Kill Me With Words (All Time Low Fanfiction)

Chapter 1

A/N: So any of you fans of me are going to shoot me for posting a new story before finishing the others ones I'm writing. But I'm just posting this to hear some opinions and stuff! Which means that you guys HAVE to comment, pretty please? And to those who are wondering, I'll be updating the other stories ASAP, I promise.

Sometimes I wake up. And I can’t remember my dream, all I know is that I’m sweating and crying and scared, and that the blankets aren’t enough comfort anymore. So I get up, ignoring the cold floor on my bare feet and walk to my bedroom door- only to remember that there’s no comfort for me outside either.

When I was younger I’d go into my parent’s bedroom. They’d grumble about it, but let me in the bed, and I’d fall back asleep in the sanctuary of their arms. It’s funny how easily some people are able to scare monsters away.

That was then, though. Not now. I turn the thought over in my mind as I sit in my dark bedroom, hugging a blanket which smells only of washing powder, and not the comforting smell of my mother and father. It hurts to think about it, and so I stop.

Instead, I hum to myself. A lullaby from what seems like a hundred years ago. My weary voice doesn’t do it justice.

 

When I wake up the next morning, the memories of last night have vanished, and I’m glad because I don’t want to remember them. I don’t want to remember anything.

I pull on some clothes- black to reflect my mood, aren’t I so deep - and go to the bathroom to wash my face. It’s shared between three of us, and covered with smeared toothpaste, hair and nail clippings. I try to ignore the filth as I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. I’m not the kind of person to take time and sit out and reflect on the misery of their life, but if I was, this wouldn’t be the place to do it. Even it wasn’t so gross, you can’t be in here for two minutes without someone banging on the door and yelling at you to hurry up.

 

This morning it’s Tara. She’s alright, but that doesn’t mean I like her.

“Finley!” She screeches through the wood, “Hurry the fuck up!”

From downstairs I can hear The Carer yelling about her language. Tara ignores it, as do I. I don’t ignore her, though.

“Coming,” I said, too quiet for her to hear me. I opened the door to see the brunette rolling her eyes.

“Well, finally,” She spat, “You certainly took your time, for Christ’s sake.”

She’s not usually such a bitch. It’s just that she’s not a morning person, even on a Sunday.

 

The Carer has breakfast ready for us when I get downstairs, like always. In my opinion, sugar is necessary in the morning- for energy and stuff- but no one’s cared about my opinion for years. Sitting on the table is a bowl of porridge with my name on it. Eugh.

 

“Morning, Finley,” The Carer says with a beaming smile on her face. When I’m older I’m going to change my name to something a little less lame.

I nodded in response, and sat down beside Broderick. I don’t know his first name. I don’t think that anyone does.

 

I’ve lived in this foster home for the past four years. I haven’t started liking it yet. I used to have friends, but I don’t anymore- by choice, relax. They always end up leaving, so I decided a few years ago that it’s easier to just be a lone wolf. I share the home with three other kids; Tara, whom you’ve already met, and Jamia, who’s older and likes to sneak out during the night to hang with her boyfriend. She usually arrives back in time for breakfast. Usually. Lastly there’s Broderick,who’s the only boy right now. He’s okay. I don’t dislike him, I guess.