A Heart Doesn't Forget (Fanfiction)

Chapter 30: What'll it be?

Luke's P.O.V.

________________

I should have known the scars meant something more when I first saw them.

At first, I ignored the pain in my side, thinking it must have had something to do with my handover.

But no, of course I just decided to ignore it. I paid no attention to the sting in my side whenever I moved a certain way. Every time I changed, I never thought to look down. If only I'd have done that, I might have known sooner. I could have told someone, but I didn't.

I found out about the scars at the hospital. I had passed out from too much alcohol on the day of my party. Calum had called an ambulance, and I was taken to the hospital to get checked for alcohol poisoning.

I was fine once they had checked that. However, the doctor had found my scars, and took it as a suicide attempt. They were planning to confront me about it when I woke up, but that all went out the window as soon as I broke for the door.

I had to stay in the psychiatric ward for three days, just to make sure I was safe. They didn't believe me when I said "it wasn't a suicide attempt", and "I don't know where it came from". Apparently those are common in-denial things to say.

After the three days, they found nothing mentally wrong with me. Calum told me, though, that I'm not allowed to drink alcohol anymore. He got really scared with the whole alcohol-poisoning thing.

It seems after I had remember what happened at the party and on the bridge, everything else soon followed. I didn't know how to feel when I realized I could have never remembered that night. Maybe, if I hadn't remembered what happened at the party, I'd still have no idea anything ever happened.

I didn't know which one I'd prefer.

I don't know if I'd rather have no idea. If I would rather live the rest of my life, never knowing what those scars were from. Never having any idea as to whether is was a suicide attempt, whether I had been attacked by an animal or some crazy person, whether it had been from the car crash. I'm not sure if I'd rather not know, or know exactly what happened.

How I was tied to the bed. How I was forced. How I could have tried harder. How I cried. How I wanted it to stop. How much pain I felt. How digusting, and filthy I felt afterwards. How ashamed, disgraceful, disgusting, and filthy I feel now.

I don't know which one I'd choose, but really, that doesn't matter. Because in reality, I don't get to choose. I've already remembered, and there's nothing I can do to change that now.

Even though by now it's nearly six months after I've remembered, I haven't felt the same. I'm in a constant battle with myself. Every time I'm not talking to someone else, I'm having a conversation with my own mind. Half of me wants to tell someone. To get the help I know I need. Half of me knows this is killing me inside, keeping this a secret. Half of me knows I need to tell someone what happened. Half of me knows that I am slowly driving myself insane.

Half of me wants to keep it a secret. Half of me never wants anyone to find out. They will judge me, they will be dissapointed in me. No one will ever look at me the same. They'll see me as the victim who was raped. Weak and worthless. The one who stopped talking. Pathetic. Half of me believes that if I tell someone, they might think of me as the boy who let it happen, and enjoyed. The one who is only telling for pity. This other half of me thinks moving forward and dealing with the pain is better than the chance of other people causing more damage. I'm scared of the people who might try to help, but only end up causing more pain.

Whenever I've had these internal debates with myself, the second half usually wins. Which is the reason why I have talking to anyone in...has it been five months now?