laced

four

I didn't even have time to react, to close the door. He was right there, waiting like he knew I would be late.

●●

I woke up on the old wooden floor. I guessed I blacked out, because I could hardly remember anything. My head was pounding, and when I attempted to get up it felt like I'd been stabbed in the ribs.
I stood up after a few minutes of trying, propping myself against the wall. I was already struggling to breathe, and I hadn't even done anything. I stumbled over to the old couch and sat there, my bruised face buried in my pale hands.

Pathetic.

The sobs ripping through me like flames in a forest wasn't helping my breathing situation. Nothing seemed real, and everything was spinning. I didn't care though, I was to wrapped up in being a crybaby.

"Suck it up, Tyler. You're fine."
I told myself bitterly, as if I could scare myself into being fine. I wipe away the snot and tears on my brown shirt, which wasn't mine. It was Braden's. I felt sick, disgusting. Everything I do, anywhere I look, every time I breathe. I'm not breathing in air, I'm breathing in filth.

Fortunately for me, Braden left already.
I'd composed myself by the time I realized that. A soft, pained sigh escaped my chapped lips as I heaved myself up the stairs. I walked into the small bathroom that was located in Braden's bedroom.
His bedroom.
Braden always kept bandages underneath the sink for things like this. I pulled out a small box which held some gaus, along with a few band aids. I washed off my face, cleaning off the dried blood that was smeared across my sunken cheeks, along with a few other cuts scattered along my face. I slowly pulled off the thin, brown shirt I was wearing, dropping it to the tile ground.
I felt tears welling in the brim of my eyes as I traced over the bruises littered along my rib cage.

"He loves me, it's okay."

My voice cracked as I spoke, and I knew why then and there. It wasn't okay.
"Braden doesn't love me, does he?"
I mumbled out, a spark of hope that someone would answer me, but of course there wasn't one. Just my reflection in the mirror, staring back at me.
A few moments later I slammed my hand into the mirror, hard.
It made a terrible crashing sound, but I couldn't care less about the mess that was made. My hand were bleeding, bits and pieces of glass poked out of them, but I didn't care. I just desperately wanted to get out of this place. I couldn't breathe.
I pull a few peices of the mirror from my hand, ignoring the red liquid that way gushing from it. Instead I went to Braden's room, walking over to his closet and grabbing a random shirt, making sure that it was mine before putting it on. I grabbed my mustard yellow hoodie and slipped that on too, along with the bigger coat I'd worn yesterday. I rushed down the steps, my limbs trembling violently. I needed my phone, which was on top of the fridge in a box, pushed way back by the wall so I couldn't reach it. I grabbed a chair and yanked it over to the fridge, ignoring the flashes of pain in his body, practically screaming at me to stop moving. After climbing up onto it and grabbing the box, I pulled out my phone, which I hadn't seen since Braden took it away, which was a few months ago. I decided to slam the box down, causing it to break. Braden hated messes, and I was going to leave him two, along with the nervousness and anger he was going to have to feel, since I was gone, and now I had my phone.