|'Sally Face Oneshots'|

'Stains'

TW!! || Swearing, mention of abuse, blood, injury

National Domestic Violence Hotline - 800-799-7233
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September 23, 1992, 7:57pm

The sound of a pen tapping on the wooden surface of the desk Travis has been sat at for near an hour echoed in the uninterrupted, eerie silence in his room. The rhythmic noise like the rain pelting on the concrete sidewalk just outside the window, which was dripping down the mist that veiled the glass pane. Travis had zoned out, most preferring to pretend that each individual water droplet was in a race with the others, rather than attempting to finish his schoolwork that he had failed to complete during class. The moment the drop of water he had been silently rooting for failed to win the little race, Travis snapped back to reality, the reality of the artificial light of his desk, the half finished sheet of paper, and the mindless twirling of his unkempt blond hair strands. He rubbed his eyes, dry and half opened, and stabbing his cheek with the pen he forgot to put down. Groaning out of boredom and frustration, Travis glanced at his analoge clock, '7:57pm', damn, time flies by fast when you're procrastinating.

Travis figured that he could use a shower, he was exhausted from school and having to do work as soon as he had gotten home, along with the soothing sound of rain with the dark clouds and foggy atmosphere was like a lullaby, which made it increasingly difficult to get any work done. Maybe a shower would help him wake up a bit before he collapsed under his own body weight from fatigue and irritation. Travis proceeded to push back his chair and force himself up onto his feet, almost immediately getting dizzy from having been sat down for so long. He stretched the sore muscles of his back and dragged himself towards his door, making sure his father hadn't been roaming around the corridor which he was now standing in, in order to avoid any form of confrontation. After assuring himself that he was okay, he made his way towards the bathroom, the near ancient floorboards creaking under the pressure of each step.

Travis flicked on the light switch of his bathroom, illuminating the dark room and activating the overhead fan, he stepped in, shutting and locking the door behind him. The squeaking of the handle could be heard as Travis turned on the water of his shower, as water began pouring from the metal, reflective faucet. Travis tugged on the shower diverter valve, the stream of running water dispatched out of the above shower head. Travis walked over and opened the linen closet, reaching in, retrieving a dark blue towel. Throwing said towel over the towel rack, and began to strip out of his clothes while he let the water warm up to his preferred temperature (practically boiling).
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Travis scrubbed the damp towel through his soaked hair, digging his nails into the soft fabric, ridding it of leftover water from his shower. Pulling off the towel revealed his hair, now frizzy and having returned back to its natural curls. The sun-kissed skin of his hands now possessed wrinkled fingertips from having stayed in the shower for far too long. Residue from the water dripped from his hair, leaving his once dry shoulders drenched in water. Travis proceeded to dry off the rest of his body, leaving the now damp towel back to resting on the metal towel rack. In the middle of getting dressed, Travis spotted something in his peripheral vision.

Next to the washing machine, propped on top his dirty laundry basket, was his favorite magenta sweater, stained with dark red blotches. Travis had failed his first history exam, and his father didn't take it lightly, nor did his father let Travis off lightly. The very same sweater his mom had given him before she disappeared from his life, 9 years ago, when Travis was just a little boy, the sweater he had loved and cherished ever since, now covered in the consequences of his mistakes. Travis grazed his fingertips across the fresh, deep purple bruises that stained his jawline, like the bloody stains on his favorite sweater, from the nail indents on his neck to the wound on his scalp. Travis gently lifted the blood stained sweater into his arms. Blood was a stain that couldn't be washed out easily, so Travis placed the polo sweater next to the sink, turning the handle, as cold water poured out of the spout. He then bent down to his knees, and opened the cabinet underneath the sink, the white tile floor felt cold against his warm skin. He fumbled around in the cabinet, pushing aside various bottles of soap, deodorant, and a variety of cleaning products, as Travis finally spotted the dark brown, half empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. A trick his mom had taught him when he was younger, which was that hydrogen peroxide was an incredible solution to stains that would otherwise be a pain to get rid of with a simple bottle of stain remover, stains such as blood.

Travis drenched the cotton fabric of the sweater, the ice cold water soaked up by it like a sponge, his hands became wet once again. Twisting the squeaking silver knob of the sink, switching off the stream of running water, he placed the sweater flat in the sink. Travis picked up the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, flipping open the cap, and immediately inhaling the fumes of the sharp, pungent oder of the solution. Coughing out the sour stench, he gently began pouring the perfectly clear liquid directly onto each individual spot that had been discolored with the red that had dripped from his neck and his skull. The hydrogen peroxide was soaked up by the wool cloth, and after a moment, the stains were replaced with a foamy, bubbly, pale pink substance. After a few seconds, Travis switched the cold water back on, washing away the foam, leaving the sweater with nothing more but the damp, cotton fabric. The stains were completely gone, leaving Travis with a soft smile on his face.

Travis gently lifted the stainless, magenta sweater glancing back over to the plastic, off white laundry basket full of his dirty clothing, and figured that he could wash his things, dry them later, and fold them in the morning. Opening the lid of the stiff metal washing machine, he tossed in the dripping wet sweater, along with picking up armfuls of shirts, pants, shorts, socks, sweaters, and underwear from the plain white basket, dropping them in, making during to distribute them evenly throughout the wash basket of the inner tub. Travis then grabbed two of the laundry detergent packets that sat on the dryer, and put them in along with the clothes. He shut the washer, set it to quick wash, and turned it on.

Travis marched back to his room, dirty laundry hamper in his hands, and he placed the basket next to his closet. Travis quietly shut his bedroom door, and walked over towards his desk, the school work still sat dreadfully on the wooden top, the fluorescent yellow light of the lamp had been on the entire time Travis had stayed in the bathroom. Once again, Travis read his clock, '9:03pm'. Well shit, Travis had to go to bed in less than an hour. That could be enough time to finish that misery inducing piece of paper. He pulled back his chair, careful not to leave any scuff marks on his oak wood floor, sitting down, and once again picking up his pen to finish the assignment.

The audible sound of the pen clicking blended in with the still pouring rain, whilst Travis continued to ponder each aspect of every question. After only 30 minutes, his eyes began to feel weighted, his damp, curly hair falling into his face. His pen started trailing off, the same way it had been for an hour and a half ago, doodling on the edges of his paper and his hand. As if weights were being added to his eyes, Travis only grew more and more tired by the minute. The words on his History paper blended together like watercolor, as it only got darker outside, the rain practically melting the glass window. Travis rested his sleepy head on top of the desk that was starting to feel almost as comfortable as a pillow, pen still in hand, as his exhaustion eventually swallowed him, and Travis unknowingly drifted off to sleep at 9:45pm.

-1432 words