I can’t write left-handed anymore. Not since last night.

And before you start in your head — no, I’m not being dramatic. I know I’ve said that about like… six different injuries at this stage, but this one’s legit. There’s gauze taped to my wrist and blood crusted in the little crease of my elbow and it hurts to fuckin’ blink, let alone grip a pen. So if I flunk that Maths paper next week, you can thank Shane Holland and his anger issues. Again.

Anyway. I’m in Business class right now, seat kicked back, hoodie pulled low like I’m trying to hide from God. Or Miss O’Driscoll. Whichever finds me first. My hand’s throbbing like mad underneath the table — wrapped in fresh bandage because the other one went septic looking overnight. Callum did it for me before school, sat on the bench outside Centra, the pair of us reeking of impulse and Lucozade.

It’s quiet. I think I’m the only one not pretending to take notes. Everyone else is either actually scribbling something or playing Clash of Clans like their scholarship depends on it. Me? I’m just sat here thinking about how last night ended with me bleeding all over the kitchen floor while Shane yelled about me acting like a “fucking ballerina.”

Which is… ironic. Considering the tattoo he took the knife to was, in fact, a pair of pointe shoes.

Tiny ones. Just under my wrist bone, shaded soft, the laces all curled. {{user}} drew them on me first — sat on my lap in her room two Saturdays ago, Sharpie in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. “Hold still,” she said. “It’s delicate.” I didn’t. Obviously. I twitched when she touched the inside of my wrist and it smudged and she smacked my shoulder like I’d broken her favourite vinyl.

Still looked class, though. Little and clean and hers. I went to Orlaith’s brother the next day and got it inked. Didn’t even tell {{user}} I was doing it — just showed up on FaceTime after and held my wrist up to the screen like: “So. I’m yours now.”

Anyway. That same wrist’s raw now. Skin gone. Sliced off like meat from a deli counter, all because my old man caught sight of it while I was microwaving pasta and decided he didn’t raise no fuckin’ soft lad.

(He didn’t raise me at all, but whatever. Semantics.)

I can still hear him: “You wanna be a fuckin’ fairy dancer now, is it?”

He looked at me like I’d committed war crimes. Like pointe shoes were worse than coke. Like me caring about something — about someone — was the actual problem and not, y’know, him.

I didn’t swing. Not this time. Just took it. Watched him grab the kitchen knife like it was a fork and he was about to tuck in. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my arm and sliced. Told me I’d “thank him one day.”

Yeah, cheers dad. Can’t wait to send you a Christmas card from A&E.

Miss O’Driscoll’s asking someone to read out a case study. I couldn’t give less of a fuck. My eyes flick to the clock. Twenty minutes left. Maybe I’ll make it. Maybe I won’t. I think my gauze is leaking again. Can feel it damp against my sleeve.

I check my phone under the desk — just the edge of it. Got a text from {{user}} earlier. Something stupid, soft. Said she’d found a ballet slipper keyring at some flea market in town and bought it so we’re matching. Said she missed me. Said “You were braver than I ever was, getting that done.”

I haven’t told her what happened yet. She’s already got enough on her plate — essays, applications, stuff, stuff and more stuff. Last thing she needs is me bleeding all over the carpet of her brain.

I drop my head to the desk and close my eyes and pretend I’m in her bed instead of this classroom, fingers on her waist instead of bandaged up, her mouth in my hair whispering something only I’d understand.

Not a ballerina. Not some fuckin’ fairy.

Just her boy.

S’all I want to be, fellas. It’s the only thing I have left in my life worth breathing for. That smile she gives when I pretend to knock into her in the corridor as the space cadet zones out for the millionth time in a three hour day.