Falling, Fallen (bxb)

9 Time Out of 10

TW: Blood, Violence

Kit looked at himself in his mirror, trying to pick apart his mask. You see, people wear masks so they can fit in and hide. Sometimes hiding is the difference between life and death. It keeps you safe and still breathing.

His first thought was it's all his dad's fault. He looked harder, the tears welling up in his eyes distorted his vision. He'd spent so long trying to blame his dad for being the villain in his life, but perhaps he was staring right at the villain. He'd done this to himself, it's his fault he is this disgusting thing.

He sucked in the tears, trying to stop them before they fall. They must not fall. That means he has fallen, he can never fall. Strong people do not fall.

He watched as his picture further distorted into an ugly grimace. All his features blending together into his fathers face until his tears made it a chaotic mess of nothing. There was too much blood filling his head, his brain clenching and pumping, too heavy to support it all.

You can punch the tears away. So he did, sending a fist into the centre of the mirror, the warm blood seeping from his knuckles was soothing, yet the pain persisted. The blood became watery as some of it mixed with tears he didn't want to admit were there. The imploding of the mirror was gratifying as he got to watch his face fall into shards of glass and scatter along with the sink, dip-dyed red and he felt the pierce of the smithers mending into his hands. His head hurt too much. His body hurt too much. Everything hurt too much. He replayed as many homophobic slurs he could think of over in his head to drown anything out.

"Kristopher?" A timid voice came from the other side of the door, jolting him back to the mess around him.

It was now he could feel the pain of the glass ingrained in his knuckles.

He tried to shut his eyes to stop the pain, but whenever he did an image of Theo the second before the kiss popped up in his eyes. The million hues of brown eyes looking up at him through his wisps of eyelashes, the hair dripping with sweat and mused from the crowded party, his face extending with confusion into understanding into further confusion as Kit inched closer.

"Open the door. What was that sound?" It came again, louder and thick with a tinge of concealed worry.

"Slipped." Kit said tersely.

"Kristopher, open the door."

Kit gazed around at the room, blood falling down the drain and pieces of shards speckled around, some micro parts laid out on the floor, larger lumps in the sink.

He picked up as many as he could, one of them dug into the palm of his hand suddenly.

"Fuck." He shrieked, impulsively.

"Kristopher, what are you doing? I'll get your dad to kick the door down, you're worrying me!"

"Nothing. I'm okay. Don't get dad." He rasped. "Please."

He wiped as much as he could into the trash can and stuck his fist into the pocket of his jacket, before opening the door and ignoring the pain in his hand, the blood seeping from the cuts and staining the interior of the pocket.

"Hey." He smiled through the pain of his clenched fist, every touch with the material sent a static ache inside him, but he was used to getting over injuries easily.

"What did you do, now?" His mother quizzed, trying to step around him to go into the bathroom, but was met with his shoulder blocking her view.

"Nothing. I told you, I slipped."

"Kit." She mumbled, eyes pleading with him, they were soft and glistening but Kit could see the bloodshot corners and red bags or puff forming under them from crying, nets of wrinkles forming around them.