Darling boy

Chapter 2

TW: self harm

Charlie woke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving like he'd been held underwater too long. The room was still dark, the early dawn just beginning to filter through the half-closed blinds. His hands trembled as he reached up to wipe at his cheeks, the hot trail of tears already drying there. But they kept coming, welling up against his will, spilling silently down his face. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and he bit down hard on his lip, hating himself for it.

Crying. God, how he hated crying.

The dream hung over him like a shroud, wrapping him in the cold memory of that day at fourteen. He could still see the crowded room, hear the chatter and laughter of kids pairing off around him, feel the weight of that stupid red jacket he wore, too big on his thin frame. The "Hug Day" had been the school's idea of spreading kindness—a forced exercise in closeness that left him standing alone, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He'd watched the others drift past, laughing, hugging, connected in a way that made him feel unbearably small, like a speck of dust floating in a sunbeam—there, but unseen.

He remembered the way his face had hurt from trying to keep the smile in place, until it faltered, then crumbled away entirely. He'd backed into the far corner of the room, his back pressed against the cool cinderblock wall. The laughter echoed louder there, distant and hollow. He had wrapped his own arms around himself, squeezing tight, as if he could fool himself into believing it was someone else's warmth he felt.

Even now, years later, the shame of it sank like a stone in his gut. A part of him had always been stuck there in that room, hugging himself in a desperate attempt to feel whole.

He rubbed his face with his palms, wiping the tears away so hard it left his skin stinging. He glanced down at his arms—at the faint, jagged scars crisscrossing his wrists. The oldest of them had faded to pale, silvery lines, but others were fresher, more ragged. He reached for his phone, the dim light from the screen casting a blue glow across his gaunt features.

I'm gonna be late today. Don't wait up.

The message dropped into the band's group chat, and with it, some flimsy excuse that he knew none of them would buy, but no one would question outright. He tossed the phone back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, the ache in his chest dulling to a low throb that spread outwards until he felt numb again.

There was that familiar urge creeping up from somewhere deep inside, a restlessness that needed to be answered. He moved to the bathroom, his bare feet dragging across the cold floor. He kept the blade hidden behind the medicine cabinet, buried under bottles of expired pills and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. He wasn't proud of it—never had been—but there was a kind of relief in that sharp, vivid pain. It was an anchor, something to hold on to when the rest of him felt like it was slipping away.

The first cut was shallow, the sting spreading like fire under his skin. The second was deeper, a scarlet line that welled up and ran over the old wounds, trailing down his forearm like a thin ribbon. The pain was sharp and familiar, almost comforting in the way it chased the last remnants of the dream away. He wrapped a bandage around his wrist, fumbling with the gauze until it stayed in place. It wasn't a good job—he knew it wouldn't last. But it didn't matter. He didn't plan on seeing anyone who'd notice.

The hours drifted by slowly, the light shifting from pale gray to the dull yellow of late morning. Charlie lay on his couch, not bothering to change out of the clothes he'd slept in. The apartment felt suffocating, like the walls had moved closer overnight, closing him in. But he didn't have the energy to move, to escape the quiet.

His phone buzzed somewhere in the apartment, but he didn't get up to check it. Probably Damon or Sebastian asking where the hell he was, wondering why he'd gone radio silent after saying he'd be late. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to rehearsal. There was no point in trying to summon the energy to pretend like things were fine when they so clearly weren't.

The cuts throbbed faintly beneath the bandage, a dull reminder of the mess he kept making of himself. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, his fingers curling around its neck. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, feeling the burn spread through his chest, dulling the ache that had settled there. His thoughts drifted, hazy and disjointed, and he closed his eyes, letting himself float in that quiet, alcohol-blurred space where nothing seemed to matter.

He could stay like this forever, he thought. Lying there on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep, his mind slipping back to old places, to old wounds. He could hear Mark's voice sometimes, distant and disapproving. He could picture him standing there, hands on his hips, a look of quiet disappointment etched across his face.

Mark had always been patient, had always tried to help him without forcing him to confront things he wasn't ready to face. But Charlie knew there was only so much a person could do when someone else refused to be saved. There was only so long you could keep turning away from the people who tried to hold you up.

But there, on the couch, with the dull ache of the cuts and the burn of whiskey settling in his gut, the thought of pulling himself out of this dark hole seemed impossible. So he stayed there, eyes closed, letting the hours bleed together until they disappeared.

By the time the light had faded to dusk, the band's group chat was filled with unread messages. Damon had sent a few half-joking insults, wondering if Charlie was still alive, followed by a couple of "seriously though, are you okay?" texts that grew more frequent as the day wore on. Even Sebastian had chimed in, a rare occurrence, with a simple, "Hey, man. Let us know if you need anything."

William hadn't said much. He wasn't one for overlong texts or checking in like the others. There was only a single message from him, dropped hours ago: "You're not late. You're not coming." It wasn't a question.

Charlie stared at it for a long while, his thumb hovering over the screen. But the thought of replying seemed too heavy, the words forming on his tongue and then dissolving before he could speak them aloud, even to himself.

He set the phone down and rolled onto his side, pulling a threadbare blanket over himself. The day had passed in a blur of nothingness, and now there was only night ahead, stretching out in a silence that threatened to consume him whole. He lay there, listening to the muffled sounds of the city beyond the window—cars passing, a dog barking in the distance, the low hum of life continuing on, oblivious to the boy in the small, dim apartment who was trying to keep from falling apart.