**Trigger warning. Read at your own discretion. Look at author's note at the end for more information on what the trigger is** (I don't like spoiling)

I walk into the house, about to heave myself up the stairs when I see my father, sitting on the cream sofa, staring at the fire place with a vacant expression. I've only ever seen that expression once before, around a year ago - November seventh, late in the evening – when I came running downstairs, screaming silently.

My backpack slides off my shoulder, slowly slipping off, falling away. It lands on the floor with a thud and my father jumps at the sound, turning his head towards me. "Justin," he says breathlessly, "I didn't see you come in."

I nod, staring at the opal carpet, "Is mom home yet?"

He doesn't respond, shaking his head. A sudden chill runs down my spine, and I take a step backward, foot smacking against my backpack. My eyes travel along the lines in the carpet, searching until my gaze stops at the last thing I want to see.

I stare at the suitcases for a long time before looking back at the man, a practical stranger, sitting on the sofa. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, his breathing loud and ragged. Crying. My dad is crying.

He covers his face with his hands, shaking once more. He never gelled his hair today and it loose for once, disheveled. He never leaves his hair without gel. He also never cries.

In my sixteen pitiful years of existence, I've only seen my father break down once. Yup, you guessed it: November seventh.

He runs his hands through his hair and looks over at me. "I thought it was getting better," he shakes his head, "I thought it was just another fight."

My face begins to heat up, a hollowness consuming my sternum, devouring my abdomen. I expect my lungs to contract or heart to race but nothing happens. Nothing stirs. I feel absolutely nothing. "You thought it was getting better?" I sneer, shaking my head.

It's so sick I can almost laugh.

My dad nods, wiping his eyes. "Yes," he says quietly.

This isn't my dad. My dad should throw something or yell at someone. Yell at me. My blood turns to ice, my heart beating in my ears. Instead of panic or fear or anything, my body gets consumed by the emptiness, eating away at my body like ravaged wolves. "You thought you could make this work?" I snarl, just like a wolf would.

My father stands, walking to the fireplace, staring at it with a blank expression. He's falling apart, that much is clear. Still, I can't stop, my sympathy dissolves into the nothingness that now controls me – owns me. After all, he never gave sympathy to me, he doesn't deserve mine. "This is sick. Our family is sick! You couldn't make it make it work before what made you think it'll all work out when you just decided to show up again after four years? Huh?"

He looks over at me, a tear running down his face. He shakes his head, running a hand down his face, wiping away the one piece of evidence that might prove he actually has a heart. This is a joke. Happiness is a joke. I'm a joke.

I glare at my father, "Answer me."

"Justin stop," he commands.

But I can't stop. Not after everything. "Tell me."

Something inside me snaps when he doesn't say anything. I growl low in my throat, higher functioning turning off until all that remains becomes raw and exposed and empty. "TELL ME!" I clench my fists, grounding my feet to keep from attacking him. "WHY! ... why?"

I think we both know that I'm not talking about my mom anymore.

My dad stands, taking a few steps closer to me. My feet freeze and no matter how loudly the voice inside me cries to run, I can't move. "We thought," my dad's voice breaks, "we thought we could help, we thought that if we just stayed together for the family, that things would get better. We thought we could make it work."

I shake my head. "This is your fault. This is all your fault."

Turning away from his sick face, I run up the stairs, almost tripping over myself. I run straight past her door and into my room. I grab my razor, staring at my hands before throwing it as hard as I can. It makes a tiny little clink against the wall before falling to the ground. My knees give out and I fall into my side, hugging myself.

She laughs. I can feel her surround me, an army of wolves at her side, laughing at me, leering at me. I grope along the floor, tears blurring my vision. I feel the smooth metal against my hand and take a deep breath, clenching the razor in my hand. I swallow hard, standing.

I step out of my room, still frozen inside, falling against the wall. "I'm taking a shower!" I shout down the stairs before I slam the door to the bathroom.

Collapsing into the shower, I stare down at myself. I'm disgusting. I close my eyes, trying to block out all feeling that may try to invade. I sag under the shower head, taking a heavy breath. Just breathe, and everything will be just fine. Because breathing will erase all of your feelings. Erase all of the pain. All you have to do is breathe. Fucking breathe. That's what everyone says, but I bet they never had to do it.

My fist tightens around the razor, digging it into my palm. Water streams from my hair in waterfalls, washing down my face.

I can still feel Griffin's arms wrapping around me, or Rodrick's hands gripping my throat, words like knives in my chest, or Ben. Ben with his stupid raised eyebrow and disappointed expression, shaking his head in disgust: what a failure. That's what they all think when they see me. A sick little failure.

My hands close around the bottle of shampoo. I set the razor down. Squirting way too much in my hand, I rub it into my hair, tugging at it, pulling at it. My hands start shaking uncontrollably and the bottle falls, dripping to the slippery floor with a thud.

I can't bring myself to pick it up.

Whole body trembling, I grab the razor and slice it into my arm. I fall against the wall, spluttering uncontrollably. I blink down at the drain; it seems to tilt sideways and I grip the wall to keep my balance. I close my eyes and dig the blade deeper.

Am I crying? I can't tell, the water falling down my face hides any tears I may shed. The blade drags along my skin and I whimper, watching the blood and water mix. The floor stained with blood, it looks like the time I dyed my hair cherry red. I bite my lip and cut another line into my arm again. It's not hair dye, but my own blood, the stuff keeping me alive. Part of me want to watch until all of it floods out of my system.

My scrawny chest rises and falls, water pouring off my skin. Stings travel up my arm when the water touches the wounds and I sink to the tile floor, covering my face in my bloody hands.

"Help me," I whisper to no one in particular, picturing the great pit I've lost myself in.

I can't help but wonder if she asked for help. If she stood in this very same shower, looking up at the brown ceiling as the steam rises through the air, wondering if anyone would save her. If she knew that I lay in my room, waiting for someone to knock on my door, waiting for someone to come and take me away from this hell.

No one ever came.

So she decided to leave.

Water rushes down my face, mixing with my tears, face burning with every drop, just like my wounds. I groan, banging my head against the tiles again and again. I can't stop. It doesn't hurt enough. I deserve to hurt more.

Knock. My head bangs against the wall. Thump. My heart beats with its own rhythm. I freeze, staring up at the steam circling, refusing to look down at the bloody tub. Hands automatically grabbing my shins; I hug myself, gasping for air.

My lungs have given up on me. Maybe I can just stop breathing and let go. Let go.

But as I look through the steam and red water flowing into the drain, I see something. A flicker of light shines through the shadowy darkness of my solitude. I glimpse an arm stretching out, reaching for me. Someone's coming to save me!

I force myself to stand, legs wobbling, water splashing into my face. I need to see who it is. Body shuttering with every movement, every bone screaming at me to just give up, I turn off the water, listening to it screech before all the blood drains away.

Where's my angel? Who's coming?

Stepping out of the shower, world tilting and swirling, I watch the blood drip down my abdomen and legs, falling onto the creamy floor tiles. I quickly grab a towel and press it to my forearms, wincing. Somehow it makes the burning sensation grow, spreading up my arms and into my head. I can't escape the memory of hands touching every inch of me, pulling at my hair, Griffin's mouth against my ear as he whispers heartless words into my ear. I can't escape the feeling of Rodrick shoving me to the cold concrete, laughing as blood spurts from my nose and mouth. I wipe the mirror with my now bloody towel, watching the fog disappear, revealing my face. The perfect image of her eyes stares back at me. Because no matter where I run to, where I try to hide, I can't escape myself. I still must live with myself.

The angel is gone, the emptiness has swallowed me again.

I'm alone.

Hands gripping the granite counter, I force my gaze away from the mirror. I can't look at the disgusting image of myself.

My phone, which sits in the corner of the countertop, begins to buzz. I glance between the dried blood on my fingers and where I know my phone lays. Quickly grabbing it, I stare down at the caller ID. I sniff, wiping my nose and shaking my head. Ben's contact picture fills the screen. It's him and me, grinning at the camera. We have our arms around one another at some park, the edge of the soccer ball in Ben's hands barely visible before the cut off. I came to support him at some soccer match, which his team won, and this was the celebration.

My vision blurs and it takes me a minute to know why. I wipe my eyes. My thumb slowly hits the decline call button and I drop my phone to the floor, not wanting to look at the happy scene again as Ben starts calling again.

I don't answer.

Blood drips into the sink and I quickly wipe it away, only succeeding in smearing it. Curls fall into my face as I frantically try to mask what I've done. The rational part of me knows that no one besides myself will ever use this bathroom, but the animal keeps scrubbing away at the red stains.

I don't know how long I stand there scrubbing at invisible specks of blood, but by the time I fall to the fuzzy square carpet by the toilet, my arms have begun to scab up. I gaze down at the intricate patterns of my frenzy. Random stabs and heavily drawn out lines, some shallow, others deep. Too deep.

I need to make sure no one can ever see them.

Because if they saw, they'd see how disgusting I am, how ugly my life is.

And what would I have left if anyone saw?

Where would I be then?

After that, it takes me a long time to stand up, but I finally do, gripping the edge of the sink and wrapping a towel around my waist. I watch my wet footprints evaporate as I run to my room, pausing to look down the edge of the stairs.

I can just make out my father, still sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. Maybe he heard my door open or maybe he sensed my presence somehow, because he looks up. I know he can't see me but can make out his face, just barely, contorted in some strangled expression. Maybe he hasn't learned yet.

He doesn't know that you can't stop the pain.

You can only numb it.

——

**Trigger: self-harm.**