A Way Back Home | Adopted by Gerard Way (Book Two)

Children Behave (55)

*trigger warning: self harm mention*

I woke up with my foot dangling off my bed, my hair stuck to my face, and a dry mouth. Not to mention a pounding headache amplified by the blinding sun streaming through my window. If I could turn the brightness down on that, I would. I'd turn it off indefinitely.

All the work I've done on my mental health in the last three weeks came crashing down last night. I felt myself desperately grasping for any sliver of control I had left, watching myself from the outside as I lost it, as it slipped through my fingers and I replaced the emptiness that was leftover with pain. The image of Gerard's eyes, hurt, or the sound of his voice in the back of my mind telling me to stop only got cleaner and sharper with every new cut I made, but I couldn't stop myself. The blood and tears fell faster.

My wrists and arms are unsightly when I kick off the blankets that I didn't already kick off during the night, and instead of immediately going down for breakfast I make my bed, replace all the pillows that fell off, then go for a shower. No amount of scrubbing I do washes away the guilt I feel about what I said last night, but also about what I did, knowing I'm going to have to come clean to Gerard and my therapist, and that I'm going to have a hell of a time trying to hide this from Laura, Ryder, and Raven, especially with the weather growing ever warmer. The guilt I feel from continuously hiding from Emerald makes it all so much worse.

The shower does manage to relieve the worst of my headache, though, even with the way the water takes about ten minutes to heat up and barrels down like hail. And, even if I'm feeling better, the girl standing in the mirror looks ill. The bags under her puffy eyes are prominent, her skin is pale, the red hair dye that was once vibrant and gave her life is almost completely washed away. Her hair falls in wet tangles, leaving damp spots on the shoulders of the hoodie she wishes smelled like home.

She can't bring herself to smile.

"Glad to see you're finally up," Laura says when I trudge into the kitchen and collapse at the table without meeting her eyes. "I made you breakfast." She puts a plate of buttered toast that, by now, has gone cold, in front of me and smiles sweetly which I only catch from the corner of my eye.

She's so two-faced. Her voice is pleasant, but I detect a menacing under tone, a "don't you test me today" undertone, the implication that she'll act the part of a perfect mother as long as I'm acting like a perfect angel.

"I could've made something myself," I mutter.

"It's an apology," she says and sits across from me, leaning on her elbows.

I look up at her, almost expecting that it wouldn't be her at all, but someone I could respect. "What for?"

"For yelling at you last night," she states simply.

"Oh."

I pick up one of the slices of toast and take a bite, chewing slowly, waiting for her to get up and get on with her day. She has a shift at twelve, which is one hour away. I soon realize she's waiting for something too, by the way she hasn't taken her eyes off me, and it takes even less time for me to realize what that thing she's waiting for is.

Even with all the regret I was feeling last night when I was crumpled on my bedroom floor, wishing I could've just kept my mouth shut, it won't form the simple words I'm sorry. If she'd given me time to prepare I could've written a monologue, but it would've been worthless and manipulative. "I'm sorry I'm such a bitch," "I'm sorry I couldn't keep my mouth shut," "I'm sorry the thoughts that'd been swirling in my head finally spilled from my mouth and you didn't like it."

When too many awkward seconds have gone by, Laura leaves me alone at the table with an, "I see how it is."

Every bite of toast tastes and feels more like glue, but I force myself to sit there until Laura has left for work without another word in my direction, and when she's finally gone I scrape my plate then collapse onto the sofa. I understand why she always sits here when I melt into the cushions, and kick my feet up on the coffee table, which she'd probably have a fit over if she saw me do.