Unprofessional Without A Witness [Discontinued]

12

That weekend was going rather well, the whole David situation canceling out the performing.

Until the phone call.

Saturday afternoon, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

Wes watched in horror as his father's eyes narrowed, clearly listening to something he didn't like.

He looked over at Wes. "Friend of yours?" he asked, tone indicating he knew it wasn't.

"Father, look, I didn't-" Wes was cut off as his father threw the phone at him. He yelped in pain as it hit his eye temple, pressing his hand to it.

"Don't you dare speak to me! You needy," he punched Wes in the face, making him fall, "pathetic," he kicked him in the ribs, "little faggot! I'm going to rid you of this, boy, and I won't stop 'till I succeed or one of us dies."

Wes was gasping for breath, his father punctuating each word with a kick to his ribs.

When the first one broke, it was agony. He was screaming.

When the second one broke, he thought he was going to suffocate. He didn't have enough air to scream.

When he lost track of the snaps and cracks he was hearing, he thought he was actually dying.

Then he passed out.

When he woke up, it was light out. He was sore all over.

Closing his eyes, he assessed the damage. The sting on his back- he had been whipped, and it clearly broke the skin. Bruises on his face. Aching ribs, probably broke some of them.

It was when he got out of bed, however, that he realized how badly his ankle hurt. He immediately stumbled when he tried to stand up, steadying himself on his bed.

He limped his way to the bathroom, dressing his wounds and using a ruler to make a makeshift splint. It was the afternoon, but he quickly realized it was Sunday and not Saturday.

Not saying a word to him except telling him to come back next weekend, his father drove him to Dalton. He had covered up the bruises on his face with makeup, having become rather practiced at it.

"Your new dorm is 91. Now get the hell our of my car and don't embarrass me," his father spat.

Wes did exactly that, concealing his limp so well it was unnoticeable. He was also rather practiced at that, though he'd never hurt his foot or leg so badly.

He avoided eye contact when he walked into Dalton, practically feeling the dirty looks and glares sent his way.

When he got to his dorm he pulled out the new key his father had wordlessly given him, opening the door.

One glance at the room and he could tell Nick was his roommate. He felt bad that Nick had to deal with him.

Everyone hated him. Why didn't he just do everyone a favor and die?

The thought had been constantly running through his mind. He had snagged a lighter from his house, knowing he could at least do some damage if not kill himself.

He didn't bother going to dinner, unpacking and keeping his distance from Nick when he came into the dorm.

He waited until Nick had fallen asleep before heading to the bathroom, lighter in hand. He hadn't taken the makeup off.

Shutting the door softly, he collected his thoughts. Where did he have to burn to kill himself?