The Cabin

Chapter 1 - Broken Tiles

“Damn it…” he muttered. “Damn it,” he said again. “Damn it!” he finally yelled.
Jasper had gotten angry again, punctuating each swear with a punch to the tile wall. He came there often, just to let off steam in his–for lack of a better word–crappy, school bathroom. Each hit hurt, but Jasper paid the pain no mind. He didn’t even seem to notice his once fluffy white hair growing messy with the sudden movement, no longer pulled back into the elegant ponytail it once was, but instead cascading down to his shoulders in waves. He snarled as he pounded at the wall again, trying to will it into something, or rather someone easier to hit.

Jasper’s rational mind finally won, his fifth and final blow proving fatal. Well, to his hand, at least. He frowned at the sight of the unharmed, but crimson-smeared wall. As much as he would like to continue until he cracked a tile, he had more pressing matters to attend to. One of which being his bleeding hand. He recoiled in pain, cradling his injured hand to his chest, inadvertently staining his blue sweater.

Jasper quickly moved to the sink, first washing the smears of blood off the wall opposite him, then turning his attention to his sweater, furiously scrubbing at the uncooperative smudge. Finally, he looked down at his hand, cringing at the sight of it.

There were hints of bruises blossoming along his knuckles, purple and red as they slowly appeared. His palms had crescent moon indents, reflections of where his jagged fingernails dug into them. Jasper simply dismissed the very idea of the notion that he didn’t know how to punch right or something, because clearly that wasn’t the problem at all.

He waved away the theoretical thought bubble and got to work, scrubbing his hands clean of any blood and pulling his sleeves down to conceal his forming bruises. He seemed actually put together for once. That’s a lie, of course he looked like shit.

Jasper examined himself in the mirror, pulling his hair back into a ponytail again, pushing his bangs out of his face, and splashing cold water onto his paling skin. “Is it supposed to look that color?” he asks nobody in particular, squinting to see the faded evidence of freckles that were far more pronounced in childhood.

(UNFINISHED)