「breathe me」| Johnnyboy

t h e b e g i n n i n g .

Dear Diary,

A kick to the ribs, a fist to the jaw, a hand to the throat until your face is red and its hard to catch your breath — all things I hope y o u never have to go through. I'm not sure who I'm talking to. "You." Maybe a future boyfriend if I ever get one. Whoever you are, I hope you don't have to take any of this. My name's Johnny Cade, but my parents never call me that. They never call me much of anything unless they're cussing at me. I've learned to stay quiet, never talk back, and never tell them goodbye or hello when I leave or come into the house. I know the moment I open my mouth, it's all over. Ever heard that one saying? Home sweet home. I guess I wouldn't know what that means. They say home is where the heart is; home is where you're safe, loved, happy. But mine is worn down, with the strong smell of blood and alcohol as soon as you walk in. It feels like I'm stuck in a box I can't get out of. Have you ever felt that way? What did you do to stop it?

Because I'm not sure how much longer I can take this...

With a sigh, I reluctantly put my pencil down and shut the journal. My hands seemed to move on their own as they stuffed the book behind the shelf in the corner of my room. I hadn't kept a diary in years, but with the way I'd been feeling lately, I felt like I needed to. Even if no one ever read it, it was nice to get my feelings and thoughts out freely every once in a while. There were random papers, mostly from school, in front of it. Some were folded neatly, others crumbled. The crumbled were the bad ones; ones I failed, but never had a chance to get a parent signature for. In the school, if you get a bad grade — say an F — then they make you bring it home. They require a parent to sign, but if I'd shown mine the only thing they would've done is hit me and lock me in the bedroom. No dinner during those times, either.

It wasn't like I ever got much food, but I couldn't really complain. In World Studies last year, I learned that there were about 815 million families who didn't have enough food. We weren't that bad off; we had things, I just wasn't allowed to enjoy them much.

After I'd successfully hidden my new journal, I turned out my lamp and climbed into bed. It wasn't that late; seven at night, if even. But if I was asleep, maybe my dad wouldn't mess with me tonight. It'd been one whole day since my last beating, and I was hoping with all my might to change that to two whole days. My eye was still sore from the last punch, and at this point I was pretty sure my ribs were permanently bruised. He injured them so much that they might as well have been.

I fell asleep thinking about nothing and everything at the same time; my thoughts ranged from school, which I wasn't completely dreading, to how many stars were in the sky, to my dad and when he'd be home. If he wasn't on the couch drinking and watching something about sports, then he was at a bar or a hotel with a random woman. I only knew this because of eavesdropping, though almost every time it'd been unintentional.

◊◊◊

"Johnnycake," my mother sing-songed, but she sounded far away. She hadn't called me that in — well, ever. Was this a dream? My eyelids cracked open, head lifting slightly to examine my surroundings. They were blurred for a moment, maybe because of the sleep in my eyes, but after a few blinks and rubbing them with my fists, it was back to normal. Cautiously, I slid off the bed, my footsteps light as I made my way to the door. I cluched my sweatshirt tighter to me, wide eyes looking at either side of the hallway. I didn't know where my dad was, but he obviously wasn't home or he'd have already been on my tail.

"Mom?" I rubbed my eyes again, squinting at her in a confused manner. She stood at the stove, pink and white apron wrapped around her waist and a wide smile on her face. My heart pounded in my chest nervously. What was happening? Had I done something good, or was she going to snap at any minute? The latter happened, sometimes.

"Yes, honey, it's me." She laughed, as if I'd told a joke. "Do you want some breakfast? I made your favorite, scrambled eggs and bacon." She slid an already made plate toward me, unusually peppy smile still plastered on her face.

"S-sure." It was barely above a whisper, even I could realize that. I carefully started eating, glancing at her warily. I didn't want to make a mistake, I didn't want this to end.

"So, Johnny." She began slowly, sliding into the seat next to mine. I tried to nonchalantly scoot mine farther away, just in case, but her hand found its way to my own. "I was thinking of taking a little trip with your father, and we need you to keep up the house while we're gone." There it was. The reason for her unusually nice mood. She wanted something from me. Mom always tried to take the fake approach; smile, treat me well for a few minutes, and when she got what she wanted, everything would go back to normal.

"Of course." I bit the inside of my cheek, glancing down at the fork in my hand. "W-where are you going? For the trip, I mean."

"Vegas." I nodded, unable to look up.

"That'll be fun."

"Mhm. Anyway, I made a list of things you'll have to do." She leaned her lower half to one side, pulling out a folded piece of notebook paper before sliding it over to me. "It's not a lot, but if it's not done before we get back..." She shrugged, as if saying it was no big deal. Though I knew what would happen if I didn't do any and everything she asked — dad would go ballistic, and she'd stand off to the side and let it happen. She'd only hit me a few times herself; her abuse was more of the verbal kind, but I still flinched at her touch sometimes. I nodded once more.

"I'll get it done, mom." I barely ever called her that. Or, I tried not to. Sometimes I slipped up, though.

"Good boy." She tore her hand from me, standing and pushing in her chair before leaving me alone in the kitchen. My hands fiddled with the paper a while before I finally opened it. It had to be at least a yard long, if not more. I wasn't sure why I would've expected anything less. Hurriedly finishing my breakfast, I washed the dishes in the sink and went back to my room. The clock on the stove had said eight, so I had about twenty minutes before I had to be at school. I spent a bit of time getting dressed and gathering my bookbag, but I didn't have much else to do. It wasn't as if I were trying to impress anyone, anyway.

Author's note: This was a bit long, but I swear it's just a one-shot/short story type thing, lmao. Made for -TheFandomLife-

Happy belated birthday, man, I hope it was a great one! I'm sorry this was kind of late, but I hope you enjoy it.