everything's fucked// james cook

part 7: prick

TW: ABUSE, SUCICIDE, SELF HARM

"It all started when my dad slept with his assistant," I said. 

"I was fourteen, and my family were living in London. Dad had a good job which made us decently rich, and Mum stayed at home and took care of Bea. I knew Dad and Mum were having problems a few years before, which is why they had Bea, but I thought they had fixed them. Anyways, I found out first. After school one day, I went by Dad's work and I saw them together."

I gulped, and looked down at the table, then continued.

"Anyways, I threatened Dad. I made him tell Mum, then Dad moved out and Mum started drinking. It was fucking hard, and it made me have a mental breakdown, of sorts."

My memory flashed back to that day in the shower, and instead of explaining it to Cook, I simply lifted up the black bangles I wore every day, to reveal the big white scars on my wrists, accompanied by smaller ones beside them. 

He took my arms in his, and traced over them with his fingers. I studied his reaction, waiting for disgust, horror, or even revulsion. 

Instead, he simply looked at me, his lips twisted upwards in a sad smile. He pulls up his sleeves, showing me an ugly scar on his arm, jagged, surrounded by small circular ones. I realize the circular ones are cigarette burns, and a tear slips down my cheek.

He says, "Me dad drank, and when he did, he got mad. He used to beat on my ma, but when I got big enough, he moved to me. This was a beer bottle," he says, pointing to the jagged scar. 

"And these smaller ones are the ciggies he used to put out on me."

The tears were falling faster now, and instead of wiping them away, I got up, and slipped into the seat next to Cook, putting my arms around him and unleashing my sorrow into his jumper.

I was crying for him and for me, the tears desperately trying to erase the horrors of our past. Try as they may, they couldn't wash away our pain. 

"Everything's fucked, love," he said into my shoulder as he held me, my sobs wracking my body. 

"But at least we're fucked together, huh?" 

I pulled away to look at him, and tried to smile, as he wiped my tears away. 

I realized, in that moment, that I loved him. This broken, fucked up boy in front of me, who I felt that I both knew and didn't at the same time. 

He smiled at me, his eyes sparkling. 

"So, princess, my turn? Or is the sob story not over?"

I laughed, and went back to my side of the table, just as the waitress arrived with Cook's food. He laughed as he saw the plates being set before him, and winked at the waitress.

"Thanks, love, is there any way you could get me some extra syrup?"

She sighed and walked away, and I smiled at her retreating back. 

I scowled at him jokingly and said, "Fuck, Cook, we'll have to tip her extra."

He leaned closer to me, and says, "Princess, are you jealous? Cause you shouldn't be, you know,"

I tilted my head, and looked at him, which only encouraged him more.

"Come on babes, you know you love me."

"Yeah, no, actually," I said, smiling.

"Bullshit," he said, bringing his face close to mine. 

I leaned forward to call his bluff, bringing our faces closer together. 

"Do you want me to?" I ask. 

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, and whispered, "Princess, of course."

He leaned in further, looking at my lips, and I smirked. 

"Sorry, babe. I'm in love with someone else."

He pulled back, the smile disappearing from his face. 

"Now who's jealous?" I laughed. 

"Shut up," he said, grumpily, and moved his attention to the feast in front of him. 

The waitress returned with his syrup, and then Cook turned to me with his mouth full of food.

"So, were you going to continue the story?" he said.

"I guess," I said. "There's not much else to tell. I got sent to the hospital, then a mental hospital. And then my mum, sister and I moved here to get away from Dad, then Mum started drinking. Pretty much it."

"Heavy shit," he said. 

"Yeah," I agreed.

He reached out across the table for my hand, and I let him take it. We spent the rest of the time in companionable silence, as I drank my tea and as he demolished his breakfast.  

♕⋆♕⋆♕

I lay sprawled across my bed, as he looked through my room, making fun of the records I had. 

"What the actual fuck is this shit, Viv? Who the fuck are the Cure? Why do you listen to old-people music?" he says, looking at me with amusement.

"Ok, ok," I said absentmindedly, half paying attention.

"Wait, what?" I said, sitting up. "My music is better than half the shit you probably listen to."

"Yeah, nah, princess," Cook said. "I listen to angry shit, music that makes you want to smash glass and fuck people up, not shit that makes you sad."

"I'm angry fucking enough," I replied, as he looked at me.

"Crying is a better alternate."

"Fuck that," he said, standing up. "Let's go get fucked. I know the rest of the fuckers we know are going to a club tonight."

"Fine by me," I said, reaching under my bed to grab a bottle of vodka. "Get started on this while I change."