What Now ⇔ Muke ✓

[4] Worthless, dammit

Warning: TRIGGERING. Explicit descriptions of self-harm, abuse, suicidal/dark thoughts.

please do not read and skip this chapter if there is any possibility you could be triggered. I love you.

MICHAEL

As I walk back toward my house, I mentally cuss myself out for making noise when that kid's basketball smacked me straight in the face behind the basketball court. I didn't think anyone would be practicing tonight, especially because this court is nearly always empty.

I know the boy, Luke, saw the bruises and scrapes on my arms. I kept my wrists facedown, so hopefully he didn't see my scars. I haven't talked to another person, besides my father, in about three months. My mind is still going crazy from actually having to have a conversation with someone.

I'm not really a people person. I used to be, though. I used to be best friends with the popular people and I used to be invited to multiple parties every weekend. That was back in Sydney, though. That was back when I lived with my mum.

I eventually reach my house- far away from the others, standing deserted in the middle of a field filled with trees. I think if anyone walked past, they wouldn't even notice the old, brown house here. It's in the deep part of the woods behind the school. Nobody ever comes back here, and I'm glad. I make my way to the front door and take a deep, staggering breath before gathering to strength to open it up.

The first thing I smell is whiskey. The scent is so strong that I start coughing from the intensity of it. I force myself to step inside and quickly close the door. I don't want anyone to smell it.

Suddenly a loud crash sounds from the den area and I sprint to the doorway, peering in to find my drunken father lying on the couch, beer bottles scattered around him. I have absolutely no idea where the crash came from, but I can guess it was another bottle from the dark glass sprinkling the hardwood floor.

"Michael." My father snarls. He picks himself up, obviously intoxicated. He stumbles over to me and breathes his alcohol-filled breath in my face and I close my eyes and hold my breath, willing myself to stay completely still. I open my eyes though to find him staring at my left one.

Shit, shit, shit. I forgot about the black eye.

"What happened here, huh?" My father snarls. "Did someone else realize you're a fag, too?" I wince at the word but keep quiet.

"Go get me another drink." My dad slurs. I immediately nod but feel guilty. He's already trashed and I shouldn't be getting him more to drink. Maybe if I get lucky, he will just pass out before he wants to hit me. When I reach the cupboard though, I find it empty, free of any more bottles. I try to find anything with alcohol in it, but I can't find anything. He drank it all. My heart crashes in my stomach. No, this is not good, not good. This will make my dad really angry.

I hurry back to the den, where he stands, leaning against the wall for support. His hands are outstretched for another bottle, but when it remains empty, he opens his eyes, and they flash at my empty hand.

"What?" he growls. His red-rimmed eyes grow dark at the idea of not having anything left to drink.

"There's none left." I stammer softly. I visibly gulp, my breathing getting quicker. This is not good, not good at all. My eyes dart around, trying to get a grasp of how bad a situation I am in. Am I close enough to the door to escape? I know exactly where I could go. Nobody could ever find me.

"None left?" my dad roars, and uses his outstretched hands to curl in into a fist and punch it against my jaw before I have time to react. I gasp, knocking against the wall, and I feel my hand bang against the hard wood.