Breaking Apathy

Chapter 11: I know her name, not her

Hey! Faster update this time round :) I hope you like and that you keep reading. Do comment, vote or anything as I still need motivation to pull out a good piece of work. But do enjoy nonetheless! This chapter was done with love.

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“How could you do that?” Taylor whispered angrily to my corpse.

I heard him distantly and wondered why he was sounding so angry. I mean, he is shouting at an unconscious me. How can he? Especially when I’m the one that was beaten! I would have ignored him, but his whispering became incessant and annoying- from a background hush to a foreground shout. In retaliation, I groaned. Surprisingly, it worked. It worked a little too well for my liking. Has he left?

As if to answer, I felt a freezing sensation in my underwear.

“GAH!” I shouted as I scrambled for the source.

Taylor burst in to a roar of laughter as I danced on the bed, only getting a hold of the ice cube he placed down there. I tossed it to the corner of the room and hunched over, groaning once more as a headache painfully possessed my brain. My hands functioned on auto- pilot as they cradled the sides of my head. Taylor lowered in to messy giggles as he sat on the chair and looked at me.

“Are you ok?”

“The term is freezing eggs Taylor not freezing balls,” I responded.

This successfully turned him in to a laughing fool once more.

Despite my current situation, I have to say that it was a subtle comfort to hear Taylor laugh. It overrode the tense moment we had in the morning before school and it made me feel normal that he could be at ease with the knowledge he had received. Was he? I gave him a glance before shifting my palms over my eyes. He hung his head between his arms that were supported by his knees, which he had propped up by placing his legs on the chair. Weird position to sit in but Taylor was always rebellious to normal.

“Hey... are you ok?” Taylor asked with his laugh gone and concern on.

Am I ok? I echoed the question, asking myself the very same thing. It’s only been about two days after the arrest yet I felt a years worth of pain just by being treated badly. Although I dunno who hurt me more – my dad? Kain? Or myself? I’ve agonized over things that I can see hold no present happenings and just trudged in to any problem I faced. I mean, my mother for example: That memory was six years old already. It hadn’t really bothered me after two years of it happening, but here I am six years down the line reflecting on past. Taylor hand hesitantly slid on to my back. I could tell he was unsure by the cautious movement of his hand. My head throbbed due to the prior battering it received, but at the moment, it pulsed with pitying memories.

The first... was Taylor. This nine year old kid that threw a soccer ball at me from random nowhere because he “felt like it”. I was moping about the scolding my mother had given me for stealing sweets from our sweet jar before supper and had decided to dwell outside until her temper cooled. But after a moment of wondering in thought, that’s when Taylor did that. He used to look quirky with a plaster across his nose for style and an oversized tee with short shorts – like nowadays butt-riders. His hair was forever ruffled because of his constant successful escapes from thorough combing. I was intrigued when I first met him. However, our friendship was less platonic as I grew to seek academic recognition and he balanced social and academics. I gave up what he has – friendships.

Secondly, my mother, who I’ll summarize by saying she died. She had, for the last year with us, shown her hate that she harboured for me since my birth. I have no idea what had happened for her to hate me that way but I regret whatever action she deemed worth the hate. It wasn’t physical abuse if that’s what you’re thinking. She did it at the highest level any human can – emotional abuse. It made me incapable of showing much care for things normal people would care for but in turn, it did inspire me to become a poet because I discovered the power of words. Although if you asked for my inspiration, I’d give the scholastic answer of ‘John Keats’.