Warning: TRIGGERING. Explicit descriptions of self-harm, abuse, suicidal/dark thoughts.

please do not read and skip this chapter if there is any possibility you could be triggered. I love you.

MICHAEL

As I walk back toward my house, I mentally cuss myself out for making noise when that kid's basketball smacked me straight in the face behind the basketball court. I didn't think anyone would be practicing tonight, especially because this court is nearly always empty.

I know the boy, Luke, saw the bruises and scrapes on my arms. I kept my wrists facedown, so hopefully he didn't see my scars. I haven't talked to another person, besides my father, in about three months. My mind is still going crazy from actually having to have a conversation with someone.

I'm not really a people person. I used to be, though. I used to be best friends with the popular people and I used to be invited to multiple parties every weekend. That was back in Sydney, though. That was back when I lived with my mum.

I eventually reach my house- far away from the others, standing deserted in the middle of a field filled with trees. I think if anyone walked past, they wouldn't even notice the old, brown house here. It's in the deep part of the woods behind the school. Nobody ever comes back here, and I'm glad. I make my way to the front door and take a deep, staggering breath before gathering to strength to open it up.

The first thing I smell is whiskey. The scent is so strong that I start coughing from the intensity of it. I force myself to step inside and quickly close the door. I don't want anyone to smell it.

Suddenly a loud crash sounds from the den area and I sprint to the doorway, peering in to find my drunken father lying on the couch, beer bottles scattered around him. I have absolutely no idea where the crash came from, but I can guess it was another bottle from the dark glass sprinkling the hardwood floor.

"Michael." My father snarls. He picks himself up, obviously intoxicated. He stumbles over to me and breathes his alcohol-filled breath in my face and I close my eyes and hold my breath, willing myself to stay completely still. I open my eyes though to find him staring at my left one.

Shit, shit, shit. I forgot about the black eye.

"What happened here, huh?" My father snarls. "Did someone else realize you're a fag, too?" I wince at the word but keep quiet.

"Go get me another drink." My dad slurs. I immediately nod but feel guilty. He's already trashed and I shouldn't be getting him more to drink. Maybe if I get lucky, he will just pass out before he wants to hit me. When I reach the cupboard though, I find it empty, free of any more bottles. I try to find anything with alcohol in it, but I can't find anything. He drank it all. My heart crashes in my stomach. No, this is not good, not good. This will make my dad really angry.

I hurry back to the den, where he stands, leaning against the wall for support. His hands are outstretched for another bottle, but when it remains empty, he opens his eyes, and they flash at my empty hand.

"What?" he growls. His red-rimmed eyes grow dark at the idea of not having anything left to drink.

"There's none left." I stammer softly. I visibly gulp, my breathing getting quicker. This is not good, not good at all. My eyes dart around, trying to get a grasp of how bad a situation I am in. Am I close enough to the door to escape? I know exactly where I could go. Nobody could ever find me.

"None left?" my dad roars, and uses his outstretched hands to curl in into a fist and punch it against my jaw before I have time to react. I gasp, knocking against the wall, and I feel my hand bang against the hard wood.

"You're worthless!" He yells and kicks me to the ground. I see red everywhere and I try to cup my hand over my bruising jaw, but my father snaps back my wrist and I yelp. I curl into a fetal position, trying to protect my head but he kicks me until I am no longer able to get the strength to protect myself any more. He hits my stomach, my ribs, and my chest. Each hit feels like a knife and I kind of wish it was. Maybe then I would die, end this misery quicker. Anything would be better than this.

"Worthless, dammit!" He stops punching me and grabs a beer bottle lying on the ground, trying to coax the few last bits of alcohol into his mouth. Then he collapses on the couch, ignoring my bloody form on the ground by his feet.

It's not like I don't deserve it though, of course. I mean, I do. Everything he said is true. I'm worthless. None of this ever started until I admitted that I am gay to him. Then everything changed. This started. It wasn't too bad the first few nights but it got worse every time. He started drinking, and couldn't stop. I never thought being gay was a bad thing until my father started beating me into believing it is. No one else is gay, why am I? Why can't I be interested in girls like everyone else?

Sometimes I wonder if my mom would have been homophobic as well. I can't imagine that she would have been, she was the kindest person in the world. But sometimes the thought nags me- would she love me if she knew the truth?

I look up to see that my father is now passed out on the couch, with a bit of vomit covering his chin and chest. I grab onto the couch for support as I haul myself to my feet, leaving a track of blood all the way to my bedroom. I don't stop until I reach the bathroom.

I sit on the white, tile floor and let the blood soak through my clothing. His words play through my mind like a broken record, and I reach under the sink until I feel the sharp, small pieces of metal.

I pull out a blade, and wasting no time, I drag it against my wrist, overlapping a series of other scars.

Worthless.

I make three more, watching the dark liquid run down my pale arms.

Pathetic.

I start on my other wrist, making lines there too.

Useless.

I cut jagged lines into my skin until I can barely see anything but blood, and then I flick the blade away, allowing myself to drown into my thoughts. I stay there for a while, long enough for my mind to go numb, but that's all I want for now.

LUKE

"No, Luke, stop!" Ashton screams as he laughs- more like giggles- when I try to flip the pancake in the air. "You're doing it wrong!"

I laugh loudly and toss the pan up, watching the pancake flip around on the sizzling metal before landing lopsided on the rim. Ashton burst into a fit of laughter as some of the creamy pancake batter drips onto the floor. Ms. Irwin reached her foot over from where she is sitting and rubs around the fallen batter with her foot, as though science would allow the liquid to mix in with the tile flooring, so that she wouldn't have to clean it up. It only made a bigger mess though and caused me to slip and almost drop my deformed pancake. Ashton laughs so hard he started to snort.

For some reason, Wednesdays are "breakfast-for-dinner" nights, as Lauren calls it. Also, it appears that the Irwin's are professionals at flipping pancakes. I can't, obviously. It's fun though, and it gets my mind distracted from that boy, Michael. Michael and all of his scrapes and bruises.

Crap, I'm thinking of him again.

It was just so weird- his hair is lilac purple and practically glows in the dark, but he slips around in the shadows like he doesn't want to be seen. I doubt those bruises were caused by himself, and it makes me wonder if someone beat him up or something. Should I have asked him what they were from? If he needed help?

Maybe I should have followed him to wherever he was going and figured out where he lived. No, never mind, I would never have been able to see him in the dark. How does he see through the dark?

"Luke!" Ashton's voice brought me back to reality, and I find him shrieking frantically at me through fits of laughter. I look down to see my crooked pancake being burned to a crisp. I choke for a moment before tossing the heavy pan into the sink and flipping on the cold water.

"Nice one, Luke." Harry shakes his head, laughing a little. He drenches his own pancake in syrup and shoves a forkful into his mouth, and I yearn to be his age again. What even matters when you're so young? I'm in my senior year of high school. How did I end up here?

I return to the sink and grab my pancake, which is now is burned to charcoal.

"Yuck, it's like, ashy." I laugh, and drop it in the trash.

"Ashton!" Lauren exclaims suddenly. Ashton glares at Lauren and covers his face.

"What?" I say, leaning over the counter.

"Ashy. That's Ashton's nickname!" Lauren explains, giggling as she looks over at Ashton's red face.

"Oh, is it now?" I tease, grinning at Ashton. Ashton widens his eyes and swiftly shakes his head.

"No, no, no. You are not calling me that, Luke." Ashton says, trying to be stern. I just smirk at him and cross my arms. Ashton sends an evil glare toward his sister and she giggles, giving me a slight nod.

"Alright, time for bed you guys. School in the morning." Ms. Irwin sighs, standing up from her spot in the kitchen and beginning to wash all the dishes. Ashton groans before we both make our way to our bedrooms.

"Goodnight, Luke." Ashton says before stepping inside his room.

"Night, Ashy." I mumble before sprinting into my room and slamming the door shut and listening to Ashton moan protest loudly from the hall.

I undress for bed and turn out the lights, wondering what Michael did tonight. Did he make it do his house? Does he have siblings? Did his parents see his bruises and wonder what happened to him? Did they help him?

Maybe I will see him tomorrow.

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A/N WOW OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100 READS YAY ILYA

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