Illusion (Boyxboy)

Chapter 3

I woke up to the harsh light of the sun poking me right in my eyes, filtering down from the skylights above. I stretched slightly, wincing as the skin around my wounds hurt. I cautiously looked around the room, checking to see if I was in danger. Put it down to habit, I suppose.

I slowly got out of my bed and entered the bathroom to brush my teeth. I instantly regretted the fact that the mirror was the first thing I would see as I entered. I had worn a loose shirt to bed, which had now slipped off over one shoulder, allowing me to see my repulsive body. My eyes misted over but I shook my head, refusing to cry. I quickly covered up, did my business and left, not meeting my reflections eyes.

Outside, I changed into a considerably more fitting shirt but not before redressing my wounds, those that would mar my body for the rest of my life.

After I dressed myself, I slowly made my way downstairs, extremely wary about my surroundings. I've had enough 'surprises' to last me a lifetime. I couldn't find my parents in their room so I continued down to the kitchen where I spotted a stack of pancakes on the table next to a small piece of paper.

'Teddy, your dad and I have gone off to work. We'll be back around two in the afternoon. The house is yours until then. You can go around and explore the neighborhood but don't forget to lock the door. Stay safe. Love you.

Mom'

I scoffed at the last line. Love. A small four lettered word. One that meant so much to couples but was practically a curse word for me, no better than the other four lettered word that rhymed with duck.

It was sickening and disgusting. How could people love each other when people were the cause of suffering? I didn't believe in love, well not anymore I don't. Especially after the permanent 'tattoo' that I had on my chest.

Love was a farce, just like life. You must be wondering why I'm so crazy, thinking why I am thinking rather depressing thoughts while eating pancakes, but I have no happy memories to remember or thoughts to think of. I was broken, mentally and physically and I knew it.

All these thoughts were causing my arms to itch again. I scratched against the scars to soothe the burning but it was in vain. I needed something sharper to reach it. I raced up to my room, pulling out the blade I kept in the drawer. Entering the bathroom, I veered directly to the tub, averting my eyes from the damned mirror. I sat down comfortably and eyed the sharp blade. It glinted in the orange light in the bathroom as if winking at me, comforting me, reassuring me that everything will be alright.

I pulled back my sleeve and let the flat side of the blade run over my arm, relishing the coolness it brought, soothing the itch slightly. However it didn't last long and I felt the itch return. I dug the blade into my arm, bringing me the immediate sense of comfort pain brought. However, the itch was stubborn and only intensified. I continued to scratch the blade across my arm, drawing blood at several places and letting it drop into the drain. The warm liquid finally seemed to quell the burning, the pain soothing me. I just sat there, eyes closed in bliss as my arm dripped blood.

I got up after a few minutes and washed off the red liquid and wrapped up my arm. My parents couldn't see what I had done. They would be extremely disappointed in me, as if they weren't already. They probably must have left the house because they couldn't stand to be in my presence. I must have disgusted them that much.