I give him a month (Kellic) BoyxBoy

Everyday's a constant battle

(A/N: New fanfic! It's a Kellic fanfic, obviously, and I'm really stoked to write it! Most of it has some bits and pieces from my own thoughts and memories, and it really means alot to me.

This fic will be short, and might be triggering, with some mention of suicide, rape, and self harm. Please don't read if you're struggling, because I love you (:> Please don't hurt yourselves darlings. If you are scared you might relapse, then please, message me. Self harm isn't the answer.

Aside from that, every word that is written like this will be Kellin's voices, or Vic's 'imaginary' friend, Depending on who's pov its on. So enjoy! And remember: Your beautiful. You're worth it, and so much more, and I LOVE YOU!)

Kellin

Day 1

You have no idea how much It hurts to get punched in the face. I mean a real punch. One where you can exactly feel your skin swelling up in protest of the sudden hit. The pain pierces through your face, as if it was hit with a bag of bricks. It's excruciatingly painful. But this is not just any punch, oh no, i'm not so lucky.

I mean getting a strong punch to the face by your drunk, drug-addicted, father who always calls you a fag, and basically takes everything out on you while your sick, prostitute of a mother watches with an amused smile on her face. You even start to get used to the emotional, physical, and mental pain. It eventually builds up, and makes you want to kill yourself and not even regret a single thing about such drastic thoughts.

I feel numb.

Useless.

Pained.

used.

unwanted--
dead.

This is the Oh-So-Amazing story of my life. Joy.

Another punch. And another. And even another. I don't know, I stopped counting after twenty-two. One last kick to my ribs and he was gone. Done with me. Leaving me to gasp from the sudden impact, and completely knocking the air out of my fragile lungs. Off to go waste money on cheap alcohol at the bar. My mother, off to sell herself to any grubby drunk guy, she finds on the street. I'm just their punching bag. I don't know why though...All I ever did was live..

So is that what the problem is? ...Living? Was it my fault that my constant need for affection, and love as a kid drove my mother to the brink of insanity, and caused my abusive father to lash out on me when he pleased? Was it all really my fault? I never meant to hurt anyone...But, If it makes it any better, I don't want me to live either.

Then why don't you just do it already? Everybody hates you..

The voice in my head said. I'm surprised I'm even still alive. Its been like this ever since I could remember.

I groggily got up, wincing at the piercing pain in my ribs. They were seriously bruised. I sucked in a deep breath and crawled up the stairs slowly, trying not to breathe to much so that it wouldn't hurt.

After reaching the top of the stairs, I srood up and walked into my room while hugging myself. I glanced around at what is, and has been my room for the past seventeen years.

It's not much really. The walls were dark blue, but mostly covered in band posters and drawings I made. I had a small twin sized bed, a dresser, a flat screen telivision by the door, and my desk. It held the things most important to me: My Inhaler, song book, glasses, laptop... and razors.

I limped to the desk and opened the first drawer. It was full of expensive art supplies that I got as a gift from my favorite teacher, Mr. Mullins. I pushed the sketchbook, pencils, and other useless junk aside, and found the bottom of the drawer. It had this small, stubby hole in the corner. I poked my finger through it, and lifted up the bottom layer of the board, revealing my most important possesions that Id never trust my parents with.