Suffocate

Chapter 9

"I thought I told you to clean this up."

"Y-You did."

"Then why is this shit still here! I'm not gonna tell you again. If your mother sees this, you know what'll happen—"

"—D-Dad!—"

"—Clean all of this up!"

" . . . B-But I c-can't move . . ."

"What did you say?"

"It-It hurts . . ."

"Get the fuck up, Bryson! Or I'll make sure you won't move ever again."

Tears fall from my eyes as Dad storms out of the room. His and Mom's room.

I look at the covers around me . . . They're all stained with blood an-and this white stuff. Dad never said it was pee, but he never said what it actually was, either.

My hands are shaking. My knuckles have bruises on them. They're a shade of purple and yellow. A tingle in the back of my mind has me wonder just how does a bruise form and what does it take for one to heal.

Will they ever heal? . . . I don't know.

I crawl to the edge of the bed, flinching whenever the pain in my lower back springs to life.

Glimpsing down at the floor, I find my briefs.

I just got those, and now, they're all dirty.

Dang it.

I reach down, picking up the dirty underwear. Slowly, oh, so slowly, I cross over towards the garbage bin near the door. In the bin, there's already those weird, clear bags that Dad uses to cover his—

I stuff my underwear all the way down into the garbage bin, erasing any disturbing thoughts that crosses my mind.

Dad said to clean up. But how do I clean up that?

My eyes land on Mom's medium-length mirror that once leaned against the wall near her dresser. It's now on the floor, with tiny pieces of the mirror lying around the frame.

I, again, ignore the pain in my back; this time, it's at my center. Dad. He, uh . . . accidentally pushed me into it, the mirror.

Grabbing the bulk of Mom's faded, pink comforter, I move to stuff it in the back of Mom and Dad's shared closet. I shove it behind Dad's set of clothes, behind his big, black coats. Hopefully, later, I can put that to wash.

"Oh," I mumble quietly. I found it: My Superman tank-top. I thought I was never going to find it, but it was just poking out from under the bed.

The second I bend down, reaching to get it, pain shoots right through me.

"Ah—! Ow . . ." I brush my hand against my lower back and shudder when I feel some kind of indent.

Fingernails? It's wet . . .

Taking my hand away from the spot, I come to see red on my fingertips.

"H-Huh?" Frantically, my eyes linger about the room. I swear I see nothing else to clean! I swear! "D-Dad!" I shout out.

Silence. I don't hear him.

"Daddy!" I cry out, louder.

The sound of hurried, heavy footsteps follows a few moments later. The door to the bedroom bursts open. Dad's face is a mix of anger and worry.