The Melody of Pip Winter

20: Spiegel im Spiegel

(WARNING: this part may be triggering to some as it contains talks of abuse and trauma)

The words stuck to the air like they were coated in honey. In truth they were dipped in pools of fiery agony. Like shards of glass Pip's throat was torn and ripped by the words that held pointy edges. Blood clotted in his ears and his heart swam through currents of violent waves. As his body radiated the memories he wished to forget the fatal night played out before him. From the scared screams to the blood that drowned them.

Pip could see his father. The man who couldn't love him, the man who had a whole life ripped away from him. Recollecting everything Pip knew his father was right to despise him, maybe he knew what was coming.

Pip could see himself. The boy who always tried too hard not to disappoint, the boy who took someone else's life. Reading the story Pip knew he wasn't enough and that wasn't anyone else's fault just his own, he definitely didn't know what was coming.

Pip could see the damage. The cries that bled too deep, the blood that seared everyone in that house that night.

The scene was torn from his mind when a hand derailed his focus. A hand that held his in a way that made every scar forgotten. The hand brought him back to the conversation.

"I killed him Leo, I'm a terrible person why are you here?" Pip felt pools tingle behind his eyes.

His throat was coiled in a strangling tightness. Leo did not leave.

"You said you wanted to tell me everything, so continue." Leo stayed.

Pip wondered why he had stayed. How had Pip found a four leaf clover when looking in a field of daisies?

Everything. Everything was a lot. The scars on his skin and the words in his head were part of everything.

"He never liked me much," Pip started.

There was mixture of blame in the story he would tell. Telling the story would throb just as much as it had to live in it.

"He wasn't a drunk or a bad person, he was a hard worker and he cared for others." Organs twisted and wrapped around each other, at least that's what Pip thought it felt like.

His cheeks were scorching and his eyes twinged with a flood of irritation. Leo looked a bit sick already, this was probably a bad idea.

"We didn't speak much, he would," Pip was interrupted by the dagger in his throat.

Leo started to stroke Pip's knuckles with his dainty and soft finger tips. It didn't stop the war that was exploding inside of him but it did set off another bomb.

"He- he - he would hurt me." Sprinkles of despair dived down his cheek.

The words felt like vile on his tongue. Never had he said anything like this out loud and he felt sick. Leo brought his thumb to Pip's tears and wiped them from his skin.

"With words sometimes, with his fists or his persistence." Pip coughed up the words like salt water.

Heat and discomfort crawled through every joint and layer of his body. Not one system was left unharmed from the battle. Clumps of coal blocked his words and tightness weaved through his shoulders.

"Pip," the only word Leo could manage.

A hand wasn't enough to hold all his fleeting parts together. His mind was read and Leo was approaching. The boy pushed them to the floor, his arms wrapped around him like a neatly tied present, though it wasn't exactly neat. No one had ever read his mind before.

"That night I was sleeping and he came into my room."

Leo instantly tightened. The boy who held him went still. The arms that softened the blade had instantly morphed into a layers of tightness. Maybe something in his words has struck the other boy.

"I hadn't heard him at first but I woke up and he stood before me with a metal pipe." Pip mumbled into Leo's shoulder.

Part of him hoped the other boy couldn't hear them. He had never tried on purpose to remember the story and he certainly hadn't put it in to words. It sliced him up entirely but Leo's arms were like a ban aid.

"My mum wasn't home."

Leo awoke form his stillness and tightened his grip.

"I didn't scream. I didn't move. I was frozen." Pip continued.

He could still feel the spell that had wrapped his limbs in layers of heavy metal. It was all vivid, there was no forgetting.

"He smiled. Fuck." That's when the tears sprinted from his eyes like Olympic athletes and he was sobbing.

His face was misted with water and snot and all the memories that caused them.

"I moved just as he first attempted to hit me. I kicked him then tried to run away, but I was stuck and he was so close, no matter how much I tried to think I was out of breath and completely screwed." Pip vomited the words that had trapped him for so long.

He was stuck telling a story, his story and he couldn't stop.

"Eventually I was pinned to the wall and I grabbed the pipe."

That was when his streak of words ended. How could he say it? How could he tell this part? We're there words that could tie the scene together. The only words he felt were;

Fuck!

Fuckity! Fuck! Fuck!

He wondered how one word could explain his whole existence. But his wonders were swallowed by the wound unstitching itself in his chest.

"I hit him and I couldn't stop hitting him. He was lying there and I couldn't stop." The words were splashed bumpily as he quaked.

His throat was catalyst for natural disasters and his eyes put an end to a long drought. His chest was eroding and his body felt cold with fire.

"He was dead!" Pip called into Leo's shoulder.

"He is dead." Pip continued.

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead." He repeated it like it would sew up the mess he made.

His words were gasoline that prolonged his raging tears. His body was limp and weighed down by scary stories.

"I'm murderer." Pip whispered.

Leo untwined them. The boys face was red and pale. His usually loose and smiling lips quivered flatly. The sight was slightly terrifying.

"Pip, you're not a murderer." Leo muttered.

His voice was shaky and layered in hurt. Years of hidden terror bled from him and the world blurred around him. Leo held both his hands with extreme care.

"You're kind and smart and beautiful and you are not a murderer." Leo soothed.

He could still feel the weapon in his hands, how could he be a victim when he had used his hands for such terrible things? How could he be a victim when he watched life bleed from his own father? Those were the questions that no one ever answered, not that he had asked. He had never spoke of the events of February twelfth. He was born that day and he had watched another's life end that day. His mother had never heard the story she had just returned and put it together for herself. Pip had never spoke of that night until that very day.