Obsession

101

Flaming.
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It wasn't expected for him to wake up with a crucial headache, on his bed, and nicely tucked in his bedsheets. At first he thought it was a dream, a nightmare that had come to haunt him. But as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with his fragile and shaky hands. The realization jumped upon him when he felt the fabric of what seemed to bed bandages around his wrists. Of course with a sense of curiosity and confusion settled upon his shoulder, he froze for minute feeling the relatively soft fabric come in contact with his eyes. It was only when he pulled away his hands, blinking a few times to adjust his vision after what he only could assume was a long slumber.

He eventually forced his eyes down to his wrists, seeing white, thin, bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. He blinked in confusion, bending his left wrist only the feel the stinging sensation of pain shooting through the once calmed nerves, creating a tension that formed through all his nerves and muscles in his body.

Worry and fear was the next surprise visitors of feelings that landed onto him, grabbing him away from the confusion and tension and focusing the subject on the worrisome feelings, barging in. He stood abruptly up from the bed, not letting his own body and head adjust to the rather quick movements as he swung open the door to his bedroom, as he hurried down the small corridor into the bathroom occasionally used by him and his parents. He was expecting to see what looked like a horrible crime scene, which he for hours of what he could assume ago, should've have been a suicide attempt. So with his eyelids flickering once again, seeing the cleaned bathroom floor the shower cabin that was neat and fresh too use, looking cleaner than what he first approached. He couldn't help but wonder why, or how, or who, or when any of this took place.

His first initial thought went to his parents, fear and worry that they've seen him in such a state made anxiety travel down his spine, his eyes shaking as tears already threatened to spill his sorrows.

Running down stairs with a tiny bit of adrenaline running through his veins, he couldn't help but to realize that once again, his parents were out of the house. There were no cars, no phones charging twenty-four/seven. And there was no sound of laundry being washed of food being cooked, or newspapers being swapped side to side. It was quiet. Other than his frantic panting it was quiet.

He went over to the note by the table happened to only notice the oiece of papers barely seconds ago. Scoffing at the pretty and neat cursive handwriting on the note, explaining his parents whereabouts.

"Great..." he mumbled to himself, his voice grogged out deep from hoe long he's been crying and sleeping for. But only the hatred of remembrance of how he ended up in that bathroom in the first place, caused his once newly fixed heart, to shatter into microscopic pieces. "Fuck you" he spat, rolling up the piece of paper and throwing it in the trash.

For him, there was no more to keep from his parents. He had went from a loving heart and hoarding up notes in his drawers from his mother, appreciating the smallest effort to make his day. But now he turned a blind eye, a cold shoulder and a heart so burned down that he wasn't attempting to replace it no more, to all the sweet letters. He teared them apart. If only he knew how selfish and self-absorbed his mother was, he would have had a different picture of her from day one.

He couldn't forgive her, not with what happened. Never in the world of how much she refused to listen to him. It wasn't ever a situation about her, but she failed to admit that, to apologize for her wrong doings. It pained him, scarred him.

She couldn't believe. Or wouldn't believe.

That her son, her previously 16 year old baby boy. Was now a 20 year old, grown up, traumatized boy, who needed an ear to listen to his disturbances.

But he should've of realized that from day one. She was indeed the one never caring about his concerns about the continuation of stalking he faced back then. He couldn't help but think, that maybe she felt regret, guilt, for not protecting her own son properly.

But whatever she did, didn't work out.

Cause in the long run, she only hurted him more and more. He couldn't escape the loop hole of pain the traveled through his body, he couldn't escape the reoccurance of the past. He was stuck.

And upset.

Of not furious.

Where was his love, his comfort, his hugs and kisses. The smallest effort to make him feel loved and safe.

Where was his home?

Where did it go?

And why did it run away from him so quickly?

He wanted it back. The safety, the comfort, the happiness and the dreams. The dreams he had, the happiness and love he held upon his heart, the feeling of comfort, the safety he had in his parents arms when he got hurt.

Where was it?

Why did it have to run away?

And why couldn't he get it back in his hands like he used to have?

Which rock did he have to throw? What mountain did he have to climb, that he has yet to climb? How long did he have to fight and wait around for the same bullshit to occur?

Just how fucking long did he have to be patient to get back the life that was stolen from him?

"I want it back".

He turned to the kitchen, noticing a green box on the counter, another piece of paper that read.

"You need it" he read out loud, grabbing onto the box with his name on it, feeling like he has seen it somewhere.

Confusing and curiosity came back to say a quick hello. As he ran up to his room, locking himself away from whatever reality was outside of it.

He stepped over the dirty laundry on the floor, the plates, forks and knives laying around from the meals he has been eating in his room. Dotting down on the bed, opening the box with anticipation.

"What is this?" He spoke, a frown turning into a wide set of eyes as he pushed the box away from him.

...

"No".
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Bunnies.