Chasing The Moon

Chapter 22

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Tsukkiyama brain rot

TW: Blood, Abuse

Please mentally prepare- actually that's a good idea I should have done that before I wrote this-

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The floor was already sticky by the time I started to clean it up. It took me so long to regain the strength to stand. My dad left for his bedroom after telling me off, leaving me sobbing on the floor, clutching to my back like I was dying. It definitely felt like I was, my legs shaking every time I tried to stand.

After a while, the pain started to ease up, and I stood up, leaning on the wall. I almost slipped on some of the whisky on the floor, gripping tighter to the rim and shakily walked over to the counter, glass cracking under my feet. I stared at the clear puddles ranging from the fridge to the wall, surrounding the counter and chairs, tears threatening to spill from my already weak eyes.

I leaned down under the sink, looking for rags and cleaning products, sitting on my knees. After finding something that would destroy the smell while simultaneously making sure it didn't stick, I sprayed it across the ground, using the rag to push aside the pieces of glass. There was so much of it, it made me sick to my stomach. I don't even think it was the smell at this point, the situation pounding at my sanity with a sledgehammer. My head ached, replaying the moment over and over.

I let more salty tears fall down my freckled cheeks, vision so blurry I could barely see the ground under me. I slid the rag across the floor in a quick motion, mostly out of frustration.

"Ow..."

I lifted my hand up, watching the deep red blood leak from a cut across my palm. I clutched it, holding it close to my chest, my arms starting to shake. I wanted to cry- no I wanted to punch something- but my frustration built up in me as I clutched my teeth, more hot tears streaming down my neck and shirt. The sides of my head ached, and I tried standing up, but my knees felt like they were about to collapse underneath me again. I held onto the side of the counter, stumbling over to the stairs. I needed to go to the bathroom to clean myself up, despite my dad's requests to clean up his mess.

I took the hand that wasn't injured and grasped onto the railing, struggling to walk up the steps, but I ignored the pain racing through my thighs. God, it felt like such a long walk, like I was never going to make it up there, the bathroom just out of reach, yet it seemed like I wouldn't make it there.

But

That's exactly how my life is right?

Everything, everyone, right in front of me, yet always slipping from the tips of my fingers right when I think things are going good again.

Every time.

It was all so...

pointless.

I'm aware that my life has no meaning, but right now, my existence was exceptionally worthless.

Bloody shirts.

Bruised skin.

Wet cheeks and red eyes.

All of it being the physical representation of my mental state. The very one that was slowly yet surely crashing down.

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I must have spaced out the entire time on my way to the bathroom. I grabbed the sink, slipping on it because of my bloody hand, catching myself with the other one.

What a mess I've gotten myself into.

I turned on the faucet, sticking my hand under the cold water. The entire sink turned red, disappearing down the drain, only for even more crimson liquid to follow it. I stood there for...however long...I wasn't even aware of my surroundings at this point, but the water never turned clear again. My hand was starting to sting, so I pulled it out, turning off the faucet and watching the drops fall from my hand, covering the sink in a deep red disorder. I didn't realize the cut was even that deep.