A Promise Gone Wrong

Chapter Twenty-Six: Last Stretch

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~~~Rebecca~~~
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First place.

Brushing the tips of my thumbs over the medals, I allow a buzzing warmth to radiate in my heart a moment.

Only always just a moment because so many others deserve this award.

It's no secret that I work hard for it. Put in numerous hours. Before every competition, I seem to push my body beyond limits. Beat it. Force it to rehearse choreography until I'm certain I can perform in my sleep. Sometimes, it's unnecessary. Like I enjoy the first days of sore, tender pain. I think I actually replace my destructive habit of cutting with how hard I practice because when I have a performance coming up, I can't risk Coach McKenna or the judges seeing fresh scars.

At this point, I've done it so much that my body doesn't get sore anymore. I should be aching by now. Exhausted. Burnt out. Depleted of energy and the will to move.

I'm not.

I don't feel anything.

Sighing, I slip the silk lanyards over a framed photo of Brielle and I. With a step back I get a full view of all the other trophies, medals, plaques and such that I have collected over the years. I should be proud. I should feel happy enough to cry. The judges' scores should validate me. Still, there is this lingering whisper in the deepest, darkest place in my mind telling me I'm not good enough.

I put up a fight, stood up for myself and held my ground. Honestly, I didn't think my parents' words or actions would bring me so much agony. It didn't hurt watching them walk away. They always leave me behind. So, why does it still ache like this? Like they're internally cutting and scarring me.

A stinging pinches the inner corners of my eyes before a few hot tears streak down my cheeks. Beneath my ribs, a swarm of anger, rage, and frustration swells my chest. I glare at a photo of my family and my skin ignites.

"I hate you," I whisper through gritted teeth. Seething.

Wishing they could hear me but knowing I wouldn't have the guts to say it to their faces. So instead, my knees buckle as I wail in high-pitched, sobbingly angry screams until my nose stuffs, throat becomes scratchy, eyes get itchy and fingers cramp from how tight my fists are.

Brielle and the man-whores offered to go get food and celebrate after awards got announced, but I knew I needed to do this. It was festering and brewing under all the adrenaline. I politely declined explaining that I just wanted to soak in a bath and go to bed which I thought they would make fun of me for, but they didn't. Cameron walked me to my car, gave me a hug, and we parted ways.

Following through with my words, I'm soon wading in neck-high steaming water full of potent smells of lavender, eucalyptus, and matcha green tea from bubbles and varying Epsom salts. It's now that I wonder if it was selfish for me not to go out to eat with them. Selfish not to spend time with Cameron.

Somehow he always seems to show up for me when I need him, but I'm not sure I do the same for him.

God, the way he flinched and trembled just from simple, light touches. Please don't let his Aunt get away with hurting him while she's here. He must be overwhelmed. Scared, for himself and for his brother. I can't imagine he would leave her alone for a single second with Luke. At the same time, I can't believe he hasn't told his parents. His mom at least.

Then again, how often is it that we hear of boys being molested, raped? I've never even heard a report on the news before and in school we only ever hear about protecting girls. Even for our gender it can be hard to face and talk about assault. How much more difficult it must be for a guy. For a guy like Cameron, an athlete, man-whore, the oldest son and a big brother. Just the idea of telling his parents could be traumatizing to him.