the broken

Chapter 4

DECEMBER, 2008

Dan

The first thing that comes back is the light. It's cold and watery and burns my eyelids until I'm forced to blink them open, squinting. Then the pain, the headache tendrils twisting inside my skull, the sore ribs and head and arms and legs. I push myself up, curling into a position that could technically be counted as sitting, with my back hunched and my hands curled into fists. I look around, collecting my surroundings. If the clock over the entrance next to me is correct, first class is almost over, and I need to move. This area is abandoned before classes start, but after the first class ends, bored teenagers trickle in like flies to honey, lounging on the benches and talking way too loud. My head hurts too much for that. With slow, delicate movements, I pick myself up off the ground and start stumbling blindly out of the courtyard and into the school, heading for the bathroom. My vision is fuzzy and my head swoops and I feel like I'm falling down a flight of stairs, but, in hot, heavy confusion, I continue walking, leaning against the wall.

The halls are quiet, too quiet, enough that every footstep is loud enough to make my head split, and I shuffle awkwardly into the bathroom, leaning against the cold tiled wall as I take deep breaths. I am shaking uncontrollably. When I'm finally calm enough, and my hands have stilled enough that I can once again use them, I push myself off of the wall and walk up to the mirrors in front of the sinks. They are cracked and dirty from lack of cleaning, and have crude words scribbled around the edges in thick black marker, but they will do. They always have.

After a few failed attempts, I manage to keep a grip on the fabric of my shirt and pull it up to examine the damage. I stare at the mess that is my skin, lost. There are so many colors, I could be a child's painting, full of ocean blue and grape juice purple and tomato red. I touch my ribs delicately, cold fingers brushing against hot skin, and the lightning bolt of pain that comes makes me coil back, biting my lip. I stare at the bones pushing at my skin, tracing my ribs with my eyes. My body is starving itself, but my brain broke years ago, and now my mouth is sewed shut. I am one bite away from the stuffing inside of me spilling out, so I'm stuck watching my bones explode out of my skin.

With shaking hands, I twist the handles on the faucet and watch it run down, cupping my hands under it and splashing it on my face, shivering. The water is cold and my skeleton cheeks look hollow in the bright white light of the bathroom and I pat them dry with my sleeves before I make my way out of the bathroom, leaning against the wall because I'm too tired to hold my head up.

According to the hallway clock, I only have ten minutes until the bell will ring and the hall will fill with massive seas of people that will swallow me whole. I can almost hear the deafening wall of noise and laughter and the thunder of stomping feet echoing in my bones, and my throat tightens up at the thought of it. I lean my forehead against the cool wall, trying to clear the fuzziness from my head. My heart pounds against my rib cage, trying to burst from my skin.

I focus on breathing, spinning elaborate lies in my head until I've managed to get my head screwed back on straight for the most part.

I leave.

No school, not today.

I walk home.

I'm so tired.

When I walk in the door, Gabe is slumped against the counter, sipping vodka and looking at me through squinted eyes.

"Hey, fag."

I look down and try to shuffle around him, praying for once he'll just worry about his own miserable life.

He puts his hand on my shoulder, shoving me backwards.

"I said hi. You'll respond when you're spoken to."

"Yes sir."

Answering is the only way to get him to stop.

He looks down at me.

"I'm sick and tired of you and your bullshit. No respect for me when I put a roof over your head? You should feel lucky that you're not living on the streets, that I was kind enough to not kick you out with your ungrateful mother. Useless piece of shit."

"I'm sorry."

"Damn right you are. You deserve everything you get, got it?"

He has closed the space between us, breathing his vodka breath in my face, pinning me up against the wall behind me.

"Yes. Got it."

"Good. That's what I thought."

-

okay hello there, this is a really short chapter and i'm sorry but i wanted to update. i've also decided that I do actually want to continue this even if no one reads it, because I think it'll be fun to write, but I'm going to go back and edit the chapters i've already written so that it's at a point where i will be comfortable continuing. no big changes, i think, at least not to the actual story.