette dangling, then wraps an arm around my shoulder, virtually squeezing the fuck out of me. “You’re a motherfucking genius, Kill.”
“And you’re just figuring that out?”
He continues the mission of being a clingy fuck. “You’re right, I should just change scenery. Care for some shooting lessons? That instructor is good at getting on her knees.”
“Can’t. Busy.” I slip out of his octopus hold, then swiftly shove him away.
“Boo. I’ll go with my fave cousin, Gaz. You can kindly fuck off.”
I flip him off on my way out, then instead of lighting my cigarette, I throw it away.
Something tastes off about it.
After attending my first class, I take a mock test that my colleagues basically flip their shit about. With their dark circles and tiresome dramatics, one would think they’re not fit to be the elite of the elite.
If these bitches can’t calm themselves over some test, how are they supposed not to break down in the middle of the ER or a surgery?
So what if I didn’t study for the test myself? My genius neurons took care of half of it and the professor helped me with the other half when I went all charming on her.
Smarter not stronger. Or, God forbid, emotional.
What’s so great about emotions anyway? All my life, I’ve only seen them cause more harm than good. If people toned down on that poison a little, they wouldn’t need the drugs to battle it.
Once first period ends, I check my phone and ignore the countless meaningless notifications except for one.
Mom:Morning, baby boy! I hope you’re having a great day. Mom loves you to Neptune and back.
I snicker. I think Mom just refuses to believe we’ve grown up anymore.
When we were little, people told their kids they loved them to the moon and back, but Mom picked the most distant planet in the solar system and told us that’s how much she loves us.
I scribble a few things on my draft sheet that I usually don’t use, but pretend I do for Mom’s sake. At least that way, she’ll think her son is normal and struggles with shit.
It’s not one hundred percent effective, but it definitely helps in diluting her interest.
Then I take a picture and send it over.
Killian:Had a test this morning. Think I’ll do well?
Mom:I know you will. Even if the world stops believing in you, I won’t.
I tilt my head to the side, reading and re-reading her message. I guess she’s obliged by nature to love me unconditionally, even if a part of her will always be scared of me.
At least she tries, and I respect that about her.
I also respect Dad’s needs to establish clear boundaries. I would’ve probably done the same if I were him.
The only difference is, I don’t want to be in the same room with him.
Not after that day.
