Hanging By a Thread | Scömìche MPreg COMPLETED

chapter fourteen | it's not healthy anymore

It wasn't healthy anymore.

It wasn't healthy to think of him, or talk to him, or talk of him.

He was a very harmful drug that had gotten into his body, and even if he knew how bad it was hurting him, he was addicted.

Mitch hated him, he said it himself. He told him that he didn't love him, but did that change his views on him?

No.

Scott still loved Mitch, even if it meant he'd be in a loop of sorrow and hatred for as long as he lived. He loved him so much.

"The kids just left for school, Scott. Do you want to come down for breakfast?"

Riley had taken it upon herself to help take care of Brady while Scott was almost physically incapable of getting out of bed in the morning. She cooked the majority of the meals (spare the few days she allowed them to order pizza for dinner) and it gave Nick an opportunity to be around Brady more.

"Can I take a shower?" his voice was small, and so weak it was barely audible from across the room.

"Scott, you can do whatever you need. This is your house, I'm just asking if you want any pancakes and biscuits before I put them up."

"Okay. Could you put some on a plate? I'll be down there soon," she nodded and left, running a hand through her hair on the way out. Scott stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, turning on the water in the shower to cold, stripping off his shirt and boxers.

Tears clouded his vision, a very vivid memory of the day about a week before today.

"I don't fucking love you."

Soon they were pouring out with harsh, choking sobs that drowned out the pouring water. He gripped onto a transparent bar in the shower, using it to hold himself up as he sobbed uncontrollably.

Stop crying, Scott. No one is going to help you. You deserved what was coming to you, you deserve what you're going through now. Why can't you just be happy for Mitch and his new boyfriend? What's the use in being sad when he's happy?

He's fine, so get the fuck over it!

Scott screamed, letting go of the plastic bar and collapsing onto the shower floor. He curled his body into a ball, crying violently until the door slammed open. He let out a yelp, looking up at the no longer running water.

"Oh, sweetie," Riley sighed, kneeling down and wrapping a towel around Scott's body, "you're a hot mess, aren't you?"

"Just a mess. An ugly mess," Scott hiccuped, tightening the fabric around him, "an ugly, unloved mess."

"Scott, you are not unloved, and you are certainly not ugly. You are beautiful and have been mistreated, so where are these thoughts coming from?"

"You didn't hear what he said. You didn't see the anger in his eyes, the hatred in his voice. He doesn't love me, he hates me, and he said that Brady didn't love me. And you know what, Riley? You want to know what else?"

He didn't get a reply, but he continued, "I don't care! I still love him, and I can't fucking stand it. It's not healthy, it's not healthy for me to feel this way about him when he doesn't even think of me as a human being."

"Get up," her voice was firm, as were her eyes, "get up, now."

He obeyed, wrapping the towel around his waist and stepping out of the shower. It was a bit ridiculous to take orders from a woman who was literally a foot shorter than him. However, she was very persuasive.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," she added, setting her hands on his waist and turning his body so he was staring at himself.

"What are you doing?" he hiccuped, trying to avoid the sickly pale skin that was stretched against his bones, or the deep purple circles that surrounded his eyes, or the multiple bags underneath his tired, dull eyes.

"You're sick, Scott," she wrapped her arms around his torso, "you're sick, and you're sad. You haven't been outside in two weeks, you haven't slept for longer than an hour in days. You cry everyday and it's not healthy anymore."

He wanted to break down and sob, but what would that prove? That this woman he met a week ago was more intelligent than he was on the subject of himself?

"I just- I love him. I love him and I don't know why I keep crying. He's happy, so why am I not? That's all I wanted, for him to be happy. Now he is, and I can't seem to be happy myself."

"Maybe you shouldn't aim for 'happy' right now, Scott. Maybe you should aim for healthy. You need rest, and sunlight. Now get your ass back into bed and I'll bring up breakfast, then we're going for a walk."

"Alright, mom," he mumbled, watching her breathe a sigh of relief when he agreed to her.

"Sleep well," she hoisted herself up on the bathroom counter to kiss his cheek, then climbed down with a pant.

He laughed hoarsely, limping weakly to his bed, "thank you."

"I'm a mom, Scott."