The Religious & The Damaged (UNDER EDITING)

42

Joseph

I walk through the house, and I slowly close the door. I'm surprised that in that moment, my father didn't come storming into the room and throw me into the wall.
I walk upstairs and to my bedroom. My hand reaches the doorknob, but my whole body tenses at the sudden presence behind me.
I shouldn't have said anything.
I turn, and my eyes travel up to my father's face—he looks just as angry as I imagined, but it still manages to send a shiver down my spine every time.
"I stayed over at Kelsey's, sir. I'm sorry I should've told you." I say, knowing he was waiting for me to explain.
He stares wordlessly at me, but it speaks to me—I know what he wants.
I direct my gaze down as I walk past him into his bedroom, his presence lingers behind me as I light the two candles; the sound of his belt brings tears to my eyes, but I feel numb.
I drop to my knees, the rosary tangled within my fingers as I speak in a hushed voice. I jerk and tense as the belt comes into contact with my back. My brows furrow and tremble at the force, and I feel tears in the corners of my eyes. My body tenses as his whips grow faster until there's no space in between. Then, he's pulling me up from the ground and shoving me back down—my shoulder hits the floor hard. He takes a fistful of my hair and tugs me up as he speaks through gritted teeth.
"Get up."
In one swift moment, I'm turned and shoved back into a wall, and I jerk forward when his fist comes into contact with my stomach; it feels like a burst of radiating, shattering pain in my gut, then comes the twisting sensation I've come to know.
With his hands planted on my back, he shoves me down and kicks me in my side multiple times—each harsher than the last, and I'm against the bed frame—the metal digging into my back. A metallic taste fills my mouth at the force of his foot on my stomach, but I still just lay here and indulge in it all because I deserve it.
He takes my collar into his grasp after it reaches past an hour, and I'm pulled to my feet. Consciousness is slipping away at the speed I'm pulled up, but I still manage to hear his chilling voice.
"Next time, I will kill you. Don't let it happen again," He tugs me forward and my eyes shut tight briefly. "Understand?"
I nod somewhat frantically. He lets me go, and I rush out of the room, my hand clasped against my mouth as I make a beeline for the bathroom. I don't make it to the toilet. My body falls forward as I cough up blood and it splatters into the sink—there's so much of it.
I gulp hard as the twisting sensation returns beyond the throbbing and aching I feel. I grip the counter into both my hands, my arms locked in place as I stare at my chest in the mirror—I can't look at myself.
I know I look sick. I feel sick, and looking at myself will make me want to throw up.
My gaze shifts over to the pill bottle on the counter—it's just in my reach; it'd be so easy.
Why am I so afraid of letting go? It can't be more lonely than I am now. Maybe, I never actually wanted to die or maybe I'm waiting for that one sign that I have a reason to live—I lost that reason when Kelsey stopped talking to me and when I told Elias to give me up. But deep down, a dim spark of hope still lingers within me. When it goes out, that's it. That's the end.
I inhale shakily through my nose, and my gaze reverts to the sink. I run the cold water, and the blood washes away, but it's there again when I cup water over my face and run my hands down until I'm confident the blood disappears from my face, and I turn off the sink and go to my bedroom. I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt, then sit on my bed—my back against the cold wall, and it feels nice against my inflamed skin. I stare down at my forearms, and I pay equal attention to both—my thumb brushing against each cut, then I dig into them, but that I do subconsciously as my gaze lifts up at the wall in front of me. I look back down and blood drips from the side of my arm.
I don't stop it; I just stare because I'm sort of engrossed in the way it flows—it's just so easy to make myself bleed, even if I don't mean to. It's sort of like my life in a way. The way the blood flows so slowly, it was so easy for my life to fall apart and what's left is a shattered heart and internal scars.
I lean my head back against the wall, and my eyes close and a long, shaky breath slips from my nose as Elias enters my mind—more specifically, last night.
It was the first time I've felt something since everything, and it was an amazing, wonderful experience. I remember it so vividly, which I find surprising because it's the only thing I remember so clearly.
I keep my eyes close because I don't want the image to go away, and my cheeks burn hot and my heart races—in a good way.
The feeling is sort of overwhelming, and it's the first time this feeling has returned since it.
I bite my bottom lip as more shortened breaths slip from my nose, then the memory of what that woman did to me slips into my mind and all the good feelings turn sour.
My eyes open wide and my heart pounds instead of races, and it hurts against my chest. I breathe shakily as my eyes shut tight and my brows furrow greatly.
Go away.
I press my hand against my chest as more shaky breaths escape my lips.
Go. Away. I'm okay.
I don't realize I'm crying until I bring my hands up to hide my face, and I quickly take my hands away because it feels too suffocating. I choke out a sob. I feel as all my control slips away, and it brings me to reaching my shaky hand under my pillow to the shears. I take them to my arm and make cut after cut. After the fifth cut, I start to regain my control again, and I make more.