Some Kind of Love

Hate

Trigger warning: Mild self harm

Darkness, falling, falling, falling, crack, squelch. The boy, standing by the plummeted body jumped back, but it was to late, he had gotten a piece of flesh clasped on his chin. It plipped off his face and onto the ground. He looked down into his father's beady, empty, and black eyes, he didn't scream, not until he heard his father groan, that is when he screamed.

James awakes with a start. He looks around, then down. Sighing inwardly, he lifts himself off his twin bed, not having to throw his bedding off of him due to them already being thrown off to the deep corners of the bed.

With shaking hands, he reaches up, pulling the metal string of beads to click on his bedside lamp. The light illuminates the darkness of the room, giving James a slight advantage of the eye, but not by much, as much of the room was barely affected by the dim light.

James' feet meet the fuzzy carpeting and only then does he realize that he was sweating profusely, and groans groggily. He would have to take a shower. Tensing up his muscles, he lifts himself off the padded mattress and treks into the bathroom, turning the light on as he does.

Not a word is uttered as he pulls his shirt off of his sticky body. Silently he slides his pajama pants, along with his boxers, off his body and they both fall in a soft pluff to the floor. He dares a glance at his small, pale, and lean body. He sighs. James hates himself, he hates his body, the way it looks. He doesn't just hate the way he looks, he hates the way he thinks. The way he feels in a confrontation, in a crowd, in front of him.

James rips his gaze from his horrid form. At least, to him that is what is is. He turns the bathtub faucet on, to the hottest setting possible. Though, he wish it could go hotter, because when he gets in, it isn't nearly as painful and distracting as he hopes. He doesn't wince as the scalding water rains into his face, no doubt turning it as red as a lobster. He runs his hands through his sopping hair, taking in the burning sensation that washes over his scalp, ravishing it, and leaving it feeling cleaner than ever. He turns, water weaving down his back, with a sigh he realizes that the water doesn't burn anymore, so he decides to actually wash himself.

Turning the water off, he grabs his towel off the towel rack. He scrubs himself viciously, and without mercy at that. He is pleased when he sees the red tint his skin has taken on, he smiles slightly at his work, but it fades, he still hates his canvas. 

After that nightmare he always wants to hurt, so hurt he shall. No. Actually, James always wants to hurt, yet it is stronger at times, especially when he has the dream, and when he is yelled at, and when he is around him, for some reason. No, that's wrong. There is a reason. A reason he hates. A reason he wouldn't dare utter, for it would destroy him.

He walks back into his room, now brighter due to the bathroom light. Walking over to his dresser, he pulls out a black and red Metallica T-shirt. It is to big for him, which, most of the clothes he wears are, but this one is exceptionally bigger than he. So, he pulls it over his head, feeling relived that his body is covered. He tugs his drawer open, and plucks a pair of red boxers from the others. he pulls them up his thighs and quickly walks to the bathroom, putting his towel back in its place, and flicking the light switch down.

Cozying back into his bed, which is no longer damp with his sweat, he pulls the metal beads down once again.

His eyes flick to the clock on his bedside table, in it's rightful place, next to his lamp. 5:30, is what it reads. He sighs, roughly two hours before he has to head off to school. The weekend went by to fast. He closes his eyes, letting sleep slowly take him, hoping, praying he doesn't have the awful nightmare again. Hoping, praying, that he doesn't see him tomorrow. Down inside, somewhere in his subconscious he knows that he will, because eventually his eyes will find his, and something will spike within him. It took James a while to figure out what, and once he did, it grew. He felt love. He felt hate.