Don't Wake Me Up || Septiplier

Chapter One

[Well... new story .-. This story is a bit different from my other stories, as it deals with depression and topics close to that. There is a trigger warning, I do not want any of you guys to be upset over this. Now, I don't know much about depression, I never did get it too hard. So I might not hit the topic as hard as people who actually have had it. I'm sorry if you have, it's a tough thing to go through but I promise each and every one of you that you are worth it and life will get better. If you ever need to talk, I'll be here :) Other than that, I hope you guys enjoy this story. The plot isn't complete like usual, but I know where I want to go with it. I hope you enjoy]

|| Sean's POV ||

Great. I woke up.

My heavy eyelids drooped up as I leaned over to turn off my alarm. I closed my eyes for a couple seconds, trying to prepare myself for the day ahead. Sighing, I rolled myself out of my bed and quickly got dressed.

As I tugged a hoodie on, I saw the bruise on my right bicep starting to form from yesterday, when my dad has grabbed me by it and slammed me into the wall.

My parents had always been abusive. As far back I can remember, I've had bruises. They started off just on my stomach and chest, then gradually moved up to my arms and legs when I realised I had to cover them up.

I should get help, I know. But it hard. People don't understand how difficult it is to get help after so many years of it.

I ran my hair through my faded green hair and looked in my mirror. I hated what I saw. A cut along my jaw. A bruise under my eye. A busted lip. And that was just my face. My body had it much worse.

After all these years, all seventeen years, my parents had made me feel like nothing. I was worthless to everybody. I was nothing. That's how they made me feel, and though I shouldn't believe it, I did. I did so much.

And I hated myself for it.

I hated myself because of what they said. And I shouldn't hate myself for that reason but after so many years of my parents physical and verbal abuse, after years of the bullies at my school, I started hating myself because of them.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I walked out of my room, slipping my backpack over my shoulder. I gently walked down the stairs, trying to not wake my parents.

As I walked to the kitchen, I looked over at the couch. I realised then that my mother was passed out on the couch, drunk off her mind. I felt my lips tug downward.

Parents shouldn't be drunk constantly and abuse their children. They should be sober and making memories with them, making them laugh and helping with homework. Not beating them to the point to where they start to blame themselves and beat themselves up.

Setting my bag on the ground, I began making breakfast for them. Throughout all these years, I discovered a couple ways that would make the abuse a bit more subtle.

Making breakfast and dinner was a major one. That would make them slightly happier. But they'd still attack me. It just helped a bit.

But even a little thing like that that can mean a world of difference.

After I made the two plates of eggs and toast, I grabbed a bottle of water and walked out of the door. I walked to school everyday, since I didn't have much of an option. My parents would never drive me and I didn't have a car of my own.

I opened the water bottle and drank some, before putting the cap back on and putting the bottle in my bag. Breakfast was something I didn't eat anymore. I rarely ate, too be honest. My body was fat in my eyes. Everybody told me I was too skinny, I was a walking skeleton, I should've been dead a long time ago.