Alley Mutts. |Brance|

Atelophobia

Atelophobia
The obsessive fear of imperfection
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Someone with this condition is terrified of making mistakes.

As Bruce walked home his mind began to wonder. What if his grades started to slip? What if his social status slipped? What if his baseball career suffered? What would he do if something happened to his grades? Or his attendance?

Shit.

His attendance. His attendance couldn't be at 100% if he missed the rest of his classes. But he was already so far away and had already missed two, so why go back and suffer?

He pushed down the fears and anxieties he had. His day was l ready shitty enough, why make it worse by dwelling on the dark thoughts.
Unfortunately his brain didn't agree with his positive outlook and pumped his head with more terrible thoughts. He ran a hand over his tan face and exhaled harshly.

Why did he do this to himself? Why not be normal? Why force himself to be perfect? He had convinced himself he enjoyed the popularity, friends, girlfriends, and parties, but did he?

He was angry at the world sometimes. Not all the time, just sometimes.  Just the times his dad screamed at him, and his sister came back with bruises, or cried because of ballet. Just the times he saw what his 'friends' did to others. Just the times when he let them.

Just most the time.

But it didn't matter, because his life was perfect. It looked perfect, at least. And he could live with that much. He could live with the prestige and perfect image he had upheld just as his mother and father had taught him to.
The perfect picture, with the perfect gold picture frame, on their perfectly white walls.

Now he was skipping? Hanging out with 'Pinball Vance'? Getting the shit beat out of him? If it terrified him the way it did why let it happen?

That scared him worse.

He arrived at his house. It was a big brick house. It had two windows on either side of the door and a big white door in the middle. A tree sat in the front with a swing hanging off of it. He smiled since nobody was home and stepped inside.

It always scared him a little when he really thought about it, but his house became much more of a home when he was alone in it. He decided to go to bed.

He awoke to his father slamming the door open. He stood up quickly and stood by the foot of his bed.
"Bruce! Why aren't your chores done?" The man demanded angrily.

Bruce's father was short and had a face that told people he smiled a lot, which wasn't necessarily true, He was shorter than Bruce and just small in general, that didn't mean his hits didn't hurt like a bitch though, he had the same jet black hair and thin eyes, his skin was a little less tan, and his eyes held anger and hatred. Something that Bruce seemed to inherit from him.

"Sorry, sir. I was tired from my classes and so I passed out when I came home."  He apologized as he kept his eyes pointed at the floor. His head snapped to the right as his cheek burned and blossomed into a red color.
"I expect so little of you! And this is how you repay my kindness? Huh?!" His father shouted.

Bruce winced a little and nodded. "I-I'm sorry, sir! I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
Bruce's father hit his shoulder and pushed him. He had learned how not to leave marks and where marks would be the easiest to conceal.

Bruce had learned that too.

He fell onto the bed and looked up at his father in fear.
"Darling, come help me in the kitchen!" His mother called. Bruce let out a sigh of relief and moved farther up onto his bed.

"Do your chores before I get done, or else." His father threatened. He nodded and his father stormed out.

He did his chores swiftly, checking on his sister in the process. She was still angry and he didn't blame him for it either but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt a little.

He noticed his father also watching him. He was looking for any slip up, any singular thing that was even slightly wrong.

Bruce had learned better then that though. He had learned to be terrified of anything imperfect. To fix it immediately and never ask questions.

His father had taught him that, his mother had, too.
He walked into the kitchen and looked at his mother. She was tall and lanky like Bruce, she wore her black mid length hair in a pony tail, her voice sounded kind for someone with such a stone face.

"Bruce." His mother greeted him coldly as she glared back at him.
"Mother." He stated in a faux happy tone as to not upset her.
She nodded and went back to chopping what was in front of her, Bruce guessed onions from how red her eyes were.

His mother never cried. Actually she never showed emotion at all. Nit since Amy was little, but even then she showed them very mildly. He grabbed the bag from inside the trash can and tied it up, feeling eyes burn into his back.
He picked the bag up and carried it outside. It was dark now. Had he really slept that long?

He blinked hard and finished throwing out the garbage before stepping back inside.

I hope you guys enjoyed!! I'm also starting a new story, Brance most likely and so yeah! I know I said I was going to only write one story at a time but slowburns suck to write man! They're fun just take forever. Anyways that's it and thank you for being so patient!! Also if I don't upload I'm sorry my mental health had not been great so if I take a break I'll let y'all know!! -author