The Selection (Troyler AU)

♔Part XXXIII♔

Yikes more triggering stuff already, including the following:

1.) Homophobic treatment.
2.) Abuse (like the beating in Chapter 6)

I'll tell you when it starts and ends, and vaguely recap after the chapter ends.

*five days later* I haven't even started this until way after making the draft, because of just how intimidated I was to start writing this. This is probably the hardest thing I've ever written, including both Sober and Who Knew, and I can guarantee that before even typing one word of the actual chapter. Honestly, I'd had this chapter somewhat planned out since the very beginning of the story, and the idea of writing it out, without it living up to my standards terrifies me. I even waited until after I graduated (yes I graduated and made it through a long ass speech and only stuttered twice I deserve an award also I quoted Troye tru) before actually starting it.

Anyways, I honestly never thought I'd be the type to ever write something triggering, in a way that wasn't just a flat out character death (sorry again). I'd never done self-harm, or eating disorders, or anything along those lines. Yet, somehow, I ended up being the one who wrote about one of my main characters getting whipped by their own father (not a spoiler, that's Chapter Six/VI).

Irony's a bitch.

Three Days Later (I'm not keeping track sorry if I passed the date of the ball)

Tyler POV

The worst moment of my life began when a bow tie fell out of my closet.

It was a wrinkled little thing, long forgotten in what must've been when I absentmindedly threw it in my closet once. It was undone, falling in a small pile of ribbons on the ground, the elegant violet color not having a stark contrast in comparison to the blood-red carpet.

My father - whom was in the room going over some upcoming Selection events with me - sniffed at the sight in disdain. "Get rid of that, will you? You know that's not a good color to parade around here, especially now, he's you have so many people looking your way."

I nodded, deciding not to question it. He was in a fairly calm mood today, and despite his being in my room for the last forty-five minutes, he hasn't snapped at me once.

It wasn't a common occurrence, to say the least.

I picked up with two fingers, holding out in front of me, as I tossed it back in my closet. My father clenched his jaw, but said nothing, not to how carelessly I threw it back in, or how untidily kept my actual closet was. Then again, he never really said much to how well kept the inside of it was, as long as no one could see it when the doors were closed. Nothing in there was kept in order, from random garments falling off of their shelves to empty hangers hanging in odd angles, from me taking the shirts and jackets off in such a rush; I didn't even want to imagine the amount of shoes in there that no longer had a twin, at this point.

Yet, he never seemed to mind much. The only time he'd ever said anything was once, when I was about twelve, and it was so full of everything I threw in there that I could barely even shut it. Unable to be contained, it was always threatening to burst open, revealing all of the contents inside in their full glory.

It was only them that he bothered to chastise me for it, telling me to throw some things away, and sort the mess out until it appeared decent enough to fool people into believing it was neater than it actually was.

Funny, how parallels work like that.

I shut the door, shuffling back to my bed, as my father's eyes lingered on the closet. Still looking at it, he asked,"Do you have your outfit arranged for the ball yet?"