feel my hands. (dnf x gream)

Chapter Seven: Not Who You Want

Dream stood in his bathroom, gripping his sink so hard that his knuckles turned a peachy white.

Messed up, that's what he was. Stupid for not being more careful. How hadn't he heard George outside?

He could've turned on the fan, maybe ran the sink, or even the shower. Or even flushed the toilet. Hell, he could've blasted music.

Oh well, it was over now. George knew. Dream slowly looked up, almost like his reflection was going to hit him. Hated this, hated the way he looked, hated how weak and stupid he was. Hated himself for disappointing everyone he loved.

Hated them for leaving him.

tw: domestic abuse, alcohol, manipulation, suicide threats

"Clay, why... why would you do this?" His mother looked shocked, upset. His throat felt like it was going to lurch out of his mouth, falling onto the floor. Throat? Could it physically do that?

His father raised a hand in a warning. Dream flinched.

"You sad excuse of a son," his father spat angrily. "you ungrateful wretch. Disappointment. We raised you to be better than this." He grabbed the nearest teacup and flung it across the room, the delicate glass shattering at the impact. Dream shivered. He mumbled, looking down at his feet in submission.

"I'm sorry, dad, I'll never—"

"Sorry." He looked incredulously at him, mouth curling into a horrible smile. "Sorry!?" He roared now, stomping towards the blond. Dream braced himself for the slap—but when it came, it still hurt. 

His cheek stung, and his jaw ached.

"You're ungrateful, that's what you are! I provide you with a home! Food! Electricity! Water! All you need, and you still turn on me?" He seethed, his breath reeking of alcohol. Dream pursed his lips.

Ungrateful. How was he ungrateful? He felt rage bubble in his chest. This was unfair.

When his father left to go hunt down another bottle, his mother began to cry.

"Clay, you break my heart. How could you do this to us?" She weeped. "Call the police on your own parents? You want us locked up in jail! You just want us dead!" She sobbed harder. "I can't believe it!"

"Mom! I never—"

"You hate us, don't you? You just want us dead." She looked up, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Red, the color of his dad's alcohol bottles. Red, the color of his blood on his favorite shirt.

"No." He said firmly, and surprisingly, calmly. "Shut up, stop pretending to be the victim. I'm tired of it," his eyes were wide, unblinking. "You always do this. You guilt-trip me into thinking it was my fault, mom. Dad hit me. He was hitting me and he wouldn't stop and it hurt and everything was bloody and it was painful and you just—" his voice cracked. "watched. You just watched. I had to do this." His mom sat back, surprise evident in her puffy eyes.

For a moment, he'd felt victorious.

"Clay." She said. "Don't you know we're doing this for you?" Her tone softened. "We just want you to have a better future. Your father and I aren't perfect, son. But he's trying." She blinked, almost mechanically. "Please don't be upset, we love you."

Dream froze. What?

"I don't agree with his methods, but please, understand that we just love you and hope that you can achieve the best in life."