east of eden 𑁋 salvis.

III

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Kenneth pulled into the driveway, muttering something to Deborah as soon as he puts the car in park. She nods, not hesitating as she unbuckles and walks into the house. Travis, too afraid to move, stays in the backseat until Kenneth gets out. Travis hardly has a moment to follow him out of the car before Kenneth's angrily yanking the door open and tugging Travis out of the car by his arm. His grip around Travis' bicep is harsh, no doubt going to leave an angry purple bruise behind by the time tomorrow comes around, perhaps even earlier than that.

Travis stumbles out of the car, following Kenneth into the house before being thrown down on the cold wooden floor of the living room. Deborah's nowhere to be seen, though that's typical. She always disappears when Kenneth's angry, after her first two times of getting hurt just like Travis did, she goes off and hides until Kenneth's cooled off.

Kenneth doesn't say anything to Travis, acting all purely out of anger. It's clear he hadn't put too much thought into Travis' punishment today, which was mostly a good thing. When Kenneth didn't put too much thought into the punishment, that meant he would cool off quickly, usually after just a few hits. It meant Travis hadn't done anything too bad, only something bad enough to quickly piss Kenneth off, but the anger wouldn't last. It would fizzle out quickly, luckily.

Kenneth was ruthless, however, even if he wasn't all that angry. He kicked angrily at Travis' sides, mostly targeting his ribcage, but occasionally making a brutal hit to the stomach that left Travis curling up into a ball, trying to protect his abdomen from the hits, from the pain. Kenneth didn't let that happen, however, kicking Travis' nose so hard Travis' head went flying back, and, by association, so did the rest of his body.

Travis cupped his hands over his bloody nose, though the blood seeped between the cracks of his fingers and dripped onto the floor. It certainly didn't help that Travis was shaking terribly, which just let more blood fall and stain the wood. He knew he'd have to clean that up once Kenneth was done.

That time came around fairly quickly, at least, to someone who wasn't a part of the punishment currently happening. To Travis, the time that passed before Kenneth's anger had fizzled away had seemed like a lifetime. Although, in reality, that time was no longer than five minutes. No longer than the time it took for a commercial break on TV, or the time it took to change into a different set of clothing.

Kenneth gave a final kick to Travis' stomach, shaking his head down at the bleeding boy on the floor as Travis coughed a bit of the warm red liquid onto the floor. Travis blinked blearily up at Kenneth, hardly able to be concerned as his mouth tasted of iron, as blood dribbled down his chin and stained the skin there red.

"Clean this up." Kenneth stated, looking at Travis for a beat longer before sighing, shaking his head for a final time, and finally walking off. Travis laid there for a moment, gathering himself. His breathing was stuttering and anxious, his heart pounding against his injured ribs, and his hands were shaking, yet eventually he stood and did as told. He did as he'd done many times before, getting the bleach underneath the kitchen sink, pairing the liquid with a rag, and he scrubbed the floor until the whole living room reeked of bleach, until his hands were red from slight chemical burn, as the rag had been thin and his poor skin had been subject to the harsh bleach for a bit too long.

Travis eventually finished, head pounding from the beating he'd went through as well as the reeking smell of bleach that wafted through the house. He put the rag in the washing machine, the bleach back underneath the kitchen sink, and then Travis went to his room.

He sighed as soon as he was in the safety of his bedroom, locking the door though he knew better. He figured Kenneth probably wouldn't try to open the door without warning, and if he did, then oh well.

Travis blinked, finally feeling the pain of his new injuries settle into his skin, stinging and burning and aching, and a single tear fell from his eye. A tear of pain, a tear of self loathing, a tear of sadness. Though he quickly shook all those feelings away, balling his hand into a fist so tight that the new pain accompanied with the pain of his new injuries distracted him, and when he focused himself away from the physical pain, the mental pain was gone yet again, overthrown by cloudy numbness. A feeling he knew well, a feeling he loved.

Travis could feel the blood on his face, on his hands, some on his scarred wrists, start to dry, crusting up onto his skin. He didn't quite yet go to the bathroom attached to his room to clean himself, though, instead following a similar routine as to what he usually follows.

He walks to his closet, opening it and feeling around for the loose boards in the floor. It's there he keeps many things, the things he wants to keep away from his father. For example, some random pills he found in his father's bedside table once, his journal, and, most importantly, Travis' best friend. A box of razorblades.

He pulls up the loose board, grabbing the box of blades before placing the board back and going to his bathroom. Travis hovers over the sink as he opens the box, grabbing a razorblade with one hand while he uses his bloody mouth to eagerly pull down the sweater of his other arm. Travis places the blade against his scabbed wrist, taking in a breath as he savors the feeling of the cold metal on his arm.

And then, he slices. Once, twice, three times, so many times he can't count. He knows he's spelling something, but he's not quite sure what until afterwards, when he's cleaned up and lying in bed, his body aching all over. And it's then that Travis remembers he doesn't know what he was writing, he'd been too taken over by the glorious feeling of stinging and blood to think about reading it.

Travis grabs his sleeve, unwrapping the bloody bandages from his arm and wiping gently at the tender, red skin around the cuts, just to make it easier for himself to read. And what he sees, God, it makes him sick inside.

FAGGOT

Written in blood and cuts, written by his own hand on his own arm. And it'll be there for eternity now, even when it heals over it'll still be a lumpy scar there on his wrist that the world will see. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Travis hardly has time to think about what he's supposed to do now as his doorknob rattles, causing him to urgently wrap his soiled bandages back around his arm and pull his sleeve down. Travis is sure no one would care if they saw what he did to himself, but he liked to keep it a secret. It wasn't as fun if people knew about it, whether they cared or not.

"Travis Phelps, open this goddamn door right now!" The angry voice of none other than Kenneth Phelps shouted, pounding on Travis' door as soon as the words have left his mouth. Travis shakily sighs, knowing he's going to be getting a round two soon, but he stands regardless and opens the door. He knows he has no other choice. It's either open the door on his own accord or get the door broken down by his angry father. He'd much rather the latter of the two.

Kenneth glares at him, fists balled angrily at his sides, yet he doesn't say anything for a moment. Once it seems he's gathered himself, he suddenly reaches up to sock Travis in the eye.

"Dinner's ready. Come eat." He muttered afterwards, turning and walking away as soon as he'd spoke. Travis was so going to get his ass handed to him on a platter after dinner, but at least for now, he was safe. For the next thirty minutes, he was safe.

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