Break Me (Phan)

I

Daniel Howell
Sunday 11th October

My left hand hastily jerked against my dick as my right held my weight against a nearby wall. I groaned, digging my fingertips between the gaps in the brick wall as pulses shot through my body, "Fuck." I groaned, wiping the end of my cock off with my hoodie's sleeve and stuffing it back into my boxers. I wretched my throat and spat into the bush where I came, doing my jeans' zip up and continuing down the street to the building I lived in.

It was a well-lit night, between the almost full-moon and the streetlights which loomed over my slouched body, glowing a cheap orange above me. It was early October and I should have been wearing more than a worn-down denim jacket over a frayed t-shirt, but I wasn't. Instead, I was roaming the early-morning streets as I scuffed my trainer's toes along the broken path with a bruised eye and a bloody jaw.

The headlights of a car glared over me for a passing moment, my mind feeling at home in the stranger's spotlight before they were gone again. I sighed, booting open the iron gate and taking a seat on the frosted stone steps that led up to my house. I checked behind me: no lights seemed to be on. Not many of the bulbs worked anymore, whether it was because they were smashed against the peeling plaster of a wall, or they'd not been replaced for God-knows-how-many years. I groaned, digging my forehead into my knees as my fingertips fumbled with my decaying shoelaces.

I squinted off into the distance, seeing the beams of the car that passed not too long ago had come to a halt up the road. I rested my head on its side to gaze at the mischiefs of the lone vehicle.

I was an outcast in a well-off neighborhood. My neighbours to the left were retired doctors and off to the right was a lawyer married to a professor. Me? I was an eighteen-year-old in clothes too short, stuck at home with his bullshit-excuse-of-a-father because no store front would employ me and the money my dad had in his bank was funding his alcoholism rather than my education. At least this time last year I had a school to release me from whatever wanker I was at home with.

I sucked my teeth in and spat against the withered grass along the patio, lifting my body up to the front door. I took another glance at the car up ahead, watching its lights blink off as a tall, slender man stepped out from the backseat with a suitcase. Another businessman, I presumed. I gripped my palm against the chipped doorknob and returned from one cold to another.

I coughed on entry, my lungs being scratched at by the stench of fags and wine. I kicked a loose bottle away from my foot as I dragged myself to the staircase. I pulled my phone out from my pocket, tossing it in my palm as I weighed out the risks of turning the torch on and waking my father up, or stumbling my way over shattered glass to my bedroom. I bit my lips, tapping the screen as a small beam projected outwards.

I heard the floorboards beneath the torn carpet creak under my steps, my hand cautiously sliding up the bannister to guide me. I turned to the left, taking the second door and closing the wooden trap behind me. I took a deep breath in, grateful for the air in my bedroom remaining undisturbed. I flicked the switch beside me on, squinting my eyes as my surroundings flooded with colour rather than mere outlines. I gasped, letting my body collide against the door and peel its way down to the floor.

I possessed no more than a mattress, with broken springs, splayed out halfway across the room, a chest of drawers propped up against the corner to my left, and a broken mirror, missing a chunk of glass out from the middle of it, against the window. I let my eyes fall shut, the sound of ringing and my breathing stealing my silence. I crawled over to my bed, throwing my shoulder against it as I kicked my shoes off.

My eyes wandered off into the mirror, staring at the scattered bruising across my frail frame and my face that was too thin and hollowed-out for a boy my age. I tore my t-shirt off over my shoulders and collapsed against the murderous springs once again. My eyes hovered over my torso, the way the black smudge ran from just below my right shoulder all the way down to my jeans' waistline where it begins to fade. I've been led to believe the Marking can seep under one layer of clothing between two people's touch, but begins to dissipate at two, creating no more than what could be regarded as a shadow by the third piece of material. A small bit of Marking runs across my jawline and alone my forearms. It's disgusting. Out of everyone throughout my life, why did I have to be left with the largest Marking of them all? Wasn't everything God damn hard enough since Mum left?

Her and my father weren't soulmates. I remember them always struggling with this fact, even when I was only aged six. They were both in their thirties and my father doesn't possess a mark, and Mum had never found her other half. That was until the Christmas holidays. She rushed in one day, packing her bags and smiling more than I'd ever caused her to. She'd found her soulmate and I was never to see her again.

My eyes reverted back to my Marking that I thought resembled an oil spill across my front. Ugly and life-destroying. I was always mocked for it. I'd spent countless nights questioning how it would come to be that I find my partner. For the Marking on my arms to match the one across my chest, I'd have to be holding my arms in front of me. It looks as though it's in defense, so over the years I concluded that I must fall into or on top of someone, or them onto me. I chuckled to myself. I didn't even know why I thought about it so much when I'd already acknowledged I didn't want a soulmate. I didn't want a partner to share my life with because it isn't worth the pain. All I truly wanted was security, a safe place to stay, and I'd need money for that to begin with, but to get that I'd need a job which I'd need money to get one out of town.

If only I could look back onto when I was eleven and started disrespecting everything. That way I could tell myself that no matter how much I was being used and taken advantage of, I was not to take that out on the streets because it would fuck up any chance of escape I could have in the future.

There was one time I caused guilt to strike through my core: I had a thought that I could go to the police and report my father. Sure, I had a chance of being presented financial stability this way, but then I was to fuck up my dad's life indefinitely. It wasn't his fault my mother was a whore for love.

It was times like this I'd curse on my mind for having thoughts of its own, because I ultimately knew I was never going to get out of this situation. It was mine or my dad's life, and I was created out of selfishness between two false lovers, not a bond of soulmates, therefore I strongly believed that I was the one out of place. My dad told me that. Therefore, I knew my only freedom was death.

My only chance to be happy was to get killed or kill myself.

~