The Secret To New York (Boyxboy)

Chapter five-grounded

OKAY, SO I DIDN'T SAY THIS BEFORE BUT I DON'T PROMOTE SELF-HARM OR ANYTHING THAT'S GOING ON IN THIS STORY, SO YEAH.

Chapter five omg, two chapters in one day because honestly, I came up with a celebrity that could possibly be Zander, whoo!! his name is Matthew Beard and he's from a realllyyyy triggering movie called Chatroom, and he was really great in that movie and I thought he'd be a great character, so yeah, the picture on the side is him. carry on now.

Chapter five-grounded

"Zander, I need to speak to you." My mom shouted. I sighed. I knew she'd find out that I skipped, but now? I peeled myself off the floor and shoved my laptop to the side. Getting to the door, I open it and walk to the living room, sitting on the couch beside my mother. She had a phone in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. But, she doesn't smoke. I do. I sighed and covered my face with my hands. "Aw, come on mom!" I said dramatically. "I've told you not to smoke in my house, Zander. You can't respect even the simplest rules." I shook my head. "Where are your cigarettes?" She asked. Holding out her hand. I groan. "I smoked them all." I told her. "Don't you lie to me!" She said. "I'm not lying to you! I smoked them all, alright?"

"And you didn't go to school today. Do not start this again. I will start driving you to school, and picking you up. You will go to school, and come straight home." She was glaring at me. Did she hate me? Did she not know how hard it was for me to keep going back to the place I hated the most? I fucking hated school, I fucking hated people, I fucking hated a lot of things. "That won't be necessary mom." She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Since when are you the parent? I think I just told you what was necessary, son. I'm driving you to and from school, and you are not allowed to fucking see the sun unless I tell you to. For a week. Because, obviously you cannot keep paraphernalia out of my home. Your home."

I stood up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing three sodas, a bag of Cheetos, a box of donuts, and frosting. "You're grounded!" She yelled, not even looking my direction. Once I'd settled in my room, I turned my music on and sat in the middle of my bed, looking at the food I'd just taken. Maybe I'd eat it all. Or, maybe I'd put it with the rest of the food I'd never eat. Remembering my stash, I walk over to my closet, kneel down and pull out a container.

Inside were chips, desserts, soda, and candy, everything that scared me. Over the years I've obtained this unhealthy obsession. I'd buy food at the store, junk food. I'd start to open it like I'd eat it, and then I'd hide it so I didn't have to look at it. I wasn't afraid of food, I was afraid of fat. And food like this, created fat. I grab the food off of my bed and tuck it into the contained, closing it and shoving it back in my closet. No, I wouldn't eat. I hadn't eaten since the butter incident. That was almost two days ago. I figured, as long as I drink a little bit of water at least once a day and if I got really weak, I could maybe suck on a mint or something, I'd be fine.

I didn't need food. I didn't need the constant reminder of how fat I used to be lingering in my head all the damn time. I could live without eating, and if I couldn't, too fucking bad. It would have to work. Getting from my position on the floor, I dragged myself over to my bed and sat down, sighing, starting to rock back and forth. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to smoke away the pain. But, I didn't have anymore, and I'm pretty sure turning on the fan in the bathroom and climbing on the counter wasn't something I'd be very skilled at even if I had a cigarette.

So, taking in a deep breath, I pulled out the tin box from beneath my pillow and opened it. I took the liberty of cleaning the razor after I'd stained it with my blood. It was shiny and silver. I promised myself I wouldn't do this. I told myself I'd stop. Because hiding the scars was hard work, always having to wear long sleeves and if I couldn't, I had to make sure my arms were always out of view. It was extra work for me, but I needed a quick release. It was even worse when it was time to wear shorts, because for the longest time, I thought that hiding the scars on my thighs and legs would make the hurt invisible. Yeah, as if. As soon as I tried to commit that first time, my mother found those and threw me in therapy.

I took the razor out of its hiding place and put the cold blade to my skin, moving it slowly, applying too much pressure. I knew it wasn't a good idea to cut on my bed, considering the sheets were white, but I didn't have another option right now. The blood welled up immediately. It burned a little, stinging. But, that wasn't the worst of my pains, so it didn't matter. I slid the blade across my skin a second time. I watched as the trails of blood combined down at my wrist, pooling around my feet, white socks stained red.

I waited for a long time. The blood finally stopped flowing when my right sock was almost completely red. I took my socks off, grabbed a fresh change of clothes and snuck into the bathroom, washing off the razor and hopping into the shower before anything else bad could happen that night.

***

The next morning, I woke up earlier than intended. I walked out into the kitchen, and I almost snuck off back to my room, but my mother saw me. "Good morning," She said. She didn't sound happy with me. I sighed and put on my best fake smile. "Good morning mom." I muttered, sitting at the table. "What's for breakfast?" I asked. She snorted and continued to type away on her smart phone. "Like you'd eat it anyway," She said, almost mockingly. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked her, furrowing my eyebrows. She sighed heavily. "Nothing dear." I scoffed and crossed my arms over my chest. "Bull shit." I muttered. "No cussing,"

I get up and walk into the living room, switching on the T.V. and watching whatever was on. It was boring, and I didn't know what to do with myself since I was grounded for the time being. I muted the T.V. "Hey, how long am I grounded?" I asked my mom, picking at my sweats. "Indefinitely." She yelled back. I groaned and unmuted the T.V.

My mom came into the room. "Did you take your medicine?" She asked me. "What medicine?" I asked her. "The medicine that you've been taking for about three years!" She yelled. I shrugged. "I... uh... I don't take that." I muttered. She leaned down a little, a crazy look in her eyes. I scooted a bit. "You don't take you're pills?" she asked. I nodded slowly. "I just... they make me feel weird,"

"For God's sake, Zander! You are 17 years old, you should know how to fucking take care of yourself, you should be able to feed yourself, and be able to make it to school on time and stay at school the whole time, you should be able to get a bloody job, I mean, Jesus, it's like I'm dealing with a God damned child!" I just looked down at my hands. "I'm sorry," I said. "You always say you're sorry, but you do the same stupid shit over and over and over again. I just can't trust you. I can't leave you alone for longer than a night because I'm sure you'd find some reason to kill yourself. How am I supposed to be sending you off into the world in a couple of months if you can't even convince yourself not to die?"

Everything she was saying was true. I was a horrible son, and an even worse person. I hated myself. Why couldn't I force myself to give a shit about myself? Why did I have to puke every time I ate? Why did I cut myself? Why did I starve myself? Why did I push everyone away? Why did I have no friends?? Why was I having homosexual thoughts? Why? Why did I even exist? There were so many questions, and I couldn't force myself to think up the answers to any of them.

"I'm so sorry," I said, realizing that I was crying. "I just.... I feel like I've lost my kid. I've lost my baby boy. The boy that used to make me breakfast in bed, the kid who was always smiling. I know your life in the beginning wasn't pleasant and no one should go through what you did, but hun, you're so brave. You are. And you have to believe that you survived that for a reason. You're not dead for a reason. Please believe that, because if I lose you, I don't know what else I'll do. My whole life has been me trying to make sure your safe, but I cannot save you from yourself. That's the sad part." She sat down next to me, and even though I protested, wrapped her arms around me and pulled me to her.

"Mom I'm sorry. I'll try harder, I promise," I whimpered. There was nothing else to say, I could try harder. I could try to get better. I'd never tried that. I've only sat there and waited for it to be over, and it was not going to get better that way. She started stroking my hair. "Oh, hunny," She said. I hugged her back then, crying even harder, because I remembered when I used to rely on her for everything. Before I got bullied. Before I wanted to die. It was just us. And we'd lived through it; we'd crawled out of hell.

And I didn't feel so alone. I just wanted to feel that again. I wanted to feel something again. I wanted to feel alive.

~vOtE and/or cOmMeNt??