the broken

Chapter 5

JANUARY, 2009

Dan

I wake up with my hands tangled in my hair, shaking fingers tugging on my curls, hard enough to make me wince. I bury my head in my pillow and let pathetic little cries out until I've calmed down enough, and I push myself up, the air in my room cold and watery in my lungs.

When I get off of my bed, my blankets slide onto the floor in a messy pile, and I stand in front of my door for a minute, eyes closed. The cuts on my scalp sting and my knuckles ache from being clenched for too long and every breath hurts, everything hurts. There's too many hurts to keep track of. I clench my teeth, take a shaky breath, and will myself to get dressed, struggling to keep my eyes open or stand up or breathe.

When I'm dressed, I sneak downstairs, breathing a sigh of relief when I see Gabe passed out on the floor, and I step over him carefully, making my way out the front door.

-

"What the fuck, you useless piece of shit!"

Gabes voice rises into an angry roar, and he takes a stumbling, drunken step towards me, rage filling his face, crumpling up his eyes until they are all but slits. I take a step back, panicked. I am going to die. Holy shit.

"I..I'm sorry..."

"Do you know how expensive that shit is? I'm gonna fucking kill you."

The empty bottle of vodka sits on the floor, its contents in a puddle around it, and the sharp smell of alcohol reminds me of my mistake. At this point, he is so close, I can smell the rum on his breath. His thick hands find their way around my neck and lift my feet off the ground and my hands claw at his, trying to loosen their grip, trying to suck in air.

"I...It was an accident..."

I can feel my heartbeat in my bones.

He lets go, letting me drop back onto my feet before he draws back his hand, curled into a sweaty fist, and slams it into my face, so hard that I can taste blood. The force of it knocks me flat on my back, and when I hit the ground, he kicks me, slamming his heavy foot into my ribs. I cough, and then there is a puddle of my own blood next to my head and I curl up into a ball and retch, tasting vomit and blood and my heartbeat.

He stumbles away and I lie on the floor, staring at the sickly yellow color of the chipped tiles, willing myself to stay conscious as my heartbeat throbs in my face.

I manage to push myself up, head spinning like a merry-go-round. The floor threatens to pull me back down, but I know that if I let myself fall, I wouldn't live long enough to say another word, so I will myself to become light as air, and like that, I float out the door and along the street.

Colors float in front of my eyes, and my head is so light, it's a surprise to find that it is still attached to my head.

Part of me wishes it would float away.

I look a mess, but the amount of effort that it takes to simply place one foot in front of the other overrides any concerns of the bustling people around me. By the time I make it to school, I'm barely upright, but I can not let the school call Gabe and tell him I've yet again failed to show up. I'm one truancy away from a knife to my throat. I stumble my way through the barren hallways to the bathroom, locking the door behind me and slumping against the wall, closing my eyes as my feverish skin touches the cool tiles. Me and this floor, we're friends.

After a second, I make my way to the sink, eyes avoiding the ugly creature in the mirror in front of me. My shirt is wet and sticky with my blood, and my stomach flips over as I realize Gabe's angry fit this morning has probably reopened clumsily healing cuts. With shaky hands, I pull up my shirt, wincing and letting out whispered curses as I pull it off of my skin, the blood having stuck the fabric to them. There's probably some irony to be found in coping with pain by hurting myself, but I'm alone, all alone, and my skin is the only one who ever listens. This is the only way I can let the bad out from inside. My skin never heals and neither do I.

With shaky hands, I splash cold water over my skin until the blood has washed away, swirling down the yellowed sink. I grab a wad of paper towels and plaster them to my skin, acting as a temporary bandage before pulling my shirt over my head clumsily and letting it drop to the ground. The air is cold on my bare skin and I quickly rummage through my bag for the extra jumper stuffed at the bottom. I pull it on as gently as I can, wincing when it brushes over my skin. Still shivering, I splash my face with water and pat it dry, brush my curls out of my face, and stuff my ruined shirt in my bag, feeling sick and dizzy, but slightly more put together than I was this morning. I head to class, ignoring my teachers dirty looks when I walk in late, and settle into my routine of staring at my desk and trying not to throw up, here for the attendance, nothing else.

I almost make it to lunch without any problems, but unfortunately, luck is not going my way today, and Ryan and his wolf pack corner me as I'm on my way to my locker.

"Hey, fag!"

Please no.

"Hi."

I say this quietly, knowing that ignoring him will only make him angrier.

He grins cheerily at my response, looking at his friends before taking a step closer to me.

"You...you just beat me up yesterday," I point out, my voice small. Like maybe he'll give up, walk away, save his fists for another day. But instead, he just grins wider, steps closer.

"That's way too long for a faggot like you to go without punishment. Isn't that right, Dan."

"I guess."

"Great, so glad we're on the same page."

I close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever he does, but even still, my heart jumps into my throat when his fist lands into my gut. I reel  backwards, hissing in pain as his knuckles embed themselves into a bruise, curling in on myself, clutching my stomach. He grins. Another punch, and then a kick right to the knees. I sink to the floor, leaning on the lockers for support, waves of red hot hurt pulsating through me, and I watch as his figure disappears from my line of vision, trying to gasp in air.

Trying not to cry.

And then I do.

I'm so tired. I'm tired of purple skin and shallow breaths taken because it hurts too much to breathe. I'm tired of the way my head spins, tired of opening my eyes, tired of breathing. I get up, leaning against the locker as my head spins. Before my brain can spit out a cohesive thought, I'm out the door and onto the street, and then I'm running, feet pounding the pavement, turning soft under my steps. There is no air in my lungs as people buildings trees rush by speedyquick I am flying.

I'm at the overhang. Sharp, jagged rocks stare out at me from below, dark and dangerous, water roaring around them deafeningly. I slow down, hoisting myself over the rusted protective gate at the edge with shaking arms, and I sit down harshly, scooting on my butt until my feet dangle precariously over the edge, my back pressed up against the railing. The air has turned to TV static and sharp rocks dig into my legs and I can feel my breath getting shorter and shorter as I scoot myself closer and closer to the edge, with the intent to keep going until there's nothing under me, until the water swallows me up and I'm gone, done with everything, crushed on the rocks below, until I curl up at the bottom and never wake up again.

I'm close enough to see over the edge when the TV static clears, when everything comes into focus. My feet dangle over the side and the wind pushes at my back, daring me to fall, and as my head clears, I'm reminded of how absolutely terrified I am of heights. With a sharp intake of breath, I scramble backwards, pressing myself into the railing. I hug my legs to my chest, frozen. It's minutes before I start to breathe again, start to think again, and the feeling of my phone pressing sharply against my leg in my pocket becomes clearer. With fumbling fingers, eyes still scrunched closed in fear, I dig it out and open it, calling the only person I know that would help, would even pick up.

"Hello? Phil? Please. Help. It's bad. It's really really bad."

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