Mister Sinister

3

A/N: Okay. Holy fuck. Mega thank you to @imaginary-numbers. I mean seriously, what the fuck. Your review of my writing literally made my entire fucking week, and I seriously still can't believe someone thinks so highly of my writing. I genuinely have no other words to thank you other than what the actual fuck man. This and pretty much every chapter after this is for you, you are a god tier human.

Brendon didn't get away from Corinne unscathed.

The moment he made it home- escorted by Corinne in her car- she knew everything. Corinne was God to Brendon, not a saviour or a man to be revered, but a woman, omniscient and capable of striking him dead with fear.

The incident, as she precariously put it, was not to be repeated. She made that fact very clear to Brendon. She yelled at him a few times, her voice meter but raised and her face deadly, scowling into the venom she threw. Brendon didn't know if he could handle much more truth before he broke down.

Physically, Brendon never got it too bad from Corinne. She was 'overbearing' and 'unaware of her own strength' (words she had claimed, not Brendons own) and Brendon went along with it to spare himself.

In this instance, she 'patted' him a few times on the back with her spatula, quite harshly. She would have called them 'gentle' and 'loving', but you could hear the air howl through the slots in the spatula. There was a calculated degree of momentum and force that stung the stretch of muscle between his shoulderblades. Even through the shirt Brendon knew they would become a fad of day-long welts that he would have to wear on him.

She slapped his chest with the spatula once, 'playfully', and what hurt most was the fresh, hot grease still on it that seeped through his clothes. The skin on his chest was thin, and blistered pathetically, but other than that he was safe- from Corinne at least. However, Brendon found it much harder to cower from his own thoughts.

As he left the kitchen, dawned with an eager feeling of I-need-to-get-the-fuck-away, he noticed a splotch on his baby blue shirt. Anxiety welled in his chest. He freaked out over the grease stain- everyone already hated him, but what if Dallon lived nearby and saw? He'd think he was such a slob, a gross ball of grime and sweat. He'd think he was dirty, unclean, unsanitary, possibly sick. He'd never come near Brendon again.

Brendon cried in the laundry room for twenty minutes. He sobbed, with no shirt to soak up his tears, and fretted over the air and dust particles flitzing around him. He was startled when he heard Corinne begin down the hall. He cleaned himself up, wiping his tears with his bare arms and making sure nothing else was dribbling, but he was still shirtless and his welts and blisters were quite visible. It was almost like a game- albeit a horror game. The room grew darker and closer for every drawn-out step Corinne took, growing closer and closer to the entrance.

Brendon didn't want her to see the wounds. She might think too little of them. She might want to add more.

"Brendon, dinners ready. Make sure you have your damn clothes on before you come out," she hollered outside the door, her hands on her hips and her lips pursed.

Brendon didn't miss her muttering 'psycho' under her breath as she stalked away.

His schedule stayed relatively normal after that. Corinne left and he stayed awake for a few more hours. He woke at four, got ready, spent time with Rupert to keep himself collected before school and avoided the T.V. like the plague.