The Secret To New York (Boyxboy)

Chapter Two- Risky cliffs

This is the second chapter, whoo.

Chapter 2- Risky cliffs

I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling the familiar lurch in my stomach. I run to the bathroom and kneel over the toilet, puking up everything I'd eaten that night. I sit leaning against the bathtub breathing heavy, feeling empty again. There were footsteps and I cursed under my breath, flushing the toilet. My mom peeked in and she cussed out loud. "Dammit Zander, I thought you were done with that shit! What's the fascination with throwing up your food? And why must you always do it at this time of night? Do you have anything better to do then get me up at 3:00 O'clock in the morning to drive you to the hospital-"

"Then don't fucking take me anywhere! I don't want to go to the hospital, I'm fine. Fucking fine! Don't fucking treat me like child all the damn time!" Her eyes widened. "Don't you dare cuss at me!" I got up. "You cuss at me, what makes you so special? What, you're a mother, great, what a fucking great job you're doing at it too, hauling your son off to America just because of your stupid pathetic career. Fuck you, fuck this, I don't need this!" I shouted at her. Her eyes looked watery. She set her jaw and wiped away a fallen tear. "You're just like you're father," she said calmly. That made me see white. I was nothing like him, nothing.

"I'm nothing like that fucker! Don't sit here and compare me to that asshole, do you know why I puke after I eat? Do you know why I cut? Do you know why the hell I've done what I've done? Because that man ruined my life, and you let him, you fucking let him do it. He took away everything that I loved. He took my childhood. He put me in the hospital far too many times, and no one did anything about it, if you loved me, you would have. Please don't say I'm anything like him, I'm not...I'm not." There were tears streaming down my face and I sunk back down to a sitting position, wrapping my arms around my knees, sobbing into my lap. I hear the door close.

Why did I always have to fuck things up? Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut and let her take me to the hospital so I could go see a therapist that wouldn't even help me sort out my feeling. Yeah, I shouldn't have spoken one word to her. I get up numbly and sulk back to my room, digging through box after box trying to find the little silver tin box that held my razor. Once I found it, I sat on the window sill and slid the thing along my wrist 5 times, just aimlessly trying to get all of that pain out. Trying to erase the thoughts. I just wanted it to stop; I had to make them stop. I moved my hand up and down without thought, without sound, and once I stopped, my bloody arm burned like fire and I smiled a little. It hurt so badly, but still, the things I was running from stayed in my mind. I took a quick shower then swallowed three more pills, sliding into bed falling asleep three hours later, cradling my arm to my chest, sobbing.

***

The next morning, my mom left early, and I unpacked the rest of my things, since school was starting in a week. I took another shower, took two Tylenol and got dressed, leaving the house. I walked down to the Starbucks across the street from the school I would be attending in a week. I ordered tea, and it was shitty, but I drank it down, eager to have caffeine in my system.

My day out on the town came to a close around 2:00 O'clock in the afternoon because I ran out of money. I head home in the new jacket I bought for 30 bucks. A good deal I guess since I wasn't cold. Once I got in, I went to my room and sat at my laptop I'd dug out this morning and opened a word document, writing down my feelings in poem form, because that's what I did. I guess I got that from my mom, the writing.

I struggled to find words, but finally I came out with something half decent.

I'm running out of time, I'm trying to catch my breath

The deed has already been done, what if I say that's the only one?

These thoughts are in my mind, is that the only crime?