What Now ⇔ Muke ✓

[6] Red

(minor triggering)

MICHAEL

Thankfully, Luke stopped following me, and it was only my silent footsteps trekking through the soft dirt making any sound. I obviously upset him for being so vague as to why these woods aren't safe, but it's not like I can tell him. He wouldn't understand. Nobody understands.

Nobody has ever understood anything. They don't understand why I dye my hair different colors every week. They didn't care enough to ask why I had bruises and scars decorating my skin like fancy accessories. They didn't want to know why I wore stacks and stacks of bracelets on each arm and winced whenever someone swore. They didn't get why I hated to go to school but hated to go home. They didn't know where I went every day and I didn't want them to. Perhaps, if someone asked, perhaps I would tell them. Confide in them all my worries and insecurities in the false hope that maybe they cared for a change. Of course, no one did.

Maybe that new kid Luke would. Maybe he is like an angel in a world of demons and he would come in hope of wiping away whatever black ink covers up any sort of self-confidence I once had. I don't think he does. I have come to realize that people like that don't exist. Caring people who put others before themselves is all a trick in our mind, something we made up to make ourselves feel better. This world doesn't have any people like that. Humans are flawed, unable to possess any benevolent qualities that'll last more than a few days.

It doesn't take long to arrive at my small house once again, and I let my eyes skim weakly over the building. The old shutters and broken windows from my father's drunken mistakes. I sigh at the sight of the door nearly falling off its hinges that the slightest wind could blow it over. I force myself to tear away and look at my black converse crushing dead leaves as I walk towards the house. I don't look up until I have to carefully open the door without breaking it- which is a lot harder than it sounds.

Once inside, I listen intently for any sounds of my father, and I am relieved when I find none. He must still be at the bar out of town. I sigh in relief and smile for the first time in a while, strolling into the kitchen and grabbing an apple before going back into the living room to play some video games I have hidden behind the television. I place the apple on the table in front of me and set up the X-Box, picking out FIFA to play. I take a bite of my apple and wait for the game to set up.

My thoughts travel back to Luke. I've never seen him before this week, so I assume he's new here. That thought is so anomalous to me- as it is probably to everyone. Even the most ancient people here can't remember the last time someone moved here. I couldn't tell Luke that the reason this area of the woods is unsafe is because of my dad.

He likes to throw tantrums when he's intoxicated, which is all the time. He screams and yells and beats me up and ignores my cries, and I can't risk anyone overhearing that. I remember my dad's words from when he first started hitting me: You tell anyone and I will not hesitate to kill you. He had jammed a gun up to my head and whispered these words in my ear with a chilling certainty that made my absolutely positive he was not joking. He may make my life a living hell, but he won't kill me unless I tell anyone.

Besides, how do I know that if that handsome kid Luke overhears and comes in, how do I know that my dad won't hurt him? I'd be shocked if he didn't kill Luke right on the spot. I can't let that happen. I need better hiding places.

I do have the river, which is by far my favorite hiding spot, but it gets so incredibly lonely down there. I feel like I'm the only one who has ever been down there in centuries. It's an odd feeling.

I like Luke, though. I don't know if I like him as person, considering I don't really know anything about him, or if I just like the concept of human interaction with a person who doesn't have intentions set out to hurt me. I guess it's the latter. Of course, how do I know that if I let Luke in, that he won't hurt me as well? He seemed nice when I spoke to him, but his appearance and demeanor sometimes makes me self-conscious. The dark clothing with foul words scrawled over it and the piercing hooked in his lip. His blue eyes aren't warm like the ocean, they're cold like ice. Despite all of this though, I like him. I like his low voice and his blonde hair.

I finger at my own hair. I wish my hair was like Luke's. I put down the X-Box controller and walk up the stairs to my bathroom, where I stand in front of the mirror, staring at myself. At my hair.

I bet Luke's hair is soft. I touch my own- its thin and uneven. My fingers drop from my head to my nose. Luke's nose is small and straight. Mine isn't. My finger drops to my lips. Mine are chapped and bloody from multiple hits from my dad. Luke's isn't. His are perfectly shaped and red like cherries. I wish I were skinny like Luke. I'm not exactly fat, no. But I'm not skinny. My skin is ghostly pale with the exception of a few black and blue bruises, where blood escaped the veins but couldn't quite make it to the surface of my skin. I wish it did. It wouldn't leave my skin dark and ugly like this.

I don't want to cut today. My dad likes it when I cut, and I don't want to satisfy him today. So instead of giving in to the urge to reach for my blade, I break away from the bathroom and hurry downstairs, putting away my forgotten FIFA game and walking back upstairs to my room, where I lay on my bed and try not to dwell on all of my insecurities. I'm tired of feeling like this. I'm tired of feeling like a knife has been stabbed into my stomach every time I look at myself. I'm tired of wearing sweaters in 100 degree weather just to cover up the scars marking my wrists. I'm tired of seeing the red marks on my skin. I'm tired of seeing the red cuts made from the glass of broken beer bottles. I'm tired of seeing the red blood spill onto my skin each time my dad hits me. I'm tired of biting my lip so hard they swell up a bright red while my father screams profanities in my face. I'm tired of red blood and red scars and red everything.

I lean back and close my eyes, a sigh leaving my lips. I'm so tired of the color red.

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a/n i deleted my last chapter because i wanted that part to be saved for later. so here is just a really short chapter to give you a perceptive look of what its like in michael's mind.

also i just wanted to say thank you guys so so so much for 1k reads and 100 votes! thats absolutely amazing! i was so happy when i logged on and saw it (:

please vote and comment ily!