100% SURE »H.S

C H A P T E R T W O

Flynn McLean

The sound of water dripping, dripping - drowning out all other noises. A shirtless Flynn McLean stared into the mirror and gazed into his dead eyes - eyes that had no interest in life, eyes that only wanted release from the pain.

Who am I? Flynn asked himself the voice projected from his thoughts.

Flynn looked intently at his reflection, hating what he saw. The curly brown colored mop of hair on his head was pasted to his face and sweat drenched on his face and body. His green eyes reflected an intensity that bordered on madness.

Why am I here?! Answer me! Flynn shouted through his mind.

Flynn's fist shot forward breaking the glass, fracturing it in multiple places. He withdrew his hand and shards of glass juxtaposed on each other, causing hot blood to roll in rivulets down his hands. Flynn tightened his grasp on the sink and threw back his head to scream, only no sound came out. He silently screamed repeatedly and tears came unbidden.

Then Flynn hastily wiped away the tears and willed himself to look up one more time. Flynn gasped. Words were cut into the skin of his reflection.

Whore. Hate. Bastard. Retard. Nobody. Alone. Unloved.

Flynn's hands began to tremble against the sink and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look away.

Flynn awoke and shot upright, gasping for huge breaths of air as sweat rolled down his forehead. He placed a hand on his chest and felt how his heart was beating almost twice its normal rate. Flynn took deep breaths while clenching and unclenching his pale hands.

It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream. Flynn chanted in his head, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing.

He choked back a sob and shielded his eyes with his hand. Growing angry at himself, he grit his teeth in determination.

Get a grip, McLean. Don't be weak. He berated himself over his lapse of emotion.

Flynn steeled his nerves and stood up shakily, staring at his familiar surroundings. It was probably around three in the morning, but in New York, the city that never sleeps, noises of traffic could still be heard outside. Flynn slipped on his only sweatshirt and walked down the stairs. He grasped the railing tightly to tether himself to Earth.

For as long as Flynn could remember, he was an orphan. He ran away when he was in kindergarten, after his mother ... died. He ran and ran never knowing where he was really going. Then he stumbled on to this orphanage where he had made home. Ever since then all he had was his sister Erin.

A few minutes later, Flynn collapsed on a pile of his clothes and freed the bottle of whiskey from his jacket pockets. He drank alcohol as easily as normal people drank water. The liquid stung his throat as it went down but he didn't care - he just wanted to block that perpetual pain that haunted him and this was the easiest way out.

Soon, he began to feel light headed and he knew he was drunk. Flynn set the empty bottle down with flourish before collapsing on the heap of clothes.

He woke up a few hours later with a pounding headache. He needed to go and shower otherwise he would be late for school. After stepping out of the shower, Flynn stared at his naked body, particularly up the length of his arm. There were incisions made and words were spelled out.

Worthless. Abandoned. Unloved. Those words were etched into his arm and Flynn ran a gentle finger across them without any emotion. Then instinctually, he reached for the razor blade on the edge of the sink.