Darling boy

Chapter 3

Charlie had never told anyone about what happened to him at seventeen. He got group raped by older men. It wasn't even something he allowed himself to think about. It sat in the back of his mind like an ugly stain, buried beneath layers of self-loathing and silence. He didn't want to confront it, didn't want to acknowledge the weight of what had happened. Instead, he pushed it down, down, and kept pushing it until it seemed like it belonged to someone else—some stranger who had lived that moment, not him.

He'd walk home at nights like that after the assault, barely able to stand, the weight of bruises hidden under his hoodie, blood drying in places that made him sick to think about. He couldn't let anyone see, couldn't let anyone know. The shame was too deep, a festering wound that festered even now, years later. So he kept his mouth shut, as he always did.

The next day after cutting himself, he wore a hoodie, long sleeves pulled over his hands, and his old, low-rise jeans hung loose on his hips, almost like a shield against the world. His shoes were worn, almost falling apart, but they felt familiar, a small bit of comfort that grounded him as he tried to pull himself together.

The band noticed something was off, of course. Charlie could see it in their eyes, in the worried glances they kept sending his way. But he deflected their concern with a practiced ease, the same hollow reassurances he'd used for years. "I'm fine," he'd muttered, shrugging off their questions with a faint, almost invisible smile. "Just tired, that's all." It wasn't like they could force him to open up, and he was an expert at keeping everything locked away.

Later that evening, after the rehearsal, the others were making plans to go out drinking. Charlie had tried to slip away quietly, retreating into the same darkness that always called to him, but they weren't having it. Damon and Dean ganged up on him, dragging him along despite his half-hearted protests. Even Tara threw him a sympathetic but insistent look as she wrapped her arm around Sebastian's waist, telling him he needed to loosen up, have a drink, be part of the group for once.

The bar they went to was crowded and dimly lit, the air heavy with the smell of spilled beer and sweat. A haze of smoke hung over everything, blurring the edges of the room. It was the kind of place where no one cared what you were running from, as long as you had money to keep the drinks flowing.

Charlie found a seat in a secluded corner, away from the main bustle, tapping his foot anxiously against the sticky floor. His thoughts spun in circles, trying to distract himself from the dull ache in his wrists, the fresh bandages hidden beneath his hoodie. His eyes drifted to the others, where Tara was laughing at some joke Dean had made, and Damon was gesturing wildly, trying to catch the bartender's attention.

Then there was William. He was already halfway drunk, his movements loose and confident as he leaned against the bar, chatting with a couple of girls who hung on his every word. But after a while, the girls wandered off, and William turned, scanning the room until his eyes landed on Charlie.

He made his way over, stumbling just a little as he collapsed into the chair next to him. At first, he didn't seem to notice who he was sitting beside, his gaze still glazed with alcohol. But then he turned his head and blinked, the recognition slowly coming into focus. "Charlie?" His voice was rough, somewhere between a greeting and a question. "Didn't think you'd actually show up."

Charlie shrugged, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. "Got dragged here," he said flatly. "Wasn't exactly my choice."

William chuckled, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey. "Guess I should've figured," he said, settling back in his chair. There was a lull in the conversation, the kind of awkward silence that seemed to stretch on forever in Charlie's mind. William, ever uncomfortable with stillness, began talking again, his words loose and a little rambling. "You're too quiet, you know that?" he said, nudging Charlie's shoulder. "Always so damn serious."

"Yeah, well," Charlie muttered, his voice barely audible over the bar's noise. "Guess I'm not really the life of the party."

William was about to reply when something caught his eye—just a glimpse of red, peeking out from under Charlie's hoodie sleeve. He leaned in closer, squinting, trying to get a better look. "What's that?" he asked, his tone suddenly more sober.

Charlie stiffened, pulling his arm back quickly, shoving the sleeve down to cover it. "Nothing," he said, a little too sharply.

But William wasn't letting it go. He reached out, his hand closing around Charlie's wrist before he could pull away again. There was a flicker of resistance, then he tugged the sleeve up, revealing the crude bandage wrapped hastily around fresh cuts. The air seemed to thicken, and Charlie's pulse hammered in his ears, his body tense and rigid.

"Jesus, Charlie," William breathed, his voice low and strained, a raw edge of concern slipping through. "What the hell happened?"

Charlie yanked his hand away, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "It's none of your business," he snapped, his voice trembling despite his attempt to keep it steady. He could feel his heart racing, the panic clawing up his throat, making it hard to breathe.

"Like hell it isn't," William shot back, his expression hardening. "You're bleeding under there, for God's sake. You need to—"

"No," Charlie interrupted, pushing himself up from the chair so quickly it nearly tipped over. His limbs felt stiff, his skin prickling with a sick heat as he backed away. "I'm fine," he repeated, the lie feeling brittle in his mouth. "Just—leave me alone."

William rose too, his jaw set with a kind of stubbornness that seemed to reflect his drunken state. "Come on, Charlie. Let's just go somewhere quiet. Talk about this." His voice softened, pleading almost. "You don't have to—"

But Charlie was already moving, his body driven by some desperate need to escape, to get away before his walls came crashing down. He pushed through the crowd, not caring whose drink he spilled, ignoring the startled looks from strangers as he stumbled out the front door, into the night. The cold air hit him like a slap, but his heart kept pounding as if it couldn't stop, like it might burst at any moment.

He wandered the streets, aimless, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The memory of William's grip on his wrist clung to him, like a brand, like a shame he couldn't shake off. The way William had looked at him, that mix of pity and concern—it was unbearable. It made him feel exposed, weak, like the boy from his nightmares, hugging himself in the corner of that room, unseen and unwanted.

Charlie walked until the ache in his legs forced him to stop. He found himself standing on a deserted street, beneath a flickering streetlamp, the only sound the distant murmur of the city. He slumped against the lamp post, pressing his forehead to the cold metal, willing himself to calm down. His hands were shaking, his skin felt raw and thin, like he could be blown away with the next gust of wind.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, the sting of tears burning in his eyes. There was no one here to see him break, but still, he fought it, biting down on his lip until he tasted blood. He would not cry. Not now. Not ever.

Instead, he breathed slowly, forcing the tremor out of his limbs. He took out his phone, hesitating as his fingers hovered over the screen. He typed a message into the band's group chat— "I'm heading home. Don't worry about me."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he shoved the phone back in his pocket and started walking again, the city stretching out before him like a dark, endless maze.