Purified - Bennoda

Chapter One

The hard, red cast over my wrist made it difficult to use my right hand as I held the microphone up to my lips, singing a song that I only knew from the video game we were playing - SingStar. According to the points, I was beating Charlie and it helped me feel a little more confident around my "friend." At eight years old, I was still looking over Charlie's actions as mistakes he made, even when he was violent. His mother wasn't home, as usual, so he decided we'd play a game on the living room television. I didn't mind letting him choose every song, as long as it distracted him from the "games" he liked to play with me.

The song ended and I was unable to stop myself from beaming at my high score as it claimed I was a rockstar, Charlie's just saying good job. He looked at me with disgust and insisted we swapped microphones, then proceeded to claim he won - attempting to rub the victory in my face. My small winnings at anything were always taken over by Charlie and I could tell it was really starting to effect my self esteem. It was as though I was not allowed to win under any context. With a sigh, I let him continue rubbing his fake victory in my face before he excused himself, going to grab a glass of water.

Sitting on the couch, I felt an itch under my cast that I knew I wouldn't be able to reach or soothe by tapping on it - as suggested by the doctors. I decided it couldn't hurt to take it off for a moment, I learned this cast was looser than the others and I was able to slide it on and off. I kept the secret to myself because I liked being able to itch my arm when I needed to and washing it. I set it beside me and felt relieved after scratching my itch, when I'm suddenly thrown to the ground. A sharp pain shoots up my healing wrist and through my body as Charlie sat up on top of me, pinning my arms down to the floor as I yelped out of shock and intense pain.

I awaken with a start, my heart racing, feeling as though it was beating in my stomach. I glance at my now-healed wrist and take slow, deep breaths. Scratching my head, I sit up in bed, my eyes dry and tired. I pondered why I was dreaming about the day I rebroke my wrist as a child. Memories about Charlie have been awakening in my dreams often as of lately.

"Ches? Was that you?" A groggy Mike Shinoda walks up to my bunk with tired, drooping eyes. He yawns and rubs one of his eyes as he speaks. "You okay? I thought I heard you yell."

"I'm okay, thanks, Mike," I smile warmly and he nods, sleepily crawling back into his bunk. I held back a sigh and insulted myself in my head. This was the third night Mike claimed I was making noises in my sleep.

I could never reveal my past to my band mates or to anyone, for that matter. I was afraid nobody would take it seriously because it was child on child sexual abuse. I also feared people would believe I was gay, I just didn't think anyone would believe me. I'd feel so embarrassed and pitiful if anyone in the band were to find out. I was confused over the situation myself, I wouldn't expect the band to understand.

I feel like I shouldn't take the past so harshly because we were both children, but apart of me thinks Charlie surely knew at one point what he was doing was wrong. He had already started going through puberty long before the abuse stopped. It was just hard to believe that in those five or six years, Charlie didn't see it was wrong even though I had and I didn't know anything about sex until him. I wanted to talk to Mike about the situation, seeing as he's my best friend after all, but Charlie was too at one point.

Although I know Mike would never do the things Charlie did, it's nearly impossible for me to trust anyone after such a betrayal - I refused to even have a best friend until Mike and the band came along. I also didn't know how he would react if I were to open up to him, he may just tell me that we were both children at the time and not to take it so seriously, but he doesn't know about all the crude ways Charlie beat me. It was as though he was already a sadist at that age, I'm unaware how he managed to think up half the things he did to me.

The tour bus had been parked for the night and the rest of the band was sleeping soundly, including Mike who had woken up moments ago to check on me. The driver was sleeping in his slumped seat, so I took it upon myself to activate the bus door and was about to step outside, when I noticed a baggie and pipe near the driver. I pulled it out and smirked to myself. It was just weed, but I remember it helping prevent my dreams in the past, so I was thrilled over the find. Exiting the bus, I packed the pipe and started smoking.

My tolerance had diminished since the last time I smoked, it was a bittersweet feeling, however. I used to smoke weed to keep myself from using other drugs or drinking, but I had forgotten about it's helpful properties as I decided to quit along with everything else - besides a cigarette here and there. I let the false happiness soothe me, thankful I'd at least be able to sleep for the rest of the night. I figured if the nightmares persisted tomorrow, I'd just have to start smoking weed again. I believed it would be alright, at least I wasn't dropping acid or drinking. I could only hope the band wouldn't notice.