need help

4

Macau barely made it back to his room. Every step felt like an eternity, his body aching from the brutal beating he had endured. His uniform was torn and stained, his lip still bleeding slightly, but it was the dull, throbbing pain inside that was unbearable. It had become a kind of numbness, an ache that settled deep in his bones, a reminder that he was utterly alone.

No one had noticed him when he walked through the house. Not Kim, not Vegas, not even the house staff. No one asked if he was okay. No one cared. Chay’s laughter echoed faintly in the background as Macau climbed the stairs, his body barely able to carry him. Chay had all their love, all their attention. Macau was nothing but a shadow, forgotten and discarded.

When he finally pushed open the door to his room, Macau let out a long, tired sigh. He didn’t have the energy to cry anymore, didn’t have the strength to even be angry. He just wanted the pain to stop.

Macau dropped his schoolbag to the floor and sank onto his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, weighed down by more than just physical pain. His thoughts raced, replaying the events of the day. The punches, the kicks, the hateful words. It all swirled together, mixing with memories of his father’s abuse and the deep sense of abandonment from his family.

The room was silent, but inside his mind, the chaos never stopped. The voices still whispered to him, reminding him of every failure, every moment of rejection.

*You’re worthless, Macau.*
*They’ll never love you.*
*You deserve this.*

Slowly, as if on autopilot, Macau sat up. His body moved without thinking, as it had done so many times before. He walked to the bathroom, the cold tiles beneath his feet grounding him in the only way he knew how. He closed the door behind him, locking it, though he knew no one would come looking for him anyway.

In the small corner of the bathroom, hidden behind the stack of towels, was the blade. It wasn’t anything special—just a small razor he’d kept hidden for months now. It had become part of his routine, a ritual he performed when the pain inside became too much to bear.

He sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, and stared at the blade in his hand. His body trembled, but not from fear. He was too far gone for fear. This was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. The only thing he could control.

With a steady hand, he dragged the blade across his skin, watching as the red lines appeared, the sharp sting of the cut momentarily pulling him out of the whirlwind of emotions. The physical pain was a welcome distraction, a small relief from the suffocating weight of everything else.

The cuts were shallow, but they added up, forming a tapestry of scars that ran along his arms. This had become his routine, his way of coping. Every night, after the world had broken him down, after his family had ignored him or Chay had humiliated him, he would come here, to the bathroom, and hurt himself in silence.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t cry anymore.

When he finished, he leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as the blood slowly dripped from the fresh cuts. His body felt weak, too weak, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t been eating properly for days now—maybe even weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten a full meal.

The hunger was there, gnawing at his insides, but he ignored it. His stomach felt hollow, his limbs heavy, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Food seemed pointless. Everything seemed pointless.

Macau closed his eyes, his breaths shallow as exhaustion took over. His body felt like it was shutting down, but at least, for now, the physical pain had dulled the sharpness of everything else. This was his life now. The only routine that made sense. The only way he could feel anything other than the crushing weight of isolation.