blue hair and bruises.

11 - Father

((A/N: Here we go again with the heavy stuff))

~~~

"I'm going to mom's place next weekend."

Travis's father scowled in disgust across the breakfast table.

"I don't see the point, but I can't stop you," he snorted. "Say hi to the old bag for me."

Travis gazed down into his bowl of cereal, tension hanging in the air in uncomfortable silence. He was still tired from a late night, and his father was hungover. He mulled over his thoughts, carefully formulating and planning his next words, sighing.

"Why do you hate mom?" he asked, slowly and quietly.

Another scowl.

"Honestly, boy, why do you ask me such stupid questions all the time?"

Travis shrugged dismissively as the silence thickened and filled the atmosphere. He waited for his father to cut through the quiet once more.

"Your mother used to be very beautiful. Of course, she had to turn out to be just another useless, pitiful, incapable woman." he muttered, then flicked his eyes to his son. "What about you? Ain't it about time you got a girl? Anyone in mind?"

Travis froze, eyes still locked on the bowl of soggy cereal, feeling steely eyes bore into him. He wasn't giving much thought to relationships in his situation, and he couldn't recall ever having fancied any girls before. But now was not the time to think, as the silence was expanding and his father's stare was burning. Just lie.

"Uh, y-yes. I do. Have someone. In mind." He didn't sound very believable, but his dad took the bait. Maybe he liked the bait a little too much.

"She got a name?"

Crap. Didn't want that question. Think fast. No, don't even think-

"Sally."

Travis cringed. His dad nodded.

"What do you like about her?"

"Her, um... eyes. Blue. Very blue. Bright. Uh."

"What else?" The man kept the questions coming and the boy was beginning to panic.

"No, Dad, stop," Travis snapped abruptly. "Don't pretend that you actually care. I don't want to talk about it... uh, her." He looked up and met a glare. He cowered slightly and swallowed hard, took a deep breath in and out again and softened his tone. "Just... no more questions." Travis picked up the untouched bowl of cereal that had been reduced to mush, stood and carried it to the trash. All the while, his father's menacing eyes followed.

"Watch it, boy," the man said sternly, "You're lucky I have a headache. Get me some water."

~~~

Ding!

It was 10 am on a Saturday morning, and Travis was pleasantly surprised to receive a text.

Sal: Gm. How are you feeling this morning?

Travis smiled.

Travis: Fine I guess. Little early for you to be checking in though isn't it Fisher?

Sal: Yes? No. Maybe. I don't care. Have you eaten?

Here we go again.

Travis: No. I have not. Thanks Zen.

Sal: Zen?

Travis: Nvm

Sal: No no. Lets back up. Was that a Mystic Messenger reference?

Travis definitely didn't count on this being picked up so easily, and he was a little embarrassed.

Travis: Um... yeah

Sal: You play MysMes?

Travis: ...no?

Sal: You d o. Oml. That's actually adorable. I love it.

Travis blushed hard.

Travis: Shut up... obv you play too. You're just as guilty

Sal: I do. But I'm not ashamed. Jumin Han ftw

Travis: Jumin? Ugh. I feel like I just discovered something I'd rather not know about you...

Sal: HAHA

Travis paused for a moment, attempting to bring himself back from the embarrassment and awkwardness of discussing favourite Mystic Messenger characters, and breathed.

Travis: Why are you so concerned with my eating habits anyway?

He watched as the bubble appeared and disappeared several times, feeling that sick feeling growing at the back of his throat. He nearly threw up once the message came through.

Sal: I just care, okay? Don't ask why. I just do. You can't keep skipping meals.

Just like that, he was reduced to jelly once more.

~~~

Towards dusk, Travis's father had a bone to pick with his son, who was feeling far too high on false bravado and the positive vibes of conversation to control his attitude. A bad attitude was the last thing he needed.

Suddenly he was back to square one.

Sat on his bedroom floor, resting up against his closed door, the hot tears streaked down his flushed cheeks, one side of his face burning with searing pain. Travis clenched the knife he'd stolen from the kitchen hard in his fist as warm blood trickled from three fresh slices down the back of his calf and dotting his carpet. He drew back the sleeve and inspected his unbandaged wrist, tender and bruising from his father's grip. In his mouth he tasted the metallic crimson. It was the same routine as previous; get thrashed by your father, then slash yourself. The tears were pained and furious and wouldn't stop flowing.

Travis was furious.

He should've died that day. He just didn't put in the effort. He should've known it wouldn't work. Attempting to bleed out in the school bathrooms was just pathetic. He should've jumped from a high place, tied a noose or something. He shouldn't be here to go through this process again. He should be dead.

He was mad at himself, for being so utterly pathetic. He was mad at his father for reducing him to this. He was mad at the world. He was mad at the Lord.

Next thing he knew, he was mad at Sal.

Sal.

The boy with a father who loves him, and still it isn't enough. It angered him that the kid thought he could "fix" him, as if any of this was fixable. It angered him that he'd saved him that day. It angered him that, in a moment of panic, he'd used his name. He'd used it to say that he liked someone. He'd described the enchanting colour of his eyes. He'd been turned to goo when he said he cared. Everything about him just made Travis angry, including the high sound from his phone that bounced off the walls and resonated within his ears, carrying a message he refused to check.