scapegoat ━━ mike schmidt

𝟬𝟮𝟬 promise

SCAPEGOAT / Chapter Twenty
tw: self harm & religious trauma & suicide attempt

It never got better.

Malakai's life had never got better. He'd had a shitty beginning, shitty middle, and he'd have a shitty end. Malakai never got better. No matter what he did, he'd always end up the same way: crying with bruised knuckles and bloody wrists.

In therapy, he'd been told this was because he had a bad childhood. It wasn't his fault, he'd been told. He'd get better, he'd been told. Bullshit.

No, the truth was: Malakai was a bad person.

Through and through, Malakai was a horrible person. That was why nobody loved him. That was why he punished himself. That was why he'd had a bad childhood. His grandfather had been trying to pull the evil out of him, erase the sin branded into his soul. And Malakai, like an idiot, had fought against it.

In his end, there would be no celebration. No joy. No Heaven. He'd be lucky if he even reached Purgatory. Instead, he'd go straight to Hell. Burn there, scream in his eternal torture with no God.

Though it wasn't like God had offered him any help so far in his life. Take him to church and he wouldn't be scared. He'd be furious. At least, he hoped so.

He hoped that stupid fucking thing had no ownership over him anymore. And yet...and yet...

"Dear Father," Malakai murmured. Then, he shook his head quickly, scoffed. This God could not intervene. Even if they had the power, they'd choose to ignore him. He frowned, "Dear Father, fuck you." That had him laughing feebly.

The words were rattling around in his skull. I told you this would happen. And, deep inside, Malakai had always known it, hadn't he? He'd known this was how it would always end.

Lying on the floor, vision blurry from tears as he stared at the hole he'd punched in his wall, eyes glazed over. Lying on the floor, hugging himself, useless blanket thrown to the side. Lying on the floor, heart beating so hard he heard it in his ears, clutching his bloody wrists.

Malakai was gonna be a piece of shit his entire life. He'd never feel happy. What was the point of trying?

Everything hurt. His heart, his skin, his stomach. He wanted to throw up. Malakai needed to get all the bad things out of him. But it didn't matter, did it?

Nobody cared.

They would laugh at his funeral. At least then they'd finally enjoy my company, Malakai thought with a laugh.

Oh, fuck it. His eyes were closing and there was a calmness settling over him. He wanted the pain to be over. He needed the sweet release of death. Malakai smiled to himself. He was going to kill himself. Finally. He was going to die.

Die?

Somewhere in his brain, a memory bumped into a thought and his eyes snapped open. Die? He shot up, alarm spreading through his body. Malakai couldn't die. He promised Mike.

He doesn't care. That evil voice in Malakai's head muttered. But he didn't listen. It wasn't even out of choice. His brain was focused on something else now, stumbling over one of his broken paintings on the floor, and rushing to the hallway.

The phone in his hand rang. Once, twice, three times. And nothing. Malakai slammed it back down on the receiver. Then, he called the number again.

"C'mon, Rachel," He muttered, hands shaking from a mix of anger and anxiety. Malakai needed someone to talk to. And yet—the phone went to voicemail.