RUSH

Ch. 14: Let It Happen

A/N: Trigger warning for Domestic Violence (verbal and physical), mental illness, etc. Proceed at your own risk.

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-Bennett-

I was eleven years old when I tried to slit my father's throat.

Nowadays, it's difficult to recall what exactly had pushed me to that edge. I thought about it sometimes when I couldn't fall asleep, on the nights when the exhaustion seeped down to my bones and left me aching and restless. When my mind was so thoroughly muddled by the haze of a long day, that was the rare chance when I allowed myself to consider what could have happened had I been strong enough. If I would have been able to breathe without feeling the aching, tightness in my chest.

It had made sense during the heat of the moment, even if my mind had glazed so carelessly over the severity of all the potential repercussions. No punishment had felt as daunting as his presence.

I liked to pretend that I didn't feel that way anymore.

It was easier to convince myself in the morning... when there was nowhere for the darkness to hide. I peered up at the streaks of sunlight as they peeked through my curtains and felt myself grow anew.

But whenever I found myself barely conscious in the middle of the night, the darkness enveloped so tightly around my flesh, it almost felt like I'd been dragged back to that night. I could still vividly remember the coldness of my bare feet against the wooden floor as I wandered into the kitchen at three in the morning, nothing but the street light looming outside the kitchen windows to illuminate my path.

It cast dim streaks of light across the countertops, just enough light to guide my path.

I could still recall the shape of the knife's handle as I held it with both hands, my grip shaky with uncertainty. And part of me still clung onto the desperation with which I turned towards the stairs on that fateful night, my eyes growing wide and stinging with unshed tears just as they had back then. I hadn't slept at all, afraid that if I closed my eyes all the rage coiled up within me would abandon me once more.

And then I'd have nothing left.

There were scorching tears spilling from my eyes as I took hesitant steps towards the staircase, a chilling rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins at the realization that those grim, intrusive thoughts that I'd always tried to ignore were finally puppeteering my limbs forward. I was letting them crowd along the forefront of my mind, willingly humoring rancor that I couldn't quite fathom.

It was everything I wanted.

It was everything I feared.

All I knew at that moment was that my father hated us. I knew he did. I'd never known anything but the violent ire in his eyes. It was all-consuming.

It was pure misery to wake up and remember that he would be there when I made my way downstairs for breakfast. That I would have to sit there and quietly listen to him berating me once more, criticizing every aspect of my body and mind until the moment he left for work. Once again, I would ignore the helplessness that crept within me when his hands lingered too long on my arms, my shoulders, my chin... yanking it up to force me to meet his gaze.

I'd gulp down the familiar bile, pushing down the nauseating anxiousness that bubbled up with every graze of his calloused fingertips across my skin.