step into the sun || c.m

chapter three

Connor despised waking up in the morning. He hated it because he was alive. He hated it because he was breathing. He hated it because he had to get up and look at the world he lived in.

Yet, he did it every single day. He woke up every single day. He thought about the fact that he was alive, looking at the world he lived in. Didn't make him hate it any less.

"Connor! You are going to be late!" He heard his mother call from downstairs. He had been awake an hour before, in his bed, unmoving. He woke up early, but hated getting up. He hated waking up too. But getting up was worse.

"Fuck off!" He yelled back. He regretting it for just a moment, but then feeling of utter hatred and despair took over his body over the fact that he had to go see all the bastards at that hellhole. It didn't matter though. He didn't matter to them.

"Connor please!" He heard his mother yell again, this time more defeated and tired. He didn't really care. She always sounded tired and defeated whenever he would breathe around her. He somehow managed to pull himself up from his bed, in a standing position. It was the hardest challenge of the day. He looked down at his clothes he had worn yesterday, the black jeans that were still a size too big and a grey V-neck t-shirt. He would usually just throw on his huge heavy black jacket, grab his messenger bag and leave. But he had just worn this, and he didn't want Cierra to think he was gross.

Really? You don't give two shits about what every other person on this planet thinks, but Cierra?

"Connor, someone is outside in a black jeep, are they waiting for you?" He heard his mother call.

"Jesus, Cynthia, you're letting him get into the car with someone? He's going to come home in a body bag one of these days." His father was most certainly not good at keeping an inside voice. Connor was convinced he purposefully said these things so he would hear him. He stopped caring in the eighth grade.

Shit, Cierra.

Connor quickly yanked off his grey t-shirt and threw it on the ground. He rummaged through the basket of clothes that ranged from clean to semi-clean and found a navy blue t-shirt with no stains on it and threw it on. He grabbed his favorite jacket (the weird one third leather jacket, another third hoodie, last third jean jacket. It was weird. Zoe got it for him for his birthday) and slipped on his black combat boots and managed to sling his messenger bag over his shoulder all in like three minutes. He quickly ran down the stairs, trying his hardest not to be stopped by his family, but halfway across the kitchen, he felt his father's hand on his bicep.

"Where are you going." Larry Murphy's booming voice rang through the house.

"To school, where would you rather me go, jesus fuck." Connor tried to yank his arm away, but he couldn't loosen his father's hand from his arm.

"Stop using that kind of language in this house hold." He tried again to pull away after feeling his father's spit on the back of his neck. He still wouldn't budge. He bit his lip, trying to keep the thought in the back of his head suppressed.

"Fuck off, Larry."

That didn't work.

He felt his father's hands tighten around his arm, hurting him at this point. But he couldn't show it was hurting him.

"Connor Murphy, I swear if you do-" He felt his father's grip loosen and eventually leave his arm. He looked back to see if his dad had like, gone into cardiac arrest or something, but he saw his mother pulling him back slightly.

"It's the first day of spring semester, Larry. Connor has to get to school." She rubbed her husband's arm, and Larry looked at him with complete and utter distain. He quickly darted out of the door and without even looking jumped into the driver's seat of the car, knowing Cierra will have already moved to the passenger side. He didn't even have to turn the key, he just put his hands on the steering wheel, and pressed his foot on the gas pedal.