Back of my Head

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You go home with less fuel for fire than you left with. It always helps, these faux therapy sessions, if therapy sessions were about dicking around and getting into little fights.

Your face stings, your arm is tender and was bleeding quite a bit earlier. Your leg aches when you move it a certain way. Altogether, you feel great. Refreshed, even. A lot better than you have felt in weeks.The pain keeps you awake, sings alive in your veins and keeps you aware, on edge.

That sounds a bit bad. Fuck, but does it work wonders.

Ah, shit. You forgot about being angry. Too busy riding a slow taper off an adrenaline high. This is going to be irritating.

You kick your board into hand and lithely switch to a walk, it under your arm securely. You think about going through the garage in order to avoid Troy, but dismiss the thought as the coward's way out. If he's got shit to say, let him say it. At least, that's what you say to yourself as you walk into the front door and spot your brother sitting at the countertop, sipping a drink casually. Like he was waiting.

Dick. He did always like to show off.

He turns to watch you, feigning disappointment, but the expression morphs into one of concern when he sees your face.

"Mark." He begins, and you don't wait for him to finish.

"One of my friends knocked into me, we both ate the gravel. 'M fine," you lean your board behind the couch. You'd be even more fine if you didn't have to talk; talking moves the scrape going down your face (which hurts like a bitch).

He follows you closely down the hall to your room, where you shrug off your jacket and slip off your shoes. You hear him take a short breath. You already have a bruise from a different fall, one from a more serious fight. A cut is nestled right in the middle, where a bit of blood has dried. It hurts to move, but you deal.

Troy, however, seems to be unable to handle it. "Was that one from the same fall? You should stop going out there, or something worse might happen."

"What did you- fuck no, I am going 'out there' as much as I need. Get out of my room," you say, exasperated. You're tired, and you were content a minute ago. Now you just want to sleep.

"Mark, how could you just... Ignore me like this? I'd appreciate it if you listened to me for once," Troy says. He backs off when you round on him, positively steaming with newfound rage.

The fuck. Did he. Just. Say.

"Ignore you? Ignore you? If anyone's ignoring anybody, its you. I sit here, trying to help you get better every day. I could be doing *anything else*. I could be *going* anywhere else. Instead, this sorry sack of shit in front of me decides that, hey, he is going to ignore *everything* I do for him. Just who the fuck do you think you are, coming into *my room*, and acting like you be-fucking-long? Who the hell do you think you are? You sure as hell aren't my brother. I can't fucking believe you! Who the hell tries to help you through your short-lived withdrawals? Who feeds you and takes care of you when you need it most, huh? It sure as hell isn't going to be me," You snarl, voice rising, "Not anymore. You think you can just. Ugh! Go along, stringing people behind you? Betraying them? Practically forcing them to help you, and then disregarding them? I'm done."

Troy looks like he can see he miscalculated, and you see him prepare to dodge away.

"Hell no, not this time. You're not running away from your problem this time," You positively purr, and get a good jab right into his chest, turning it into a grab, "I'm done trying to help you. Maybe I'm going to hurt you, this time."

He finally shows regret. Fear. But not enough. You slam him into the wall, and his hands go up to your hand. Troy cringes. Whines. Grits his teeth. You revel in these facts. Finally.

You're going to kill him.

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