Jeffmads Oneshots

What's In The Closet?

A/N Have a funny picture cuz this made me depressed from just writing it. Have fun with the feels!

Warning: This is going to have a lot of shit like self harm, blood, suicide, child abuse, etc. So read with caution. 

Word Count: 1031

Chapter: 3/5

P.S. This is another long ass chapter so I had to literally just make two chapters. I'm posting them at the same time though so don't worry.

-------------Thomas POV--------------

James: Hey Tommy, u okay?

Thomas: Aww da baby cares about little old me? How sweet!

James: Yeah yeah whatever

James: Seriously tho, u okay??

Thomas: Yeah just super tired and all. We'll hang tomorrow if that's cool?

James: Sure! Night Tommy

Thomas: Night Jimmy!

I threw my phone on the opposite side of the couch, stupid James, he didn't know what he was getting into. I was a cruel, unfeeling, uncaring son of a bitch who didn't care about anyone.

So then why was this sweet, intelligent guy trying so hard to become my friend? I laughed at my own thoughts. Man, I must be having a mental breakdown or something. 

I smiled sadly, a mental breakdown huh? Poor, sad, little depressed boy. My thoughts went to my parents as I took another swig of the bottle I had been clutching to my chest for the past couple hours.

"The hell do you think you're doing?"

I freezed, my small hands inches away from the cookie jar. Then stumbled away from it, causing a glass plate that was set on the counter to fall to the ground, a big crash as little pieces of the plate flew everywhere.

"I'm sorry, sir!" I replied, already on all fours trying desperately to clean up the glass.

My father's face was red with anger, he grabbed my shirt collar ruffly and yelled in my face, "You fucking useless kid! Look what you did now!!"

I struggled to release myself from the tall figure, "I-im so so-sorry," I whispered, tears already welling up in my eyes. My father raised his fist,  inches away from striking my face when the front door opened, revealing my mother, her hands full of groceries. 

I remember sighing with relief, loving my mother extremely at that moment.

"I'm home! You will not believe what Becky-"

She stopped, her eyes moving between me and my father, "What's going on?"

My father scoffed, "That little shit broke another plate trying to steal some cookies."

I stared at my mother with pleading eyes, surely she wouldn't let my father beat me again. Right?

She looked down at the glass covering the floor and I saw her inhale sharply. She then looked at me and said, "Well, he must be punished then for making such a mess."

My father's fist collided with my face faster than I could even put my arms up for protection. 

I was locked in my bedroom closet for two days after that, crying myself dry every couple hours, then hoping my mother would open the door with food.

Sighing, I chugged another bottle. Maybe I deserved all those beatings. Maybe I've always just been a fuck up who can't do anything right. Maybe I should just die. Or at least do something to punish myself.

Damn, I sound like my father.

Tossing my bottle to the floor, I started making my way to the bathroom. The bathroom is used for a lot of shit if you realized this. Checking to see if you're pregnant, having sex for the first time, doing your business, smoking cigarettes at a young age, crying, cutting, dying.....a lot of shit happens in the bathroom.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, looked down at the curling iron I had used just this morning, and had an idea. A stupid idea, but an idea to make me feel something instead of this emptiness. I gently picked up the curling iron and, without hesitation, placed it roughly on my arm.

It took around four seconds of just shock that Im an actual dumbass, then I screamed. I flung the curling iron back on the sink counter and cradled my now red arm.

"Fuck," I cursed, my arm sizzling as I stared at the red flesh. My father would have probably smiled at me if he saw what I was doing. The image of him smiling at me made a smile appear on my face as well.

I opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a razor. Fuck, so predictable of me, isn't it?

Are you proud dad? Am I making you happy? I hope so.

As I traced the blade across my arm, I felt peace take over me as I watched the blood ooze out of my fresh wound. I was quite strong so with each cut I made, amounts of blood would seep out and onto my white fuzzy rug. It looked quite lovely actually.

After a minute or two of slicing my skin, I smiled again, being filled with purpose. This isn't enough, is it dad? No no no you want me to do more for you right? Well, since you asked so nicely.

I walked to my bedroom and pushed my drawer a little to the right, revealing a box that had the object I'd need to truly make father happy.

I delicately grabbed the rope and tied it as best I could. I couldn't see very well with blurry eyes. Having made a short, but sincere suicide note and leaving it on my bed, I stood in the middle of the room, a noose in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Only then did I realize that I was crying. Me, Thomas Jefferson, the cocky, heartless, fucked up asshole was crying for one reason. He wouldn't be able to see James face ever again.

Tears fell faster and faster as I quickly made my way toward my bedroom closet, so many childhood memories were made in closets, it seemed only necessary that I made one final memory in one.

----------------------

A/N This is a long chapter so keep reading for part two