HIDDEN (Hide Or Die)

Chapter 13

KYLE'S P.O.V.

It’s been a week, of hell.

After Andrew kissed me (!) okay he technically didn’t. But he initiated the moment and it was simply amazing. The way he so confidently invited me in, meaning he wanted to see me and how he held me… I shuddered as a delicious shiver ran down the length of my spine at the memory. His intense eyes locked into mine the whole time... uh I don’t know how I held myself together, well not exactly, since internally; I was freaking out.

The way he pressed me against him and laid his lips on the space under my eye, the affection behind his intense gaze as he kept looking at me… it made me wonder if he would have kissed me, had I had my face uncovered. I didn’t dwell onto that idea for he sure would’ve recognized me, and either broke my heart again because of the disgust he held towards me… or he would’ve outed me and that would end up with my head on a platter and my mum crying over my dead form.

Everything was so nice until he backed away, for a second I was confused but then I saw him heading towards the door. Panic filled me; thinking he was going to call for someone or that, it was one big trap for him to catch me on tape. I had seen his camera equipment, and while I knew Andrew had a thing for filmography, a night-vision camera was a new addition to his stash. So without thinking; I fled away before anything could happen.

I allowed my imagination to run that night, allowing myself to relish in all the untrue scenes playing in my head, to sooth my wounded heart and give me a moment of peace for me to sleep.

I had woken up in a good mood that morning, even though I hadn’t slept much, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to facing my mother after I had shunned her out… I forgot how good it felt after, to live in my head for the night, yet I knew it was not a solution to fix all my problems.

I faced the day with an open mind and a hopeful heart. But that hope was soon crushed, I don’t know why I thought that Andrew would be nicer towards me after our encounter. Thinking that, somehow, midnight me, would make him treat midday me better. It was a foolish thought as he took every opportunity to pick on me. Every snarky remark a stab at my heart.

And it didn’t get better. Andrew was only the fuel to a much bigger fire; I was at my locker with Albert chilling out next to me when someone bypassed me and muttered—not so lowly— “fag.” My whole body stilled, my book falling with a loud thud onto the metal of the blue insides of my locker. “Ky, are you okay?” Albert had asked whilst looking into my wide eyes. I had then realized that he didn’t hear what the other guy said. He was genuinely confused about my reaction and I just knew it was directed at me. But that left me questioning how he knew I’d hear it with it being that low, or how he knew I actually was attracted to men…

But that wasn’t the last time that insult was thrown at me, and apparently I was wrong in my assumption that it was directed at me, for every time someone called us out, Albert would only lower his head and tell me to “Ignore him.”

I can count the number of times I was pushed against a wall by one of Andrew’s goons and they definitely passed the number of my fingers. Or the punch he’d throw at my stomach every once in a while, it was painful; and it brought tears to my eyes every time, which only resulted in them teasing me about being a weak baby. I was glad the punches weren’t anywhere visible for I’d heal on the spot and that’s a big ‘red flag’ as my mum calls them. They littered my stomach only a couple of times and I was healed before it was time to go home.

But the physical pain didn’t weigh to the gut-wrenching sorrow that filled me every time I locked eyes with his smoldering cold ones. Sometimes; I catch a flash of hurt on his face, it would disappear as soon as it came, and I thought it to be my imagination, playing tricks to show me what I wanted to see. That my Andrew wasn’t this cruel, evil male who’d demonstrate his dominance on weaker links, on me.

Beaky was always prepared with either, pain killers, tissues or water. She always complained that she couldn’t understand what had gotten over him—specifically— she said it was usual that his circle of friends would tease and pick on other kids because they were “pricks like that.”—her words not mine— but that Andrew never took part in their games until—well, until I came into the picture. So any thoughts I had about it not being personal, vanished. Because it clearly was.

So here I was, once again, pressed into the insides of my tub. Fully clothed and shivering under the cold water. Hoping to drown everything out, especially the pathetic sounds that escaped my lips as I sobbed and cried over my broken heart.

The back of my hands dug into my eyes as I tried to calm myself down but I couldn’t stop, the tears kept on coming until I snapped. A bolt of rage surged through me and I found heat humming under my skin from the sheer force of the anger I felt.

I refuse to be this helpless.

I got up, now determined and with a plan and turned off the water, I stripped down to my underwear and gathered my clothes in a strategic lump that wouldn’t drip as I walked; I flew down into the laundry room, and threw the clothes in the drier. Then I went back up to my bedroom only to realize what an actual mess it was.

All week long, I couldn’t bother with anything other than the drowning thoughts of hate and the endless pain I felt long after my bruise healed. So I couldn’t keep up my neat room up to par. I sighed and threw on a big shirt I stole from my mother’s closet. I’d assume it was my father’s for it was too big and smelt faintly of cigarettes and axe. My eye darted around, from the unorganized bookshelf to the unmade bed and the clothes spread out all over the room. I caught sight of the overflowing trashcan from the corner of my eyes and decided to start from there.

I flew down once more, then back up again after I got a new trash bag, a glass cleaner, the broom and some light cologne to get rid of the foul smell only I would be able to get a whiff off.

***

I let out a huff as I pushed aside the heavy blackout curtains away from the double doors leading to the balcony. A stream of light entered the now clean room but I was hurriedly back in the shadows out of instinct. The act sort of caused me a bit of pain at the persistent urge to hide and be hidden. No matter the number of times I went out or was called out by one of the neighbors on my way to school when I failed to catch the bus and was too adamant to not get a ride from my mother. It never stopped that pulsating fear of being caught for something people have yet to find out about.

Anxiety hummed beneath my skin, too close to the surface, whenever I was brave enough to step out on my balcony during daylight. One; I had a direct view of Andrew’s house and I already struggle enough with getting him out of my head, and two; somehow the peace the forest used to wrap me in turned into suffocating dread that one day I’ll take up on the thought at the back of my head to just go. Disappear into thin air like I never existed. The recent events brought those thoughts to the forefront of my mind and I find it harder and harder to push them back to their place.

I shook my head and looked around the room, my bookshelf was now organized by series, the bed made with fresh sheets, and the clothes that littered the floor are washed and currently drying. My eyes fell onto my neatly disorganized small desk. I don’t use it lots, since I have the study room downstairs, so it was left for the creative aspects of its purpose. My fountain pen was calling out for me, and I was reminded of my plan before I got distracted with my disastrously untidy room.

Oh well, might as well make it

pretty.

Fetching my ink quill and a stack of papers, I set out to filling my pen, words flying in my head to form coherent sentences that wouldn’t expose me too much, but get my point across. I was done being weak. Being naïve and trying to reason with his actions. I will not sit around and wait for the next punch and the next stab at my pride and dignity. I’ve let it happen way too many times already.

This ends now.

Dear Andrew…