𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 (on hold)

| 𝟎𝟐 |

Pizza Friday was my day, and now it had been ruined by old memories. I had planned to eat bad pizza and watch a bad film, but now I was stuck at the kitchen table, a half-eaten pizza slice hanging from my hand, and old photos scattered across the table.

Matthias and I, eating ice cream on the pier. Me on Halloween in a full face of makeup, photographed by Matthias. Matthias with icing all over his face, photographed by me. Matthias and I, sat on my bed.

There were no more pictures after I was fourteen. In theory, there could have been plenty of pictures— if I had stored pictures of myself crying for hours, screaming into my pillow, punching anything I could find and feeling just so fucking angry.

Because, when I was fourteen, he left me. I used to believe he would burst through the door like a superhero and stop everyone from hurting me.

I was stupid and so naïve because I thought that he actually liked me. That maybe he cared about me for a little while. Clearly I was wrong, because if he ever cared for me then he wouldn't have left me where he knew I would get hurt.

Maybe a small part of me was still naïve now, because I was still thinking about him— even when I knew he didn't care about me.

Every part of my brain pulled against it, but all I could think about was those first few weeks after he had left. If I had thought it was bad before, all it could do was get worse.

I was a stupid, arrogant fool to think that they wouldn't catch up to me. I had run fast, but their pride had been too strong to let them give up.

I had taken a corner too fast and slipped on the shiny floor of the corridor, smashing face first into the wall. I had fallen back, clutching my nose and tears had gathered in my eyes.

I had gripped the locket in my hand, watching them approach on me. There had been no point in running, they would catch me eventually. They always did.

I had taken a deep breath and swung my arm back, throwing the locket as high up the wall as it could go. It had slipped into an alcove and I had sucked in a deep breath, only having a few moments of relief before they got to me.

One of them— a blonde girl— had grabbed my arm, twisted it and slammed me face down onto the floor. I had groaned as my bruised nose let out a quiet crunch. A solid black boot had kicked my side and I had curled into myself, gripping my shins and tucking my head in.

Their kicks had bruised my arms and legs and ribs, but I hadn't cried out. I had known it would only egg them on. The pain had finally died down, but a final hard kick to my head had made my body break out in pain.

I had felt a blob of spit hit the side of my face,
"Where is it, you fucking fat bitch?"

I had shaken as I clenched my body, shaking my head. Their kicks had resumed, and I had let tears freely fall from my eyes. Another one had gripped my hair, ripping it backwards and slapping me harshly across the face,

"Where the fuck is it?"

I had still said nothing, and they had kicked me and slapped me and spat on me until I couldn't feel anything.

In my head, I had pictured him walking through the door right then. How he'd have ripped them off of my cowering body, sent them to the floor with one hit, and then he would have helped me. He'd have held me gently in his arms and let me cry until I got it all out. He'd have tucked my head to his neck and made sure I felt safe.

Then he'd have bought my favourite sweets and we would have watched a movie— probably a musical— and would have sung along to all of the songs.