Psychotic Home (Camp Camp Fanfiction)

3 // Home, Bitter Home

Max stared straight ahead in the midst of a cold sweat, eyes wide, biting his lip, his fingers digging into the seat and his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

The car pulled up to the house and his dad grumbled as he stumbled out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

"Bring your bags in." His dad snapped as he made his way up to the door. He seemed a tad less drunk now, more sober..but more angry. He fumbled with the keys and managed to get the door open. Max came up the steps, breathing heavily due to fear.

"Dad." He said in a small voice, "Listen- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped like that and blamed you for-"

His dad backhanded him. Hard.

Max stumbled for a moment, letting his luggage fall to the floor as he brought his hand up to his stinging cheek.

"D-dad please..I'm sorry.."

His dad closed the front door and locked it, then swiftly grabbed Max by the hoodie and slammed him into the door, knocking the wind out of him.

"I work hard day and night for this family and this is how you repay me?!" He yelled, bringing him off the wall than slamming him into it once more. Max let out a cry and clutched his dads hand.

"I-..I'm sorry.." Max managed through grit teeth, struggling for breath.

The man threw his son on the ground, threw his leg back then brought it down on his stomach. Multiple times. With each kick, the boy let out a pained cry, and a few tears streamed down his face. When the man finally stopped, Max forced himself up, one arm clutching his stomach as he coughed.

"Do you remember your place now?" His father slurred, taking a beer out of the fridge as if he just got done with a 'job well done'.

Max nodded shakily then grabbed his suitcase and began limping up the stairs, having to stop halfway as a wave of nausea rushed over him, before continuing to his room.

He finally made it, throwing his bag on the bed and slamming his door shut. Max ran to the bathroom and collapsed over the toilet, throwing up.

He let a few tears escape as he choked back sobs, trying his best not to cry as he clutched his stomach and rested his forehead against the toilet seat. After a while of laying there on the cold bathroom floor, he shakily reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper David had given him. He unfolded it.

'If you ever need anything please give me a call! : ) - David'

At the bottom was a scribbled phone number. Max scoffed, crumbled it up, and tossed it in the trash. Even if he did call David and tell him what was happening, what could he do? ...not to mention if anything were to go wrong.

Max sighed and picked himself up. After a short, slightly cold shower he threw some clothes on and collapsed on his bed, still clutching his bruised stomach.

'That wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be.' Max thought emptily, 'at least it wasn't mom.'