CW/TW: Emetophobia
A slam of a door so loud that it shook the paintings on the that remained on the wall and echoed through the narrow halls. A slender back sliding down the walls as a tight knot forms in the throat that's attached to it. Fat tears roll down his jagged face, fitting into the scars and pores that litter his face. He fucked up, he knows he fucked up, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He thinks back to it, all the overwhelming feelings washing down upon him all at once.
"Maybe. But don't forget who's controlling whether or not you got a roof over ya head."
Bray clenched his fist to keep from lashing out at the large man. This wasn't fucking fair; this fucking jackass has the nerve to threaten the roof over Bray's head. Just like that, because of some snide comments. Bray almost couldn't believe it; how disrespectful someone could be.
"You wouldn't."
Bray saw the look on his face; the upturned eyebrow and the smirk that held nothing more but misdirected mischief, he saw it all. The cherry on top is when he had the nerve to turn around and walk out the door, like Bray was nothing more than a nuisance—a bug that needed to be scraped off his shoe—it made Bray sick with red-hot rage.
He didn't notice the toll Atticus' actions took on him until he felt the hot wetness sliding down his face. He didn't notice how much he was affected until he felt his body shake and tremor with indignation. He did not recognize the wrath that he wanted to bestow on the very earth that he stood upon, not until the bile slowly started crawling up his esophagus.
He felt his body moving before anything else, and by the time his mind and senses caught up, he was hunched over the toilet and throwing up the contents of the breakfast Atticus just made. The fleeting feeling of discomfort from his food not fully being digested was interrupted by another round of retching.
After what felt like hours, but was most likely only minutes, of throwing up his body weight in undigested food; Bray was finally able to sit up and rest his head against the wall.
He felt it.
The urge.
The urge he hadn't felt since the night his sister came to him crying about some asshole who broke her heart.
The urge to project his fury into something more... tangible.
And with that, he stood up onto his feet and swiftly made his way to Atticus' basement. He searched and prodded, hoping to find what he was looking for. Anything solid that he could effectively harm with, he wanted this one to hurt.
His hand brushed against exactly what he was looking for—well maybe not exactly, he was expecting something more like a bat, but this will do—a flashlight, a very large one at that. A flashlight that he needed two hands to fully grip, perfect.
He made his way back out, straight to the easel. The same easel that held a canvas that contained weeks of work, weeks of sexual tension, weeks of Bray wanting Atticus' hands on his body. His lips upturned into a smirk as he slid the flashlight up and down the framework of the easel. Without even a brief second of hesitation, he smashed the base of the flashlight against the legs of the easel with as much force as he could muster up.
That hit unleashed something in Bray that he hadn't seen in years, he hit every part of the easel that he could reach. He wanted it gone; out of sight and out of mind, he wanted it destroyed with no chance of ever being brought back to life. He dropped the flashlight and stomped on it, the tears coming back and staining the writing on the page.
YOU ARE READING
Ace of Spades
Adventure"I'm not deranged, I just don't tolerate bullshit." In which, Bray is an ex-convict that may have gotten himself into trouble once more. Atticus is an artist that has ran into a little bit of turmoil with his work. What happens when the two cross p...
