REMARKABLE

44

Trigger warning, guys!

Don't forget to read 45!

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Twenty-two years and he was still standing in the ashes of who he used to be. It was one of those terribly bad days when his hands would shake uncontrollably and air would get stuck in his chest, unable to forget and always remembering, feeding the demons of his past.

Yahya Firas sighed with frustration when he couldn't button up his shirt. He had turned away from the mirror unlike the other days when he would stand in front of it to comb his fingers through his wet hair, the sunlight entering from the windows loved the smooth expanse of his back dotted with invisible scars, marred with skin-deep wounds not seen by the naked eyes and he loathed it as he removed his shirt and threw it on the floor. He loathed it. There were days when he accepted himself just as he was and then there were days when he got drunk on self-pity and drowned down to the depths in it, it was one of those days.

Yahya Firas clenched and unclenched his shaking hands before picking the shirt back up and shrugging it on his body. He grounded his jaw, glaring hard at his trembling fingers grasping the first button of his olive green shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember how he had buttoned his shirt, the previous day.

Please. Please.

"Get out! I want to sleep." The man muttered, removing himself from his little body and fell on his back beside little Yahya, throwing an across his eyes as he took deep breaths.

Yahya Firas felt his lungs expand and then, collapse beneath his rib cage. Why didn't he just die under the weight of the man's body?

"Did you not hear me? Or you want around 2?" Yahya Firas didn't turn his head to see the smirk playing on the monster lips.

He whimpered and jolted into a sitting position as the man brushed a filthy hand in his head. It was a week, later that Yahya Firas began hating his dad and mom so much that he knew if they ever came to take him, he wouldn't go with them, he wouldn't talk to them and he would refuse to acknowledge them as his parents. He had waited and waited and waited but his dad didn't come, he knew he had lied, then.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, freely once he had gathered enough strength to rise on his legs, he felt his knees buckling and he cried, harder. He wanted to leave. He wanted to leave.

Yahya Firas didn't look down, he knew what he'd find, he could feel the sticky gruesome substance tickle a path down his legs.

Please. Please.

He fell as tried to pull his shalwar up to his waist, he fell on his knees, scraping them against the broken cemented floor and muffled a loud cry in his small palm.

It was moments, later that Yahya forced himself, pulling himself up against the wall, his hand fisting the kameez.

Yahya had just managed to wear his kameez when he found the man looking at him and he ran for his dear life but running wouldn't save. It didn't save him and it won't save him, tomorrow.

Yahya Firas blinked, rapidly, his heart pounding like a bass drum beneath his chest as he moved towards his cupboard, removing his dress shirt in an exchange with a white tee. No buttons.

Yahya Firas had been walking in the line to his destruction in the dawn of the doom as per his routine, his eyes searching for a route of escape when the green-eyed boy slapped a hand on his shoulder,