DISCONTINUED
𝐌𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞♥
❝𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐚, 𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐬❞
❞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭❝
Wren Kai Kreese moved from Chicago to California when he was 12 and has lived there ever since. He's manage...
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𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫/𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬:
suggested domestic abuse (emphasis on suggested),
𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞.
He hasn't left the house in three days. He hasn't charged his phone since it died on his bedroom floor, much like his will to live. After procrastinating in his bed for hours he lugs himself up and into the bathroom where he runs his hand under scalding water. The ceramic creaks under his tight grip when he stares himself down in the dirty mirror.
It's the same old story, red rimmed eyes and unnaturally paled skin, a scarred face, scarred hands, scarred body. A grotesque, unmoving blind eye that splits his vision in half and makes onlookers stare at him with pity, makes them think what the hell could've happened to such a young boy. Or maybe they don't care, maybe they look at him and think that it's his fault, he must've provoked it, whatever happened.
A stranger's gaze, a stranger's mind terrifies him.
He swallows hard and tugs his clothes off slowly, like it physically pains him to do so. The shower's water is so hot that it steams almost immediately, it makes him incapable of looking at his pathetic reflection any longer.
Eventually, he puts his phone on the charger and checks on his mom, the normal stuff- pulling his life together like his grandfather didn't come back from the dead, like his dead grandfather isn't probably sitting in Wren's karate dojo, teaching Wren's friends.
His mom is watching tv, a rare scene: she doesn't like the 'new technology' that this generation uses. She doesn't acknowledge his presence, even though he's sure that she knows he's there. He sets a plate and a cup of water on her nightstand and closes the door as quietly as he possibly can on the way out.
Wren's about to sit down when a knock sounds from the front door. He pauses in his movements for a moment, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. There's only one person who knows where he lives. Clearing his throat, he twists the doorknob and pulls it open, ignoring the creak of its old hinges.
