The Lies We Told On Thursday Nights

23. Wed. Night: Gets Bad (Levi)

Hey everyone! Sorry for not updating last week...or did I, I can't recall. So, I know this chapter is super short but I'm already working on the Emery chapter (especially since it is based on a real situation in my school.) so I will surely post it as soon as I finish.  A heads up, while this chapter does not show beating, it mentions both beating and self-harm.

Also, I've planned out the rest of the book and think I have around 16 more chapters (and surely planning a sequel for real, I'm already slowly setting it up in this book.)

Grumbling, I opened my backpack to pull out my keys. I heaved a sigh as I counted the keys: house, car, sports supplies closet, neighbors house and then one that unlocks a wooden box that hides my marvelous supply of razors, pills, crumpled up suicide notes and the wristband from my hospitalization.

But that didn't matter since my key to the stadium area was gone, vanished into mid-air. During the whole drive home I've tried to recollect where it went. I don't recall ever removing the keys from my bag all day. Even if I did, I absolutely never remove any keys from the key ring.

I opened the door, hauling my not proportionally heavy sports bag (compared to my school backpack.) I kicked the door open and proceeded to step in the threshold as usual.

But something was wrong. Something was slightly off. Like a wall full of family portraits and one is crooked by a millimeter. The problem is among the expansive intricate grid of fake happy pictures, one is off.

I knew exactly what was wrong. In the corner of my eye, I was shocked to find my mom's office door cracked open.

I halted, wincing, knowing what was next.

"Levi, hon?" my mom's voice was collected but lacked the typical half-heartedness. But it did sound a bit dreadful.

Swallowing hard, I replied meekly: "Ya...."

I froze, hearing the shallow echo of my mom's high heels as she walked towards the door.

I shut my eyes, only opening them once the footfall silences.

My mom was standing before me. She didn't have a sorrowful look; instead it was a look of disappointment and seriousness. Not anger necessarily, just utterly ashamed.

"So," she gave an apathetic look "I got a call from your History teacher, Mr.Petersan"

I wasn't in any mood to filter myself. "Peterson," I grunted.

She looked at me strangely but then shook her head, dismissing it. "Well, he said that you are about to fail and you haven't been turning in any of your homework."

She heaved one of her characteristic disappointed, impatient sighs.

"I-I," I fumbled, I had no excuse. She was right. And Mr.Peterson, by school protocol, was right to call my mom.

I averted my eyes and shut my mouth. My arm rested on the side table, my fingers instinctively drumming.

"I'm going to tell Dad," her tone, once again was serious, but now seemed remorseful.

I stopped drumming, my arm fell back to my side, slowly caressing my lower right abdomen. The bruise was faint, now just a yellowish discoloring. The beating was maybe 8 months old, but it was the worst one I've ever had.

It was a few weeks before my attempt, during the end of the school year. There was a huge fancy gala to celebrate the wealthy donors and the popular students. I being captain was supposed to give a big speech, speak how the school is amazing, and how my dad is amazing, and how my life is amazing.