airplane ﹙short story﹚

nine

graphic depictions of verbal, and psychical child abuse!!

"Freak." The man scowled, swiping a hand over his damp mouth with unnecessary vigor. He waved his beer bottle in the air, the bottom smashed, leaving a terrifying trial of sharp, jagged edges. The blond cowered against the wall, his ocean eyes fixated on the broken bottle as if his life depended on it.

In a way, it did.

"This is why that whore of a woman you call your mother died," the man snapped, turning to kick their coffee table with so much force, one of the legs snapped upon impacting to the ground. The blond flinched, the tears tumbling down his cheeks.

"Dad, please, just–"

"Belay that!"

The blonds knees were weak. He could barely find the strength in his knees to keep him upright, the quick palpation of his heart sending him into a harsh, internal panic. Internal was generous. He was harshly keeping it together on the outside.

"Freak. Fuckin' freak." His grimy fingers wrapped around a second, empty bottle, and tossed it towards the blond. It landed next to his head with a sickening crash, sending him plummeting to his knees with a yelp. Pain blossomed as the shards dug into his skin, but he couldn't focus. The carpet was a mess of swirling shapes, his breathing was consuming his hearing, heavy and loaded in his mind.

He couldn't breathe.

His father hit him.

He could faintly feel the buzz in his cheek, knowing it was with the beer bottle.

There was blood. So much blood on his hands, feeling the torn skin on his cheek as his father screamed at him, spat slurs, insults, just about anything his drunkard mind could fathom. The blond faintly recalled an order to leave. Though done with many more inappropriate curse words, he had heeded his fathers warning.

"I see you in my sight again, and I'll fucking kill you, you hear me?" He stumbled towards the door, the sobs tearing from his throat. "Freak! Fuck you! Fuckin' freak! No son of mine."

The door ripped open, and he fled to freedom.

His finger gently traced the lines of scars on his cheek, feeling the leathery skin beneath his calloused fingers. A sigh fell from his lips, his hand dropping to his lap before he could immerse himself in another treacherous flashback.

Atticus Flynn was a young lad with many things on his mind.

One of those, now falling beneath his eyelids, back into the darkness where it belonged. Second, was the cute boy sitting just across from him, knocked out cold.

The plane had fallen into a deep silence. It was late at night – the darkness from the sky consumed the inside of their quarters, only dimly illuminated by the lights above them. It was enough for Atticus to admire the brunette from where he was sat, or rather slumped, haphazardly in his seat.

His hair was askew, head nestled comfortably within his hoodie. He admired how calm he looked.

Which was a change.

No frowning, no moodiness, just lips parted slightly, and gentle, steady breathing. Each exhale of breath made a few strands of his hair wobble, and if people weren't sleeping around him, he might've laughed. Like a completely different person.

Atticus pulled out his notepad and pen, and quickly got to writing his entry:

I'm keeping this short and sweet. I don't feel so lonely right now.

His eyes drifted towards the brunette, and he couldn't contain his giddy smile, the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Jude would call me a lovesick fool if he could see me right now. But he's an idiot, so I've learned not to listen to him. But I've just found something that hasn't made me this happy in a long time.

Flipping to the back of his book, he neatened up his handwriting, and wrote another note. He gently tore it from his notebook, folded it, and placed it on the brunettes tray. He stirred for a moment, his cheek pressing against the seat like mush, before he stilled, and continued with his dreamless sleep.

Atticus retracted his hands into his chest, and felt the warmth spreading through his cheeks.

Yes, he definitely didn't feel as lonely right now.