CARNIVORE [MxM+]

Chapter 2

Tycho Black. 

I remember the first time Jason ever had the nerve to raise his hand to me. I remember it like it was yesterday, only because it hasn't stopped visiting me since in the form of dreams and correlations. 

The first time wasn't easy, even though it was a new experience for the both of us. I guess he was holding it in for a while. 

I was 7, and he was irritated. Irritated enough to stop himself from hitting a wall or screaming, and think of something better, something more efficient. I don't think it's a coincidence Jason started doing drugs only a few weeks before our eventual situation. 

I remember thinking, what did I do to you? I know I was misbehaving, but Mom and Dad never got this mad. Yet it was like I had flipped a switch in his mind, or opened a floodgate that was just waiting to burst. I can't even remember what he had said to me that I didn't like which led to my tantrum. I just remember being annoyed and then Jason's red face and then pain, pain everywhere, tearing itself through my innocent mind and destroying it completely. I hadn't even registered what happened, I just knew I was crying and my mother was yelling and Jason was yelling back and that's when it started; that's when my chest couldn't handle the weight of my fear anymore, which wouldn't have been a big deal if I didn't have a reason to fear everything.  

I remember every part of that horrid experience, even the minute it happened. But there are only two things I really remember from the second time. 

The first thing was the way my mother ignored it. How she completely ignored the barely breathing child writhing on the floor in pain next to her. How she just washed the dishes like she usually did in the morning, and then when I still hadn't moved made some coffee for her and Jason before he went to work. She didn't even look back when she left the room. 

That was the first thing that stuck with me. The second was what I felt afterward. Absolutely nothing; nothing but sickening, unadulterated, red-hot fucking-

Anger. 

"There you fuckin' go, Black, keep- MOVING!" 

BANG

I tear through the two linebackers as they rush forward, hoping to catch me before I can pass the line of scrimmage. I don't ignore the burning in my chest or legs or shoulder because this time I have nothing to ignore. I feel absolutely nothing, much less temporary pain. 

I don't reach for yardage this time. I ignore it completely and surprise the safety by rushing him. 

BANG

He lands with a hard thud on his back a few feet away from me, and I can't help but hope it hurt. 

Don't fucking touch me.

BANG

I reach thirty-yard line with ease, and this is usually the time when my fatigue catches up with me slightly, causing a defender to reach with me. But I don't care.

BANG

The thought of failing engulfs me like a plague but it doesn't slow me down, it only saturates my fuckin' blood.

BANG
BANG
BANG

..

Nothing.

"Good job, Black," Coach Roy yells from eighty yards away, where he stands next to most of the team. He then directs his attention to everyone else and lets out a horse "Take five!" The team disperses to the sidelines as I try to calm my breathing a bit, and I take notice of how much farther away Ashwyn is than normal. I can't help the huff of satisfaction I let out. I softly drop the ball at my feet. That's Good. This is good. This way he won't touch me and I won't fail. That's great. 

...

It's the end of practice and I haven't stopped moving, mentally at least. Sometimes, when I notice it, it's odd; how my mind can't focus on one thing, can't focus on anything in front of me. Only what I fear. But I'm so used to being caged by Fear I don't even know if the sun is outside of my cage or if it's finally exploded and turned the Earth to shreds like Fear says it would. Since I do notice it this time, it affects me physically and I have to remind myself that I am breathing and that my heart rate is pacing normally. I ignore it as I practically run to the showers and try not to feel the twenty-degree temperature pelting in my back. 

And even though the shower room is open-spaced and wide I can't help but feel like I'm being pushed into a corner, because my fear is keeping me there and it's reminding me of the metaphorical elephant in the room- even though it isn't real it feels like it is actually as large as this room can fit besides the corner I reside in. 

The elephant isn't just labeled as fear. It's a factor of fear, but if it was all of it it certainly wouldn't fit in this room, let alone the entire universe. But anyway, this elephant has a name. It's a name it fully embraces just from its size and the terror it enjoys invoking on me. 

This elephant's name is Jason. 

I'm absolutely terrified of this elephant because I can't tell what's real about it anymore. What I factually know, though, is that what happened last night was real, as presented by the bruises that litter my ribs and contort themselves across my face. I also happen to know that the morning after is worse because now Jason isn't just drunk and high, but he's drunk and high and hungover. He also knows I've been technically stealing from him. It's not my fault I can't keep a job because Jason refuses to give me a ride and he made a habit of attacking me right before a shift. That, or people start asking too many questions. 

I've decided that I can't go home. I will have to eventually but maybe the solution to this bomb strapped to my chest is to simply wait for it to calm itself down. That'll work, right?