"you make me weep just looking at you"

Noel is actually not having the most amazing time right now

Noel's body hurt.

Thats all Noel could register at the moment. Just pain. Everything ached-- every muscle, every tendon, every limb, everything was on fire. His throat burned as he sobbed. Why was he in so much pain right now? He had been crying for some while, about what he couldn't even remember. Through it all, he could pinpoint a dull ache in his arms, dark bruises decorating sickly flesh, leaving trails of dark blue, black, and purple. Noel found the swirls of colour rather pretty, beautiful even. Tragically so. He'd put them there himself, after all.

Noel sniffled, a pathetic sound. He drew his knees into his chest, hugging himself tightly, trying to imagine it as one of his friends from choir. He could talk to them. Noel knew that; however, he couldn't seem to bring himself to ask for help. For one, everyone had their own problems to deal with, and they certainly didn't need to add Noels rapidly declining mental state to their lists. Two, Noel couldn't imagine himself ever getting better. He'd been this way for so long, so mentally unhealthy for so long, that the thought of opening up to anyone, then having to 'get better' was terrifying. It certainly didn't help that the last (and only time) he'd been to a therapist, things went...not great. Long story short, the therapist only made Noel's will to live dwindle more. It had been at some shady hyper-religious place, and he'd only gone because his Mother had insisted it would 'fix' him. Turn him back into his Mother's 'little girl'.

Noel squeezed his eyes shut tighter. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his heart rate hadn't gone back to normal, but he had stopped crying. He was too tired. Noel's head hurt terribly, and his nose was running like crazy. His cheeks and under eyes were red and puffy, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. It was exactly the kind of scene he'd see in one of his favorite moves, just switch his bedroom for a grimy ally as the location. This pleased him, somewhat. A small comfort in a sea of misery.

With the topic of movies on his mind, Noel dragged his body from his bed to turn on one of his favorites, just for some background noise. He moved jerkily, still trembling from crying so much. As Noel popped open the case for the DVD, he thought about the first time he'd watched the movie.

His Mother had bought it, a rare kind gesture, though obviously not knowing the contents to their extent. This was before his dad had left, before things had gotten really bad.
Noel and his Mother had decided to watch the movie together and took one of the softer, cleaner blankets and made popcorn. The movie was promptly shut off before 15 minuets passed. They instead put on one they had both seen before, Noels Mother stroking his then long hair. When the movie was over, and Noels Mother though he was asleep, Noel snuck out of bed to grab the movie. His Mother had failed to put it away, where she could return it in the morning. That night, Noel watched the movie all the way through, and thus began his obsession with French tragedy movies.

The memory was a nice one, though Noel couldn't look at it positively. It had been just a week before the big fight, the one where his father had packed his things after. His dad then blocked his Mother on everything, then probably moved far away, out of this shit town. Noel didn't know where. His dad didn't even leave a note. Then his Mother joined the dumb aerobics class, became hyper-religious, and enrolled him in the St. Cassian christian private school from hell.

Huffing, more annoyed at the memory than anything, he pressed play on the DVD player. Sitting back down on his bed, he watched the opening credits. About 30 minutes into the movie, Noel was jolted by a string of knocks at the front door. It was frantic and loud, loud enough for Noel to hear it over his sniffles-- no longer crying, his nose was just stuffy as a side effect-- and his movie.
After a minuet, the series of knocks repeated, somehow more urgent. Noel debated answering it, as it was clear his Mother wasn't going to, but Noel really didn't want to, because, A: He must have looked like a wreck. There's no way anyone could look at him without asking questions. B: Noel was worried it could be someone he knew.

Noel let the knocking continue for another few minuets, hoping they would stop and whoever was knocking would give up and go away. Noel wasn't that lucky. The knocking was persistent, and each time they only grew more and more desperate.

So, Noel grit his teeth and pulled on something with longer sleeves before exiting the comfort of his room to answer the godforsaken knocking at the front door.

It was Mischa.