Numinous

Nemesism

Dedicated to -therapy because I love her stories

Nemisism (n.): frustration, anger or agression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living

Leo Miller was angry. Angry at his family. Angry at his friends. Angry at the world. But most of all, angry at himself.

Leo smoked cigarettes. He drank beer, and things a lot stronger than beer.

Leo was rude to his parents. He made his mother cry. He came home drunk one night and gave his father a black eye.

Leo didn't like his friends. If you could call them friends. They were just people who he got high with and occasionally fucked and fought.

Leo resented the world. It was full of people who judged him, looked down on him, sneered at him. He just sneered back, to cover up the fact that it hurt.

Leo hated cigarettes. He hated the smell of the smoke and the way it clung to his leather jacket and sandy hair. He hated the way they made him cough and blocked his lungs with grey smog. He hated the way his parents looked at him when he lit up a smoke in the house, with puppy dog eyes and reproachful frowns.

But he needed them, he did. They kept him sane.

Leo despised alcohol, too. He despised the way it burnt like hell going down his raw throat, and twice as much coming up again. He despised the way he got money to buy it, stealing cash from his father's study drawer and his mother's purse. He despised the way people looked at him when he stumbled home drunk in the streets, head pounding and sidewalks spinning.

But he needed it, he really did. It helped to numb the pain.

Leo was disgusted by the way he treated his family, the only people in the world who actually cared about him. He was disgusted that he was the reason his father's shoulders were slumped and his eyes were sad. He was disgusted by the way he yelled at his mother and called her names and made her cry. He was disgusted by the way he left his little brother standing for an hour at the bus stop because he was too drunk off his face to pick him up, the way he tore up his messy 6 year old scrawls into paper shreds.

But he did it anyway, because it was easier than letting them in to see his broken and vulnerable self.

Leo loathed his so-called friends. He loathed their greasy hair and dirty, bony arms punctured with bruises and marks. He loathed the way he would never be like them, too, no matter how many joints he smoked or syringes he shot up. He loathed the other friends, too. The "school friends" and "family friends" who were really anything but. He loathed the way that they looked at him with disgust, like he was crazy, not like them with their good grades and their tidy hair and their expensive blazers.

But he tolerated them, he had to. He had no one else.

Leo resented the world. He resented the way that it had no place for him in it's tidy shelves of society. He resented that the world looked down on him, spat on him, trampled him underfoot into the dirty pavement. He resented the way that he resented the world, and it resented him back.

But he still put up with the world, he needed to prove that he was strong.

Most of all, Leo disliked himself. He disliked his face, his sandy blonde hair and red rimmed blue eyes. He disliked his cuts and bruises from fighting and staying out late. He disliked how he acted, how he smoked and drank and was rude to his parents and didn't have any real friends and hated the world. He disliked that he knew, he knew deep down that he could do so much better, be so much better.

One day, he would change, he would, he told himself all the time. And he was going to.

But for now, he lit another cigarette and cracked open another bottle of beer, letting it drown his messy thoughts.

One day.

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A/N: so that was the first story aaand my first ever story officially posted on Wattpad wooo. I hoped you liked it, pleeease vote if you did and especially comment what you thought. Thanks xxxx fudgeymuke