Broken Vessels

| Chapter IV- Cole |

| September 4, 2017 |

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Yes another update not even a week later. Well technically, tomorrow will be a week but I don't think I'll be able to post tomorrow since it's the first day of school for me *gasp*. Anyway, please enjoy Cole's perspective. You got a glimpse of Veronica's lifestyle. Now it's time for Cole's. 

Warning: This chapter does talk about the markings left after an abusive beating. And it isn't pretty. 

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| Chapter IV- Cole |

*That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt. -John Green*

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I shut the door as soon as I got home, tense and listening for any sound of humans in the house. So far, nothing. It meant he was out.

I gave a sigh of relief and shuffled quickly up the stairs to my room and locked it shut, hoping it'd keep the beast out. But nothing was ever certain with him. He was capable of anything and everything, especially under the influence.

I shuddered then stripped the sweatshirt off of me, feeling its warmth and moisture from the sweat that collected during the day. It wasn't necessarily warm outside but it was too warm to wear a sweatshirt. I had my reasons for that though.

I walked to my mirror and gazed at my bare torso. Bruises the size of bear paws colored my chest, ribs, and lower stomach. They weren't light bruises either. They were dark purple and grey and yellow ones. Ones that darkened after the next day.

Along my upper arms were the same color bruises but with meaty fingerprints where my stepfather grabbed me harshly and put lots of pressure on my arms. Then down to my wrists were red welts where he whipped my wrists with his belt.

I quickly looked away and ran to the restroom. I threw up what little food I consumed today until there was nothing left but acid climbing out, burning my throat, and making my eyes water involuntarily.

As soon as I was done, I wiped my mouth and flushed the toilet, shakily standing up from my spot on the floor. I then shuffled weakly to the mirror again and looked at my face this time.

It was hollow and pale. My hair was in my face but that didn't stop my piercing blue eyes from showing underneath them. My sharp cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut someone and my cheeks were sunken in.

I looked sick and unhealthy and it was all because of my rotten family. If I could even call it family.

A father, whether biological or not, shouldn't manhandle and abuse his child. And a mother shouldn't stand by and watch it happen without saying or doing anything. They should be protecting and nurturing the child until they were old enough to walk away on their own two feet.

But here I was constantly knocked down and around by the people who were meant to care for me. My mother wasn't necessarily the one putting harm on my body, but she stood by with tears in her eyes as she let her husband torture me, hurt me, break me.

I splashed cold water on my face to keep the thoughts out of my head. But it seemed no matter what I did, the thoughts always came back. Not a moment passed by where I wasn't consumed with thoughts of violence. Violence brought on me. Violence that was enough for me to feel the pain but never enough to die from.

Maybe that's what I needed. An encounter with death. Maybe then I'd be free from this h***hole. Maybe then the monster called my stepfather would be ashamed and change. Maybe then my mother would beg me for her forgiveness and actually do something about my situation.

I let out a humorless chuckle. That was wishful thinking. Even if I was dead, the situation wouldn't change. Brian, the beast, would still be abusive and might take it out on my mother. Who knew if he hurt her too?

I looked down at my hand and noticed that I kept it still. I didn't clench it. Usually when something pissed me off, my hand would twitch then form into a fist. But that didn't happen this time around. Did I honestly care if my mother was being abused too?

That thought alone startled me because I didn't realize when I felt that way. When my protectiveness for my mother disappeared. I guess that's what happened when the one who was supposed to be the superhero in your childhood abandoned and left you to fight alone, only to get swallowed up and unable to become free.

I sighed and shook my head, pulling away from the sink and mirror and walking out of the restroom. I went to my bed and perched myself on the edge of it. I stared at my dark carpet flooring and wondered what it would be like if my life was normal.

Would I have been respected by my peers? Would I have had friends? Would I participate in school activities and come home with bruises from tryouts and practice instead of another human being who was supposed to be my stepfather? Would I be loved by my mother and maybe some girl from school? Would I be happy?

Those thoughts circled in my mind and I realized it was pointless. No amount of wishing would ever change my reality. No amount of hoping would change life. No amount of praying would ever fix my circumstance.

There was no such thing as miracles and hope in my dictionary and that made me feel even worse than before. I felt hollow and dead and broken.

My mind was a mess. My body was a mess. My heart was a mess. My soul was a mess. My whole existence was a mess. And there was nothing to fix it. Nothing to put the pieces of my brokenness back together.

I felt the warmth of tears slide down my cheeks and I brought my hand up to touch them. But I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall and I let myself cry.

Why? Because sometimes that was the easiest thing to do instead of punching a wall and hurting yourself more. Because sometimes that was the only freedom you got before it was time to slip the mask back on and hide away again. Because that was the only time where anyone truly knew that they were in pain. 

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