A Beat for Cherry Bomb

Ch.8 The Little Things

Tommy wakes up to the sound of nothing. The sound of an empty household even though he knows that his father is somewhere in the building.

Tommy wakes up to the smell of fresh cut grass, wafting in from his bedroom window. He knows it's not from his own lawn, it must be from a neighbor.

Tommy wakes up to the sight of his ceiling, a poster of a band he likes (Los Campesinos) staring down at him.

Tommy wakes up to an empty feeling. A feeling that always seems to be around when he's at his house. When he walks around the hallways, his steps echoing against the barren walls. When he hears faint voices of his 'family', tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

He never lets himself cry.

After all, crying is for little boys.

(He thinks back to what his brother, Wilbur, said to him when he was 6.

'Are you crying? Seriously? Crying is for little boys,' he said with a scowl. 'I thought you were a big man? Big men don't cry.'

As Tommy looks back on it, he realizes Wilbur just didn't want to deal with Tommy. That Wilbur had better things to do than to tend to a crying child.

Tommy hasn't cried since; he didn't want to disappoint his big brother.)

He stands up from his wrinkled bed sheets and covers, stretching his arms as he lets out a low groan. He relaxes once again, glancing around the room he knows so well.

There's more papers on the floor today. The notebook has more red pen written inside than before. There's a half-drank coke on the desk.

He sighs as he makes his way to the door, opening it to reveal the walls he's seen every day for the past 18 years.

The walls with no pictures of him. The walls with pictures only of his brothers, who he resents so much. The walls with no pictures of his mother, a face he cannot remember, but a voice that plays in his head too often.

He walks down the hallway, his feet barely making a sound with practiced ease (he didn't want a repeat of when Phil yelled at him for being too loud). He walks to the end of the hallway, the wooden door to the bathroom open to a dark room.

As he steps in, he turns on the light and closes the door.

He looks in the mirror, his eyes looking over his appearance. It's been a week since he dyed his hair with his friends. The tips of his blonde hair coated in a slightly washed out, but still bright, red. He can still see his natural hair color, a lot of it too. He only did the tips, Tubbo and Purpled doing the same.

He runs his hand through his hair, catching on a few tangles but easily getting out with a small tug.

As he looks back to himself, he can see the wrinkled white shirt he found in his closet that he decided to wear to bed last night. As he looks back to himself, he can see the black sweatpants that he's had for years. As he looks back to himself, he doesn't see himself.

He just sees a burnt out teen with a bad home life. His eyes look hollow, barely a shine to show life. The bags under his eyes are more prominent due to insomnia. His skin dry and cracked, yet he refuses to do anything about it.

He doesn't like this version of himself. He doesn't like the person who is looking at him in the mirror. He doesn't like the lack of style, the lack of feeling, the lack of life.

So he starts to pack up this version of himself.

He showers, trying to avoid looking at his body. He doesn't like the way it's shaped.