You're Supposed to Hate Me

Chapter 9

Travis

I tried, and I tried. I tried to remember what happened Saturday night, but every time I think I'm about to remember, my mind gets all fuzzy.

I couldn't remember much from the party, but I especially didn't remember leaving with Sal, nor did I remember anything from when he brought me to his apartment.

The end of my pencil taps against the desk, my leg bouncing against the floor as I try to remember something. But again, I come up with nothing.

Phillip's hand moves, stopping my pencil before his head turns to face me. "What are you so concentrated about?"

I straighten my back, glancing down at Phillip. "How... How drunk did I get at the party?" I ask, my voice low as I glance at the teacher at his desk.

"You were the drunkest I've ever seen you." He replies before starting to write away on his paper.

"What happened?" I also start to write on my paper, not looking up as I listen to him at the same time.

"Well, uhm... Let's see... You kept drinking, and at one point I had to try and get you to stop, but you insisted you'd be fine, but I still told people to keep you away from drinks, but obviously nobody gave a shit.

"You were on the couch with some random chick the last I saw you. I searched for you for about 10 minutes before someone said that some guy with... I dunno, blue hair left with you."

"Did they say if I left willingly or not?" I ask, placing my pencil back on the desk as I look at him.

"I was curious about that, so I asked around. Eventually, someone said that you said no, but finally gave in. So, sounded pretty willing to me."

I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head. I remember everything in flashes, but my mind still gets fuzzy when I try and remember what happened after I left.

"I told you man, enemies to lovers." Phillip grins at me before standing up and walking towards the teacher to give him his assignment before I could say anything to him.

Did I mention that I absolutely hate people with blue hair?

~~~

I... I had this short... Conversation, with Sal. It was odd, and it's been on my mind ever since.

I was in the bathroom stall because I was having a small breakdown, and of course, he walked into the bathrooms.

He started talking to me, asked if I was crying, asked if I was okay, asked why I hated him so much, asked and asked and asked. He seriously never shuts up.

But, oddly enough, he distracted me and calmed me down. I wish I could go back to that moment, relive it as many times as I want.

Because at least then, I wouldn't be miserable like I am now.

It's been almost a week since my father hit me with his belt, and now my back was all scarred, blending in with all the old scars from the belt.

I stared at my back, at my wrists visible in the mirror, at the bruise around my eye, at the disgusting bleached hair of mine. I stare at it all, and I hate every inch of what I see.

I'm glad my mother isn't still alive to see this. To see how bruised and battered I am. I'm disgusting. I'm a disappointment. A disgrace. A mistake.

I flinch as a droplet of water falls on my cheek from my wet hair since I just got out of the shower. That's the only reason why I was looking at myself in the first place.

I turn my body to face the mirror, so I don't have to stare at my back or my wrists anymore. All I had to stare at was my black eye and my bleached hair.

Sometimes I wish my father would just beat me until I stopped breathing. But I know he knows that, because if he's truly pissed off at me for something, he only beats me until I'm on the brink of death, then he stops.

It's torture. Once, I came close to trying to kill myself, but... It didn't work out, obviously.

My hand runs through my wet hair, pushing it back and out of my eyes. I know I'll become blind in my right eye because my father always punches it. It all just comes down to time.

How much time do I have left until I go partially blind? How long do I have left until I completely damage my hair? How long do I have left until I drop dead? How much longer do I have until I can see my mother again?

I've come to hate time. It's just a mystery that slowly comes undone, and you can't do anything to speed it up or slow it down or stop it completely. It just happens, whether you want it to or not.

I would rather know when everything is going to happen. I would be perfectly fine with knowing when I was going to die. What year, what time, what day.

In fact, I'd love to know that, because if I only had a few days left to live, I'd make sure to drag my father down to hell with me.

At least then, he could feel the same misery I felt my whole fucking life.