❝In which two people call up a helpline in order to find someone just as broken as they are. ❞
"Does...does it bother you that my dad's in prison for murder?"
"Well, judging by the fact that I moved away from America to get away from the memory of a...
A/N: I listened to Another Love by Tom Odell whilst writing this, it really is a beautiful song and perfectly suits this chapter :) The link to listen is above <3
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Elliot felt numb.
The pain in his knuckles had evaporated into the surrounding space, even though he could clearly see the bruised blood erupting from each mountain of skin. He could still remember the sweltering rage he had felt as he had driven his hand into the wall, all the muscles in his arm rigid, fingers seizing each other so tightly that veins protruded from his wrist. The burning satisfaction of frangible skin connecting with something hard and solid. The repercussions of a jarring sensation pulsating all the way up to his tense shoulder muscles. The echo of pain residing there as he collapsed back onto the bed. Feet planted on the floor. Back curled over as he held his head in his hands. And cried. Damaged fist half in his mouth as he attempted to muffle the feeling. Salty tears mixing with the blood. Stinging. Shoulders heaving. Lungs gasping and throat making awful wheezing sounds.
He wasn't sure where the sudden wave of emotion had come from but he was in too much pain to contemplate. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute, but they were useless. Incomplete. Racing by too fast for him to comprehend. Like a comic strip with all the key frames ripped out, whipping through his head so fast that the sharp corners left cuts in their wake. What had he done?
He had hurt her, he knew that much. Really, really hurt her. Possibly to the extent of her hating him. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest at the thought, the vital organ twisting to be free of its restraints and bursting out of his eyes in the form of bloodless tears. It had been the right thing to do, he knew that much.
But was it? Because they were both hurting so badly that a trust that had taken months to build lay scattered on the ground. Destroyed in a matter of minutes. A million words of laughter disintegrated by a few ugly words of desperation. It was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous. But as much as he wanted to resolve things, he couldn't. He refused to. It wouldn't be right. Because, although it hurt, it was the right thing to do. He wondered briefly if this was the pain his father had felt in pushing him away.
His sobs halted for a moment as his glassy eyes stared at the carpet beneath his feet. A pressing of understanding crushed down on him, suffocating his every breath. His father hadn't cried, had he? No. He had stood strong. Voice unwavering. And so would he. So would he.
Because it what was what she needed of him.
And it was at that moment that he really did understand. He understood his father. He understood the art of letting someone go out of love.
