Bar Red's Redemption ✔

c h a p t e r. 25

"There are so many fragile things. After all, people break so easily, and so do hearts and dreams."
—Neil Gaiman

chapter 25

After assuring that Bar wouldn't ever hurt Clementine on purpose, Obsidian purposed that they should have a relaxing afternoon at their rather giant pool.

Which, Adriel agreed to instantly but Bar took some convincing which was primarily done by Clementine.

Bar was now standing in his bathroom— the brute and his little goddess went to his apartment to grab the proper swimming attire— and he was wearing his swimming trunks, staring blankly at his body.

Disgusting...

That's the word that came to mind.

His tattoos— while intricate and elegant and sharp and dark were beautiful, Bar felt like his body was anything but.

Scars— he had so many goddamn scars and he couldn't even remember when half of them got onto his body.

He just knew that when they got there, it was done on purpose and that knowledge alone was painful.

Bar didn't like seeing the scars.

He didn't like anyone else seeing the scars, either... but Clementine already had, and he didn't have his swimming shirt.

Would Obsidian judge him? Would Adriel?

What would they think?

What would anyone think?

That it was just some scars made during fights, when anger infested fists clashed against body parts and got too out of hand?

Would they think these marks— the ones that showed just how fucked up his life is and how tired of himself Bar had become— were made by accident?

Or would they think that, like everyone else, Bar enjoyed getting those scars?

Because he's a beast. The town's beast.

In their eyes, he enjoys fights and parties and alcohol; he likes the pain and he likes causing pain.

To so many people that's just what Bar is.

And no matter how far from the truth that was, Bar felt like that too.

Just a beast that no one could want or love.

"Stupid fucker," Bar glared at himself in the mirror, his words quiet but harsh. "Pull yourself together."

He repeated the words: twice, three times, four—

It didn't work.

"Goddamn it," Bar shakily ran his fingers through his hair, tugging.

His fists itched, he wanted to punch something, he wanted to feel pain somewhere else besides just the pounding in his chest. Besides just the way his thoughts were eating him alive.

Bar didn't want to be like— this anymore. He didn't want to be broken.

He didn't want to get repulsed by what he saw in the mirror.

He didn't want to see the scars on his wrists and feel a phantom desire to create more.

He didn't want to be that person.

But he was.

Bar clenched his fists against his skull, tugging on his curls and it hurt. It hurt just enough to make him feel sane.