calling up rebellion [brance]

chapter eight: distracted minds

TW : mentions of child abuse

VANCE HOPPER COULD NOT think normally today, his hands rapidly pressing the white buttons on the side of his pinball game. He could still feel the way his heart shattered, and the way he regret everything in a matter of seconds. Just mere seconds for his life to be flipped upside down and the one he's loved for as long as he can remember to not only reject him, but insult him.

It hurt him, he tried to push some of the pain away but it failed. The jabbing sharpness of a small needle poking holes into his body, letting his body drain and for his eyes to become lifeless. Vance could never admit to himself how much he loved this boy, because if he did he knew it'd hurt more.

His normal accomplice that stood besides him and watched him play had thought it best to leave before Vance's emotions erupted like a volcano. Lava spilling from him and burning everyone in short radius of him.

Vance's eye bags seemed to be more visible today, a red tint covering them along with the purple and blues of his eye bags. Countless sleepless night were to blame for that, however the redness? Bruce Yamada was to blame for that. He couldn't recall the time he'd fallen asleep last night, all he could remember was waking up with a wet pillow and a sticky face.

His mind thumping with thoughts all day, not even pinball seemed to be helping as he kept continuously losing. Shoving quarter after quarter into the machine, and he wished, oh did he wish that the anger that boiled inside him was due to that but really he wasn't even paying attention to the game. He wasn't watching the ball, or the buttons, he didn't care for that right now. He wished he did. He wished he'd cared more, he wished he'd thought out his actions before going along with them, he did stuff without the consequence effecting him, well that is until now. Being in the back of a police car, being shouted at by his mother, everybody being scared of him, nothing compared to the pain this made him feel.

Most people had left the store now, a few loners stood outside. He could hear the shuffle of feet in the isle besides his pinball game, it wasn't a loud day today. Just Vance's luck, he had nobody to get pissed off at, he had nobody to drown out his thoughts, he had nothing to help him get rid of the massive gaping hole in his chest that might as well be shown off to the world. Anybody could reach in at that moment and twist their hands around his heart, like that would do anything anyways.

His whole life he's dealt with people using him, hating him, wanting him, but they never cared. His so called friends, or mother, or anybody. They didn't know him for him, they knew him as Pinball Vance. It felt like a persona to him, a front, somebody he wasn't actually. A shadow of who he is, a disguise. It sometimes felt as if somebody was playing pretend as him but failing miserably. He did try, he tried everything to be like Bruce Yamada or Finney Blake. The nice guys, the kind guys, the guys everybody wants to be, the guys everybody wants.

What was love if not the shattering of a heart?

Stuffing his hand into his Jean pockets he rummaged his hand inside, trying to find a spare quarter. He'd run out, kicking the bottom of the pinball machine he let out a string of curse words. Smacking, kicking, shaking the machine. He didn't even like the damn thing, or the damn game. Vance used it as a daily distraction, using it to clear the myriad of thoughts that always seemed to fill his already overflowing mind. To zone out from the world, to finally have that time where he can pick the spikes from his back and release the harsh expectations that stared him down.

Vance had imagined every possible outcome, none of them seemed to hurt this badly. He had tried to cushion his own fall, keyword, tried.

The cashier from across the store called over to him in a lazy voice, "hey you, stop kicking the damn machine!" They didn't actually care, but it was policy to make sure nothing is vandalised by a customer.