The Shadows Of Us

Mother's Love (11)

The sun streamed through the window, painting the small room in a warm, golden light. It should've been a peaceful afternoon, a perfect time for Red to spend with his friends and his mom, but instead, he was trapped in a silent storm. He sat huddled on the floor next to his bed and hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes wide and unblinking, burning with unshed tears, but he couldn't bring himself to close them. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

How long had it been since he'd crawled out of bed? He couldn't even remember.

His body was slick with sweat, the remnants of a nightmare that had jolted him awake. The memory of it was hazy, only the suffocating terror and the burning pain in his eyes, as the chilling details were etched into his soul: Victim's menacing grin, the icy grip on his chin, the suffocating sense of dread... it all came rushing back.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the unruly strands that stuck up like startled feathers. Then, he thought of Second, his sweet and amazing friend, and the way he made him feel… warm. But Victim's threat hung over him like a dark cloud, a constant reminder that he couldn't be careless.

Red's mind raced, knowing he couldn't keep this bottled up forever. He needed to talk to someone, but who? His friends? His mom? Green? The thought of involving any of them sent a fresh wave of fear washing over him. He didn't want to burden them with his problems, especially not now, with everything his mom and Green were going through. And what about Second? The thought of Second, with his emerald eyes and charming smile, brought a flicker of warmth to Red's chest. He loved hanging out with him, their conversations, the budding feelings he couldn't quite deny… but the thought of Victim ruining everything felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He was trapped in a silent nightmare, unable to escape the fear that clawed at his throat.

"Red, honey. Lunch is ready!". Red's mom's voice, warm and comforting, drifted up the stairs.

He swallowed, the taste of salt from his tears lingering on his tongue. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into the soft fabric of his shirt and wishing it could stop his heart from beating this fast. He choked back a sob, his throat constricted with unexplainable pain. He didn't want to worry her, not now, not after everything she'd been through. His father's abuse to both of them, the legal battle for custody, the stress of starting over, she had enough on her shoulders.

He took another deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He had to get it together. He had to. He couldn't let the fear win, not today. He had to be strong for her, had to hide the fear simmering beneath the surface.

"C-Coming, mom!". He called back, his voice barely above a whisper as it cracked slightly. It came out strained and tight, but at least it was a sound. He forced himself to take another deep breath, his lungs burning with the effort. He wanted to scream, to shout and rage against the nightmare that Victim caused, but all he could do was clench his jaw and hold back the tears that threatened to spill over again. He straightened, forcing himself to stand tall, to appear calm, feeling the sweat clinging to his skin, making his already too-tight shirt even more uncomfortable.

He had to figure this out. Victim was playing with his head, and Red knew it. It was all a power game, but what could he do? He couldn't stay in his room forever. He had to face the world, even if it felt like the world was out to get him. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he forced a smile at his reflection. It was a painful, almost grotesque distortion of his usual bright, playful grin. He had to be strong, he had to be brave. He had to pretend everything was okay.

As he moved towards the door, his eyes accidentally glanced at his reflection on the mirror, making him look down at his scarred arms, the reminders of his father's abuse. They were a constant ache, a physical manifestation of the pain that never truly left him. Unfortunately, his right arm was the most scarred, with a wound running from his elbow all the way up to his shoulder. His gaze drifted to the window, the harsh sunlight seemed to mock his misery.