Sweaters || Malum

Chapter 2

Trigger warning.

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I take off my black sweatshirt when I get home and glance over the ugly scars on my arms, seeing how faded they were becoming. Some of them were pink, some more raised than others. Some were white, showing how long ago those were made. Both arms were lined with such marks. I sighed. Don't do it, Calum. I told myself. I was somehow drawn toward where my razors were hidden.

No matter how many times I said no, I couldn't help myself.

Nobody was home in the house. My father was a general practitioner, and my mother a college professor teaching maths. I lived in a nice home, and I was (for the most part) well-liked at school. Why was I so selfish? So unhappy?

I take my blades out in a hurry as I began to cry.

"You're not good enough." I tell myself quietly, choosing the cleanest blade to use. "You deserve this." I sob to myself. I go over to my bathroom and sit down on the toilet. One thing I liked about having my own personal bathroom is that nobody comes in here.

Whenever I self-harmed, I don't use fabric. I don't self-harm in the shower or bath or anything. I want to know how much I've bled, as disturbing as that may seem. It's the only way I know that I have done semi-okay with my punishment.

That I deserve.

"Do it, Calum. Just do it." I angrily order myself.

I press the corner of the blade into my arm and bite my lip roughly when pain goes up my arm. It hurts to cut over scars. "Just do it." I tell myself again. I slice it and watch as the closed skin becomes open and I can see blood trickling into the wound.

I continue up my arm, some not deep, but others were. The cool liquid moves down and drops off my arm onto the white tile floor. The drops become more consistent as there was now a small pool below my arm. I put the blade on the corner of the sink and all my worries and weight on my chest goes away.

My arm soon stops bleeding as I turn on the sink, and make sure the water is warm. I put my bloody arm underneath it and take a deep breath in as the water cleans the wounds. Dammit this hurt.

I should be used to this. I deserve this. Why am I in pain?

I remove my arm and go into the bottom cabinet, pulling out all the gauze and ACE bandages I have piled up. As I said previously, nobody comes in here. Even if they did they probably wouldn't care. So I wrap my arm in ACE bandage and then look at the ground. That blood came from me.

So I spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning up the metallic smelling, dark red liquid.

When the floor is no longer stained with my pain, I put my sweatshirt back on and sit down on my bed.

--

A couple hours after I walked through the door, my father returns from work. My mother leaves around 9:00 and her drive is almost an hour long so she won't be home for a while. I shakily get off my bed and go downstairs. "Hello father, how was work?" I say to him when I see him in the kitchen.

"Fine." He snaps as if I disturbed him somehow.

"Sorry." I mutter and begin to leave.

He grabs my wrist-the one that I didn't cut on-and pulls me back. "It was stressful. But you can make it less stressful." He whispers sending shivers down my spine and for fear to begin building from the pit of my stomach.

"I'd rather go finish my homework, Father." I try to excuse myself and move away but his grip tightens.

He twists my arm as I scream out and begin slowly falling to my knees. "Don't make fucking excuses." He sneers, placing his foot on my back and pushes my entire body onto the wooden floor.

"Get on your knees, son." He orders and I begin to cry and shake.

"Father please." I beg for him not to, but he won't have it. He never does. He grabs my hair and lifts my head up and forces me to my knees. "N-No." I cry.

"Shut up." He snaps.

He grabs the collar of my shirt and pushes my weak body up against the counters. I am trapped in the corner. He raises his fist and I try and block my face but I was too late to do it.

He sometimes does this.

Maybe I deserved to be treated like this.

I wasn't sure.

He hasn't done this in about two months, but it is happening again. I am on my knees as he continuously hits me over and over. "Get to your feet." He orders and I shakily obey, sobbing.

He punches my stomach and as defense I raise my knee. "Fucker!" He screams, slapping me across the face. "Don't you fucking knee me, boy!" He screams at me, moving away from me for a moment. I don't hit back most of the time, but other sometimes when I am in a lot of pain I do. He punches my jaw and I fall slightly.

He hits my head on the counter and I hear the thump of my skull against wood. I am sitting down, dizzy with pain. He brings his hand to my neck and grips it. "You are seventeen, Calum. You need to learn to defend yourself. So come on, Cal." He tells me quietly, releasing my neck. I begin coughing and gasping for air. He laughs forcing me back to my feet.

"S-Stop." I beg.

Why am I such a failure? Why does this happen to me? We see headlights shine through the window and I assumed it was his friend George. He comes over almost every night and the two get drunk together. "You know what? I'll fucking kill you if you come downstairs again tonight. Leave, now." He orders and I nod, almost running away from him.

My Mum doesn't know about this.

She just thinking I'm a troubled child who gets into fights at school. I've never told her, and I'm not planning on it. The abuse started when I was fourteen-and that was also when I began self-harming. I have always wondering what I've done to deserve what he does to me. Maybe I am a burden to him and my Mum. It would make sense.

I sit in my room crying for the rest of the night. I fall asleep with my eyes puffy and stinging.

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Bit of a filer into Calum's home life and his actions towards himself. Thoughts?