He Hung -Phan-

T w o

Dans pov

My body slid down the door as my father smashed a bottle against my head. Tears poured from my eyes and he gave me a sarcastically pitiful look.
"Perhaps, if you didn't kill your mother this wouldn't be happening right now."

Internally, I screamed at him.
I didn't kill her you sick bastard, you crashed the damn car!"
But I didn't say anything. If I were to, he would become cross with me.
Like he isn't cross with me now you might say.
No.
He is punishing me. He's not mad, he thinks he's serving out justice when in actuality... it's not my fault. It never was and never will be.

When he finally left me alone, I stood up from my blood puddle on the ground and began to stitch up the wound on the top of my head. I plunged the needle into my skull and performed a Running Web Stitch that would make a surgeon proud.
I mopped up the mess on ground before walking over to the window. From there, I could see the only person that I ever gave a damn about, Phil Lester. He was in the corner of his room, rocking back and fourth.
Guilt pressed in my throat and I bit back the tears. He shouldn't have to hear what goes on in my house. He never should have found out.
His tear strained cheeks lifted and bright blue eyes knocked me back.
His dulled eyes were suddenly brought back to life and he bolted from his corner.

"Dan! Please come over..." his voice broke at the end. I found myself biting back an 'okay' and opted to shake my head sadly. If I were too, my father would kill me. Physically at least, mentally he already has.

He nodded understandingly; he knows why because it's happened before and he got to witness it firsthand.

I gave him one last longing look before closing the shades and sitting down at my desk. My bloody hand opened the top drawer and slid out a crumpled piece of paper. Thoughts and words bloomed in my mind and I continued to write my note. Tears poured from my eyes and by running nose dripped onto the paper. My stomach twisted into knots but I ignored it. My father wouldn't find this note because he's always too drunk to even bother.

Dear Phil, I'm so...so sorry.

These words were all I was able to manage before setting down my pen and putting the paper back. I've been writing it for two weeks and I haven't gotten a paragraph done.
I stood up from my desk and stretched out my arms above my head, only to collapse on the ground. I felt something tearing in the skin of my stomach and I knew that I had ripped my stitches. The pain had been numbed so I guessed I forgot about it.
I shrugged my shoulders and ignored the ringing pain running through my body and slipped into bed. School starts again tomorrow, meaning I have to get up before my dad does.

At the bus stop the next morning, I met up with Phil. I glanced at his outfit and smiled inwardly. He had his mismatched socks on and a Pokémon shirt. He rocked it though, so I didn't say anything. His bright shirt with black patterns stuck out like a sore thumb against my faded black shirt. But I suppose that's what I like about him, he never really bothered to hide himself (unless I say something that makes him embarrassed; he covers his face with his hands which I can't help but think is adorable.)

School consisted of nothing really. I don't get bullied, perhaps the weird stare here and there but I haven't really been bullied. I avoid conflict and confrontation since I get enough of that at home. Phil is the one I worry about, he stands up for what he believes is and defends everyone that has been done wrong. Which makes him a target.
Luckily, he's easy to get along with and not many people have a problem with him. Only the special few that no one really likes or admires.

I personally adore him. His smile and his hair make me forget I suppose. I forget about all the things that hurt me, which is about everything nowadays.

At school we share most of the same classes, which I am thankful for. We have different gym classes, same period but different teacher. I would call us blessed with the best-friend schedule. It would be hellish if we were ever in a huge argument but we don't fight unless it's about the best Legend of Zelda character (always going to be Link btw, but Phil wants to think it's Zelda because she's in the title of the game ヽ(ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ )

"Dan, how do you pronounce egg?" Phil suddenly asked, a genuine look of concern on his face. I laughed loudly and gave him a sideways look.
"I'm serious! Aha Dan don't look at me like that do you say it eeg or aeg??"

His blue eyes sparkled with amusement as I struggled to come up with an answer. How would you say it? Oh god...

"Dan...why are you laying face down on the fl- ohhh... I sent you into another Existential crisis didn't I?"

"Danial Howell!" shouted my father. I had only taken one step into the house before a glass bottle shattered on the wall beside my head. A hand came flying at my face and my fight or flight instincts kicked in. I ducked his blow and dropped to the floor, straight onto the glass. My father saw the opportunity and pushed my body farther down onto the glass with his leg.
I screamed out in agony as I felt the sharp edges pierce my legs and tear the skin.
"Humph, serves you right you worthless piece of shit. Clean up your fucking mess before I mop it up with your face, faggot."

I cringed at the onslaught of insults but picked every single shard of glass up from the ground. They cut into my hands and sliced up my fingers pretty bad but I couldn't complain. I wanted to but it wouldn't help my situation.

Just another day in this life of mine.

I am so so sorry guys i dunno why it has taken me so long to write this damn book.