CARNIVORE [MxM+]

Chapter 2 [Revised]

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 in the form of dreams and correlations. 

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

I was seven, 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 that 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 time of day it happened. Three-thirty-four pm. A warm July afternoon. But whenever I'm stuck in my mind, and these memories seek me out at night, it's not the first beating I tend to latch onto. It's the second, because even though I remember everything from the first, there are only two things I really remember from the second.

The first thing I had noticed was my mother. How it hadn't affected her at all, almost like she expected it. It seemed so easy and natural for her to ignore the barely breathing child writhing on the floor in pain next to her. She just washed the dishes like she usually did in the morning, and then, when I still hadn't moved, she 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 feeling that struck me. Not pain, but betrayal. Then, the next thing I remembered was the feeling afterward, when my breathing finally steadied, and my blood stopped dripping. I felt... Absolutely nothing. Nothing but that sickening, unadulterated, red-hot fucking-

Anger. 

"There you fuckin' go, Ty! 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. The force behind their pads feels like wind to my sails. I don't ignore the burning in my chest, legs, or shoulders because I don't actually feel it. My body does, but it doesn't disturb my mind. I'm somewhere else. I feel absolutely nothing, much less temporary pain. 

I reach the open field, but I don't go for yardage this time. Blake, the safety, breaks down when I'm within his range, lowering his hips and chopping his feet, preparing to make the tackle. I surprise him by rushing him. 

BANG

He makes the rookie mistake of not wrapping up, or maybe I hit him too hard, because he lands with a dense thud on his back a few feet away from me, and I can't help but hope it hurts. 

Don't fucking touch me.

BANG

I reach the 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. I feel like I'm breathing in glass, but I don't care.

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

The sound of my footsteps and pads jumping with my momentum sounds like gunshots in my ears.

BANG

BANG

BANG

Nothing.

"Good job, Tycho!" Coach Roy yells from the sideline eighty yards away, playbook in hand. He stands next to most of the team. He gives me a clap and a nod, a certified 'you did well.' He then directs his attention to everyone else and permits a water break. The team disperses to the benches as I try to calm my breathing a bit, taking 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. I'm so used to being caged by fear that I don't even know if the sun is outside of this cage or if it's finally exploded and turned the Earth to shreds like fear says it would. It's irrational in every way possible. As long as it exists, my cowardice does. Since I noticed 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. It tells me that I'm going to die, right here on this field, this minute, and if not, then when I get home. I ignore it as I practically run to the showers and try not to feel the freezing water pelting my back. 

But my thoughts make me feel small again. I can't escape them. The shower room is open-spaced and wide, but I can't help and 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 were all of it, it certainly wouldn't fit in this room, let alone the entire universe. Right now, this elephant has a name. Calling him 'elephant' is accurate because of his unwavering stature and his ability to crush me at any moment, like I'm nothing but a bug. He isn't even here, yet I know he knows of the fear he invokes within me, and I know he enjoys every second of it.

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 later will be worse for me than usual, 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, and people start asking too many questions. It's not your business why my nose is busted and why my face is swollen. No, I'm not a fighter. I'm anything but. 

I suck in a breath and can't help the whimper that escapes me. 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? 

Something compels me to look up from the drain on the floor. The team's chatter tunes back in. Yet, that's not what catches my eye. Louis is showering across the room, his back turned to me. I'm careful to make sure my eyes don't accidentally wander south. Louis is the opposite. His head is turned to the side, curls wet. He's turned just enough to look back at me, and for a second, I see his eyes. He notices me looking and turns away quickly. I notice his shoulders tense.

My face twitches in anger.

Don't look at me.