(DISCONTINUED) A sinner is always alone. | Andrett inside job fanfiction

4. Something about you...

Spotify playlist for this: "A sinner is always alone" by mr. grimmie

Man.

Andre really needs to get a grip, the one person he might like has seen him have a panic attack. Yes, Andre admitted it. He MIGHT like Brett. He'll never tell him though. Even if he was sure he liked him, he'd never have a chance. His self-pitying thoughts cut short by Brett's question; "So what happened?"

Andre didn't want to make Brett feel bad for talking about his parents and triggering him, but look where lying got him now; crying, curled up into a ball on the floor. Andre breathes shakily and whispers "Uh, It's just my-" Andre sniffles. "Parents, the ones I told you about, they um, they aren't my real parents." Brett doesn't say anything, gesturing Andre to continue talking.

"My real parents aren't even half as good as my fake parents, and you seemed like, uh, the fake parents I made up were bad, so I didn't know how you'd respond to my real parents." Andre murmured. "How were your real parents? If you want to tell me." Brett said.

Bad. The only word that could describe them.

"They weren't, uh, the best," Andre said. "I mean, they gave me somewhere to sleep, and fed me, sometimes..." he said the last part under his breath shakily. He hoped Brett didn't notice it, but the world is against him, of course. "What do you mean sometimes...?" Brett said, shifting his sitting position to kneeling instead of crouching.

"I can't describe it, they weren't horrible. I'm just being dramatic, sorry," Andre said turning his head slightly to the right. "No, Andre, If they fed you sometimes, you aren't being dramatic," Brett said worriedly. "I mean, my dad shoved me up against the wall and yelled at me if I got anything under a B plus. I know it isn't that normal, but he wanted the best for me," Andre said, looking off to the left, trying to make his dad seem nicer than he was.

Andre's dad didn't just yell at him. He'd hit him.

"Andre, I can tell you're lying, you're looking to the left," Brett said, frowning. Andre looked to the left when he told a "half-truth." It wasn't a total lie, but it still wasn't honest. He's surprised Brett picked up on that. He tried not to do that when he was talking about his fake parents, guess it slipped.

"Hit," Andre said. Brett looked confused, waiting for Andre to elaborate. "He hit me, a lot," Brett didn't need to hear anything else. He pulled Andre into a soft hug. "I'm so sorry," Brett said. Andre didn't move, but he felt his eyes watering. He thought Brett was just gonna call him a liar and leave him, like everyone else.

After Brett had asked Andre if he was okay thousands of times, Andre had said he was okay thousands of times, And Brett had left and Andre was sure Brett had driven off, Andre cried a little. He didn't break down, just tears running down his face.

He felt like someone actually cared, but he was also embarrassed. He knows Brett is kind, and probably doesn't care, but it's still embarrassing. What makes it even worse? He has to go back to work in the morning. Andre hopes he can get high enough, so he can forget this night and isn't so embarrassed tomorrow.

Andre tried to take his mind off it, and thought about if he should take the cookies to the office. He's almost-sure that they're good. Brett might've been lying just to not make Andre feel bad. Fuck it, he's gonna find out today, he's gotten this far.


He'll just plaster a smile on his face and pretend this night didn't happen.

Andre went over to his kitchen, getting a small Tupperware box, after decades of searching for the right lid, he finally found it. He carefully placed the cookies in the box, he almost cares for his baked goods more than himself. He put them on the counter, not worrying about them going bad as they usually last for two or three days unrefrigerated.

He went over to his bedroom, he hasn't changed to fall asleep in forever. He just dresses, falls asleep, wakes up, and puts on another gray undershirt. He doesn't know why he has so many, but he doesn't care. He changes into black sweatpants and a camisole he got from his aunt when she visited before he moved out of his parent's home.

He sighed.

He sunk into his bed and wrapped himself up with his comforter. He can just sleep, and be warm in his bed. He doesn't know why he has to get up and go to work in the morning. He really hates getting up. He doesn't hate work, but just hates getting up.

He's always been like this, ever since he was a kid? He always found it a struggle to even stand up, but he had to deal with it then. When he visited the doctor the one time as a kid, the doctor said he may have sleep inertia, and he "shouldn't worry about it", and it will "go away soon". But here he is, in his thirties, still having it.

It's so easy to fall asleep.

Andre woke up, groggy as usual eyes crusted and mouth dry. He sat there for a while, looking over at his clock. Seven fifty-two. He could've woken up later, dammit. At least he has time to get up.

Andre stretches his arms above his head, hearing his shoulder pop. He groans as he throws his legs over the bed, vision hazy and a horrible ringing in his ears. He lifts his arms up to wipe his eyes, he can sort of see now.

He doesn't know why today it's so much harder to wake up than usual. Last time, it was probably easier because he was confused and sort of panicked, but now he has no reason to get up, except to get to work.

This was gonna be a long day, a very long day.

I WROTE THIS WHEN I HAD WRITER'S BLOCK, I TRIED TO GET OVER IT BY ALLOWING MYSELF TO WRITE GARBAGE AND EDITING IT AFTERWARD, I'M SO SORRY!