he was nothing. (Eddsworld)

Three.

Tom walked steadily back into the living room. Tord was the first to look over his shoulder, "The witness is back." Edd turns, "Think it's done?"

Tom shrugs, "Maybe."

"So, why did you, uh, screw it just talk!" Edd scoffs, getting up and going into one of the chairs, leaving the two enemies on the couch.

"About what? How sorry we are? Well I'm never saying sorry to that alcoholic freak," Tord stated through clenched teeth.

"I'm not apologizing to that communist devil either!" Tom spat. "What did I even do, Tord. I just asked you a question."

"Fuck off with that, eyeless. I just like hentai, is that such a problem!?"

"I never-" "Tom, why do you bother Tord about his hentai? I mean, you have an alcohol addiction." Edd chipped in.

Tom felt a pinch in between his heart and stomach. He's really never bothered Tord that much about loving hentai. Sure, he has a bit, but not that much! Tord twists Tom's words into making them worse and twists his own to make them better.

"I fucking don't so I don't see a problem here." He states simply. His face heats and he digs his nails into his palm.

Tom's sad. Make tears.

No I'm not. No I'm not. No I'm not. No I'm not. No I'm not. No I'm not.

He's survived, the feeling has stopped.

"Yes you have!" Tord states it as if it was obvious.

Hate bubbles in Tom's stomach. No. He. Hasn't! And he voices that though. "I fucking haven't!"

"Tom please don't yell." Edd says like a mother would to a crying child. Tom is not a child. He's a grown man. Sure, he's a mess, alcoholic, eyeless freak who can't do anything right but he's no child.

Tom's sad! Make tears! Make tears! Make tears!

Tom's nails are pressed so hard into his palm that the skin tears and blood pools around his fingertips. He can't talk, even if he had anything to say; the lump in his throat is too big to swallow down.

"You crying Thomas?" Tord chuckles. Yes, in fact, Tom is crying. Tears have made their way down his face.

"N-no."

"Tom, it's okay." Edd says, going over to Tom. He reaches out to hug him- "Don't touch me, Edd." Tom says stern.

"It's okay to cry, Tom." Edd says, like a mother would to a child. Again, Tom's not a child; the hatred is back. The feeling of hot liquid in his stomach nearly consumes him.

"Yeah, Tom. It's okay to cry. Want me to get your bottle?" Tord teases. The hate flips it's self onto Tord in a rush of adrenaline. Tord's stupid smirk remains on his stupid face. Then it flips onto Tom.

Dumbass. Fuckup. Freak. "Crybaby." Tom didn't think of the last one, Tord came up with it for him. Crybaby. It echoes in his mind like an annoying song. Crybaby.

"Tom, your hand!" Edd exclaims, taking it in his and examining the cut. "Lemme get the-" "I got it," Tom said, tearing his hand away. "I can deal with it."

Did Tord call him a crybaby? Edd didn't seem to say anything about it. Maybe Edd agrees. Edd thinks Tom's a crybaby. Weak ass freak. Insignificant alcoholic, eyeless twit.

Tom marches down the hall into the kitchen, where the first aid kit is placed in a cupboard. He patches up his minor wound with gauze, wiping his eyes every so often as they would blur with tears.

Why the hell should he fix his hand? Because no one likes blood? Because no one wants to be reminded of how much of a failure Tom is; that he tore his own flesh with his nails? Because blood is red. Red, in this house, belongs to Tord. No one likes red; no one likes Tord.

People hate seeing tears. Suck it up, people often say when they see them. Why? Because they are afraid of tears? Tears, even though are clear, are often associated with the colour blue. Blue is Tom's usual colour. No one likes blue; no one likes Tom.

No one likes Tom.