What I Really Am: Chapter 8 Part one.
A/N: This story is now on wattpad, as will all coming ones (/n-n)/ *le happy dance*
Anyways, here's chapter eight, this is going to be interesting.
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Brendon's PO
My head throbs as I wake up. I'm in my bathroom- wait, what?. Groaning, I lift my head up slightly and then push myself up to sit with my back against the wall, a dull ache over its entirety. Why the hell am I in here? I should be by the stairs... I really don't feel like getting up, but when I check the clock on the wall, it's almost time for me to 'go to work'. Taking my time, I get up and walk down the hall to my room. My back really fucking hurts. When I get to my room, I hurry up (as much as I can for being beaten and sore) and change into my work clothes: black skinny jeans and a maroon polo shirt, and slip back on my beat-up checkered Vans (slip-ons). I swap out my contacts for my usual red-rimmed glasses, and look in the full-body mirror on the back of my door. My eyes are automatically drawn to my arm.
"Shit!" I mutter. Last night comes back to memory. I remember.
His hands tremble as he locks the bathroom door and falls against it. Brendon presses his ear up to the door to make sure his father is passed out from alcohol, like he almost always is by now.
"Yes," he breathes and a tear hits the tile, and soon enough, more are following. He doesn't realize he's crying yet again. They fall like raindrops, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two, three, maybe even four. He sits there a good minute before he remembers why he's in there. Brendon snaps out of his transfixion and pulls open the small, bottom drawer of the vanity. Under all the rags, his hands meets the box he had thought he would never use again. He pulls it out and removes something, but it's not a lighter--
Brendon pulls out a, bloodstained and shiny, silver razorblade.
"No, no. Nonono," I say. "What the fuck did I DO? I am so STUPID!" I hurry back to the bathroom and on the ground, next to the little tin box, is the razor. I go to throw it away, along with the box, and see bloody tissues stuffed in the trash bin. Yeah, I did it this time.
Brendon drags the razor across his arm, lightly at first. Each time, he cuts deeper, relieving his pain a little more. He groans and bites his lip. It stings, but it feels almost like the burns. He's basically used to it. He does a cut for each time his dad hit him, which was too many to count. By the time he's done, there's blood dripping down his arm and down to the floor, mingling with the tears that are dripping down his face. There's cuts covering his entire left forearm, front and back. They're angry and red and bloody and he sits there for a moment before cleaning up his mess.
He passes out not long after.
There's bandages on my arm before you can say 'i'msuchanidiot' and I'm down the stairs,grey zip-up jacket on to cover my arm.
"Dad, I have to work double shifts today, Jon's out sick," which the last part is true, my friend Jon had been out with the flu for a week or so now. "I'll be home by," I look at my watch, "Eight."
And with that, I leave. I get to Ryan as fast as I can, and he seemed to be waiting for me, because as soon as I knock, the door is swinging open.
"Bren!" he squeaks, obviously having been crying. "You came back." He sniffles, sounding awed.
"Ry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I don't care if you have this... curse. I love you all the same. I shouldn't have acted like that." And with that, he kisses me.
"I know." He pauses and looks at me, small smile in his lips. His eyes are darker than a minute ago, clouded. He starts to kiss me again, closing the cabin door and somehow, manages to get us to the bed in his room down the hall.
Anyways, here's chapter eight, this is going to be interesting.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Brendon's PO
My head throbs as I wake up. I'm in my bathroom- wait, what?. Groaning, I lift my head up slightly and then push myself up to sit with my back against the wall, a dull ache over its entirety. Why the hell am I in here? I should be by the stairs... I really don't feel like getting up, but when I check the clock on the wall, it's almost time for me to 'go to work'. Taking my time, I get up and walk down the hall to my room. My back really fucking hurts. When I get to my room, I hurry up (as much as I can for being beaten and sore) and change into my work clothes: black skinny jeans and a maroon polo shirt, and slip back on my beat-up checkered Vans (slip-ons). I swap out my contacts for my usual red-rimmed glasses, and look in the full-body mirror on the back of my door. My eyes are automatically drawn to my arm.
"Shit!" I mutter. Last night comes back to memory. I remember.
His hands tremble as he locks the bathroom door and falls against it. Brendon presses his ear up to the door to make sure his father is passed out from alcohol, like he almost always is by now.
"Yes," he breathes and a tear hits the tile, and soon enough, more are following. He doesn't realize he's crying yet again. They fall like raindrops, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two, three, maybe even four. He sits there a good minute before he remembers why he's in there. Brendon snaps out of his transfixion and pulls open the small, bottom drawer of the vanity. Under all the rags, his hands meets the box he had thought he would never use again. He pulls it out and removes something, but it's not a lighter--
Brendon pulls out a, bloodstained and shiny, silver razorblade.
"No, no. Nonono," I say. "What the fuck did I DO? I am so STUPID!" I hurry back to the bathroom and on the ground, next to the little tin box, is the razor. I go to throw it away, along with the box, and see bloody tissues stuffed in the trash bin. Yeah, I did it this time.
Brendon drags the razor across his arm, lightly at first. Each time, he cuts deeper, relieving his pain a little more. He groans and bites his lip. It stings, but it feels almost like the burns. He's basically used to it. He does a cut for each time his dad hit him, which was too many to count. By the time he's done, there's blood dripping down his arm and down to the floor, mingling with the tears that are dripping down his face. There's cuts covering his entire left forearm, front and back. They're angry and red and bloody and he sits there for a moment before cleaning up his mess.
He passes out not long after.
There's bandages on my arm before you can say 'i'msuchanidiot' and I'm down the stairs,grey zip-up jacket on to cover my arm.
"Dad, I have to work double shifts today, Jon's out sick," which the last part is true, my friend Jon had been out with the flu for a week or so now. "I'll be home by," I look at my watch, "Eight."
And with that, I leave. I get to Ryan as fast as I can, and he seemed to be waiting for me, because as soon as I knock, the door is swinging open.
"Bren!" he squeaks, obviously having been crying. "You came back." He sniffles, sounding awed.
"Ry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I don't care if you have this... curse. I love you all the same. I shouldn't have acted like that." And with that, he kisses me.
"I know." He pauses and looks at me, small smile in his lips. His eyes are darker than a minute ago, clouded. He starts to kiss me again, closing the cabin door and somehow, manages to get us to the bed in his room down the hall.