freaks 𑁋 salvis

XXII

♥♡♥

hurt/comfort and then more hurt? yeah

Christmas was supposed to be fun. A day to spend time with family and friends, opening gifts and celebrating Christ's birthday.

The story of Jesus' birth was drilled into Travis every year as soon as he woke up on Christmas, even before gifts. After the agonizing ten to twenty minutes of sitting and staring at the mountain of gifts under the tree from 'Santa' while mother read to him, Travis was finally allowed to open them. He would laugh and scream in excitement, throwing wrapping paper here and there as trucks and cars and action figures and a new bible were revealed to the boy.

Christmas used to be fun, for Travis. It used to be the exact thing it was always meant to be, at least, for six years of his life, it was. For the six years his mother was alive, Travis enjoyed Christmas. It was filled with tons of gifts from Santa, a new pair of pajamas on Christmas Eve night that he'd never wear again, and a large spread on the table for dinner.

Now, Christmas was no longer fun. Despite his family's large amounts of wealth, after his mother died, no gifts were piled under the tree. Cookies and milk stopped getting left out on the coffee table in the living room, and Santa stopped coming by his house. While the other kids got toys and pajamas and books, Travis got bruises and cuts, and the beautiful gift of watching his father drink himself to sleep on the couch.

This Christmas, the eleventh since the last good one he had, was no different. Travis woke up in a cold house, to Kenneth yanking him out of bed and hitting his head against the metal frame for sleeping late. And then his father was gone, out the door, while Travis' head pounded and thick blood stained his yellow hair.

Travis didn't move from the floor for a few hours after that. He was tired and nauseous, black spots clouded his vision, and he was so cold. He was sure if he moved he'd pass out or puke, or maybe both.

He only finally moved when there was a knock on the front door. At first, he wanted to just let the person knock a few times and leave. Until, after the fourth knock, the beautiful, perfect voice of Sal Fisher shouted into the house.

"Travis, I know you're home! Please open the door!" Those words finally set Travis into motion, running a hand through his tangled hair and grimacing when he hits the spot that blood has caked into, matting the locks together. He stands despite it, not thinking clearly about the fact Sal would be very concerned to see Travis' head is bleeding, and he goes downstairs.

Travis opens the door, shaking from a mix of the chill in his bones and the lack of food in his stomach. He's gotten better at eating, but he still only eats half a meal a day at lunch, and he no longer throws everything back up. That's not by choice, though. Sal's seemed to have picked up on Travis' bulimic tendencies, and now distracts him for long enough after eating that by the time he remembers to throw his food back up, it's too late.

He still only really eats 500 or less calories a day, but he's eating enough to make Sal happy. Sal thinks he's also eating breakfast and dinner, and Travis isn't going to tell him otherwise.

"Travis! Hi! Can I come in?" Sal asks, but he allows no time for the blond to answer before he's pushing past Travis into the house. Travis clears his throat and shuts the door after Sal, muttering a short "yeah" as he does so.