teach me gently on how to breathe || tradley/brad

كابوس

Rolling over onto his side, his brown eyes suddenly flutter open to the moonlight seeping through the curtains over his window. His knees are pressed tighter to his chest and the hunger pains are slowly disappearing, but the teenager suddenly realises how hungry he actually is. It's killing him how hungry he is, but he doesn't understand it. He ate dinner eight hours ago along with a snack of five apple slices. Brad doesn't think his hunger should be this unbearable. Hunger should never be unbearable. The younger boy believes he should do better than this, especially with the amount of weeks he successfully survived without taking a bite of food (that would've been longer if it weren't for his annoying parents getting him to eat dinner.)

Giving in, he pulls himself onto his foot, balancing his crutches under his arms before he stumbles out of his bedroom and into the darkness of his hallway. He hops down the dark staircase as quietly as he can until he reaches the family's supply closet. Slowly turning the doorknob, he pulls open the closet, his sleepy eyes scanning the different house supplies before he finds the spare pack of toilet paper. In no time the pack is ripped open and Brad's limping back into his room with a roll of toilet paper. He sits down on the edge of his bed and pulls off a piece, slipping the tissue into his mouth and chewing it.

He assumes he could've just drunk bottles of water to fill him up, but he realises he really wouldn't want to wake his dad up to monitor him while he's in the toilet, and then again, Brad would kind of feel hungry again so he continues swallowing toilet paper until he feels better, and he's confident he's not going to break and rush downstairs on his stress fracture to binge on the first edible thing he sees in the kitchen. After he's done, he extends his arm to the carpeted floor, hiding the toilet roll under his bed before his fingertips touch cardboard. Curiously, Brad pulls the mysterious object out from under his bed, met with the unopened Christmas present Drew bought him. The curly-haired boy pulls it onto the bed, deciding there's no harm in opening it. He doesn't care what's in it, anyway.

Limping over to his desk, he brings the box along with him, gripping a pair of scissors and slicing the blade through the tape. He successfully gets the cardboard box open and looks inside, amazed to be met with a skateboard and a CD. But mostly the skateboard.

Didn't I like skating? Brad questions, pulling it out and examining the black skateboard his former best mate bought for him. He's hit with a wave of nostalgia - memories of how much he enjoyed freely skating through neighbourhoods by himself until he ended up with other skater friends to aimlessly roam the town with or attempting to learn new tricks on half pipes. He remembers how happy he felt when he would accomplish a trick after failing miserably over and over again. A bolt of confidence used to explode in his chest whenever he suceeded at a trick without falling on his ass, and his old friends were always supportive. Now, Brad doesn't even remember their names, and he doesn't remember how long ago that was. He doesn't remember the last time he's been on a skateboard.

Because it doesn't matter, he reminds himself, tucking the skateboard away in the cardboard box again. That's not you anymore. Skating is a waste of time.

Brad half-heartedly agrees with himself, closing the flaps of the cardboard box and kicking the present back under the darkness of his bed where it belongs.

. . .

The sixteen-year-old snuggles into the cushioned chair, placing his arms on the armrest and tipping his head back, his brown eyes taking in the white ceiling above him. Sometimes Brad feels at home throughout his therapy sessions, except the fact he's in the room with a man he's only known for a few months that gets paid to pry into his life. But Brad kind of likes freely talking about his problems. It's relaxing, and nothing like the infuriating therapy sessions with Miss Lillian.