Control

18 - The Boiler Room

a/n - this one's sad but next one is spicyyyyy. also pls comment I like responding to them. ALSO 70k READS WTF GUYS

It was Saturday night, and I was alone. Again.

I do this to myself, the isolation, the avoidance of everyone around me. Well, everyone except for Eddie. I'm not sure why I do it, but it's like I'll have a good streak of talking to people and communicating and being happy- and then it all falls apart.

Yesterday, when I was supposed to have a nice time with Alex and Enzo at their office and bake them some food, I left early. Vince had...scared me, and despite my best efforts, I seemed to only make him angry or walk away. I don't know why I do that to people. It's always either anger or abandonment, and I'm not sure which one I prefer. I wish I could just make people happy all the time. I could never do just that.

After Vince had left the room, I'm not sure why, but I started to cry. I could suddenly feel the bruises and scratches on my body all at once, and the one around my neck was suffocating me, I left like I couldn't breathe. So, I gathered my things, gave Aria her concealer back, she gave me her phone number, and I left the building. I took a bus home, with the very small amount of money I had on me. It was better than staying there and making them all upset.

I texted Enzo when I was in the elevator, telling him that I'm sorry but I had to leave early. I made up a lie about Eddie, which I probably shouldn't have done, but I don't think they would've been happy if I told them the truth, about just getting up and leaving for almost no reason. But I had felt bad, and I still do.

I was in the gym now, after finishing an extra long shift in the bar/club upstairs. 6pm to 3am. No breaks. No food. No...no sleep.

I am so, so, so tired. All the time.

How was any of this fair? I could feel myself spiraling, a never ending cycle of feeling bad and thinking bad thoughts while I punched the punching bag I had painted weeks ago, in an effort to uplift the environment around me. The flowers were just making me sad now. Who was I to decide that I can paint on that? Who was I to stake my claim on this place when I had no right to? Maybe because I don't have any real property of my own. It was never fair.

But maybe it was. Maybe I just didn't work hard enough. When I was putting Eddie to bed tonight, he had asked me when his birthday was coming up. I was tempted to lie to him, push it off. Instead, I smiled and said, "A month, Eddie-bear. Are you excited?"

He had smiled back, and said, "Yeah! Do you think Daddy will be able to see us? Will he be at my birthday party?"

Dad. The mention of him almost made me sob, but I held it together and said, "Maybe, sweet boy. Go to bed now, okay?" I had turned off the lights and rounded the corner just in time, right before the tears fell.

Eddie's words made me think back to a time before moving into the little bakery. A scene started playing into my head again, and before I could stop it, I was punching away as my memories betrayed me.

I was little, but not as little as Eddie, about 13. I was painting a portrait of a woman with long brown hair and a bright smile. Each brush stroke made my own smile larger, seeing her come back to life as time passed. Then, father came down the stairs.

He stood next to my sitting body, clad in a blue nightgown. I had no shoes or socks on, and the basement floor was freezing. My hands matched the gown I was wearing. Every time I breathed, I could see it in the air.

"Hello, father," I had spoken softly, my voice not reminiscent of my own, having not spoken in days. "Look, it's mother."

He had only stared at the painting, not saying a word. He was a put together man, always way, with slicked back black and grey hair and a brown suit. He had glasses, which somehow made him look less threatening. Only I knew the truth.