11~Learning about the old.

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Marie-Anne's POV

"Father, you cannot be ordering me home every time grandmother is not feeling well," Brown says as he speaks on the phone. I stand at his office door watching as he stands behind his desk looking out the window while speaking on the phone.

"I know," he says in a disappointed tone. I chuckle at myself seeing how frustrated he seems. He scratches the back of his head kicking his chair, "father!" He practically yells. I'm sure he wouldn't be talking if he knows I am standing there, he left his office door half way open. "What's the fucking point?"

"Sorry," he says sadly, "the states are not making me forget how to talk, father," he says. "Whatever," he says hanging up the phone. He throws the phone on his desk punching the window. That has to hurt, the window doesn't break because it is bullet proof, but he starts bleeding. He looks at his knuckles not even minding that he is bleeding. I scratch my throat and he turns around looking at me, "Anne, I thought we were meeting at three," he says.

"Look at the time," I say still not moving from where I was leaning on the door.

"Oh, sorry," he says once he noticed that it is almost four. He tries to hide his hand under his desk looking more suspicious than ever.

"Come here," I order walking into his office. He walks up to me and I take his hand making him sit on his office sofa. I walk to his desk grabbing his first aid kit, taking a towel I wet it with some water, and sit on the floor by the sofa. I take his hand wiping the blood off with the wet towel, I take some cotton from the kit dropping some rubbing alcohol on it. "You can't be hurting yourself," I tell him.

"I'm sorry, I just... nothing," he says. "Ow..." he says as I rub the cotton on his knuckles. "That actually hurt," he adds.

"And here I thought you were immune to pain," I joke.

"Why would you think that?" He asks.

"Well, you didn't even flinch when you hurt your hand and you even stared at your blood," I say.

"How long were you standing by the door?" He asks.

"Long enough," I say. He puts his head down out of nervousness. I grab the wrapping bandage and wrap it around his knuckles securing the wounds, "do you hurt yourself on a regular basis?" I ask out of curiosity.

"No, my father just called me and well he brings the worst out of me," he says. "I don't know why I let him get to me," he adds.

"Well, you shouldn't let him get to you, what's next? Are you going to let him get to you enough for you to kill yourself?" I ask. He looks at me and doesn't say anything like he's done that before. "You tried to commit suicide before because of your father?" I ask. He nods his head putting it down in shame shortly after. "What happened?"

"Well, I was a teenager and I was stupid," he starts, "My family and I were talking about where my sister and I would go to university, I said I wanted to come here for university, but my father disagreed."

"What did you do?"

"I begged him to let me come, my mother begged, my sister even supported me, but he said that the only way I could come was over his dead body. Now that I think about it, I should have tried to kill him," he jokes. "But, that night I cut myself so I could bleed to death and unfortunately my sister found me," he says. "I was just so tired of being there and living."

"Do you still feel the same way?"

"No, I won't kill myself because the thing many people who commit suicide don't realize is that they might be escaping their pain but they are leaving pain behind. My mother and my sister would forever be in pain if I had died plus my mother said if I ever tried something like that again she would kill me herself."

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