Blue House | Tronnor

Chapter 11, Troye POV

"Troye?"

My breath faltered as I stopped running, looking back at the lights of the house. I could barely see a silhouette of Connor, sitting on the stone steps staring out into the night. A sense of guilt settled on my shoulders as I turned away and kept walking, pulling up Google Maps on my phone. The address was still plugged into the search bar, showing I only had a few more blocks to go. My feet steered me right, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk, falling and scraping myself. "Dammit!" I swore under my breath as I assessed the damage. My jeans were slightly ripped at the knees and my hands stung, but I was fine other than that. A breath escaped my chest in the form of a sigh, and I put my temples in between my knees. What have you gotten into, Troye? I asked myself as I stood and plodded on, glancing over my shoulder once more. My eyes traced the cracks in the ground until I reached a clean, white, stone slab and I halted, shaking. My eyelids slid over the discs of brilliant blue that were my eyes, shielding me from harm. This is when I had to control my panic attacks. Every time I saw him. Breath. In, out, in, out. Think of Connor telling you everything is alright. My eyes opened, and I braced myself.

My hand grasped the silver knocker and I banged it against the dark wood door once, twice, three times. My breath left my mouth in little puffs, and my eyes flitted around shiftily. I jumped as the door opened and a hand roughly dragged me inside, breathing heavily. I flinched as his breath hit me, the pungent fumes of liquor washed over me, and I tried not to inhale. The taller figure dragged me upstairs, grunting, "Where were you?" I cringed, trying not to think of Connor. "I--I was... I-um..." I stuttered. "You're late! You were supposed to be here at midnight! Where were you?" the person yelled, turning around and punching me across the face. I stumbled backwards and fell against the wall, sliding to the ground and covering my face as he drew back his hand again. "I was at Zoe's!" I cried, looking up just in time to see his fist collide with my eye again. "I swear I was just at Zoe's, I wasn't doing anything!" I heard a grunt and then felt myself being forcibly dragged to my feet. "Get me a drink," he ordered. I nodded and scurried downstairs, a breath of relief escaping me as soon as I was away from him. I pulled the large, clear, glass bottle of cheap Vodka out of the cupboard and poured a generous glass, not wanting him sober. When he was sober, he could be even more cruel and ruthless than usual, not to mention capable of forming a coherent thought. I sniffed the drink, gagging a bit. The smell was faint, but still there, and it reminded me of him. He always smelled like alcohol or smoke, or a mixture of both. Disgusting. My hand shook as I took the Vodka upstairs, handing it to him and flipping on the TV. Spongebob blared loudly on the television, the small, old fashioned screen flickering occasionally. He glared at me through bloodshot eyes, then turned his attention back to Spongebob, snapping, "You can leave now, I don't want you here anymore." I looked up, my heart beating faster. "Yes sir," I murmured, standing. I was happy I was free to go, but at the same time I was mad. I had just gotten here (not that I wanted to stay) and now I was being kicked out? What was the point in me even coming? Why the hell did I have to come and cater to his needs for five minutes and then leave? There was no point! Then again, he never made sense when he was drunk, and when he wasn't drunk he was either high or abusing me. I thumped downstairs angrily and slammed the door behind me, not worrying about the loud obnoxious action or how it shook the house. He would be too drunk to notice anything, let alone remember. 

My black platform converse scuffed against the front steps of Zoe's house, and I pushed against the door. Locked. Think, Troye, where would Zoe put a spare key? After a few minutes of rifling around, I found the key on the underside of her bench, and unlocked the door. As quietly as possible, I shut and locked the door and crept into the kitchen, grabbing some ice and sliding it into a clean dishrag, carefully covering my eye. In the living room, Zoe and Alfie lay fast asleep on Connor's couch, but my sofa was unoccupied. I slipped into the bathroom, flicking on the lights and looking in the mirror, removing the ice pouch from my face. Oh, no. I had a dark circle around my right eye, soon to be a bruise, and the skin on my cheek was red. You can't have a black eye, everyone will wonder what happened, I thought frantically. I turned the lights off and trudged back to my sofa, propping the ice on my face again. Oh! What if you say you fell off the couch in the night! suggested a small voice in my head. That would do it, everyone falls off their beds... right? I shook my head, too tired to care, and collapsed onto the sofa. My mind had only one thought, and my body agreed: sleep.