weak; mcduke

dead

dead (adj)- no longer alive.

a half hour later / duke's pov

The Jeep screeched to a halt in my driveway. I swore to god, I couldn't f*cking breathe. My violently twitching hand grasped a beer bottle as I kicked open the door, not bothering to close it behind me as I stumbled to my front door. I entered my house. The light were off. Blood roared in my ears, drowning out any sounds around me as I ran to my room. I let the door click shut and collapsed on my bed, my legs no longer supporting me.

I swore I was dead. I was f*cking dead now. My mind couldn't process emotion. My body was hyperactive. I wasn't living anymore. The part of me that sustained life had been ripped out, spilling guts and gore with it. I shot up into a sitting position. My ribs sucked in air rapidly, exhaling in rasps. My vision was blurry, arms tingling with pinpricks. My sweaty fingers slid against the glass of the bottle as I flung it at my wall. The glass shattered and sprayed onto the floor.

I yanked open my drawer and grabbed a long dagger I didn't remember getting. I needed to feel. I needed to wake up. I dug the blade into my skin, waiting for feeling to return to me. I didn't need the physical agony; I needed the mental side. I cut again and again. Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Some period of time passed... minutes or days or years or centuries... before I was too dizzy to cut again. I lay back, feeling a throbbing in my limbs. I kept my eyes on the ceiling. My ribs constricted along with my stomach. I gasped, lungs refusing to function.

Through the sounds of me... crying? Dying? I wasn't sure, but I heard footsteps at my bedside. I wasn't able to move. Animal-like sounds clawed up my throat as I struggled to keep myself conscious. A hot, sticky substance was soaking my arms. Salty liquid streamed down my cheeks and dribbled from my chin.

My stomach took a rebellious roll and I pushed myself up. I leaned over my bed and gagged, retching and retching as I rid myself of any contents within my stomach.

"Godd*mnit, are you done yet?" A hauntingly familiar voice spoke in my ear. I recoiled out of instinct. Heather Chandler stood in front of me, dressed in the red Kimono she'd picked out on a trip to the mall. A trail of bright blue drain-o leaked from her cherry-red lips. My stomach tensed and I gagged again, spitting up bile.

"Sit the f*ck up and get yourself together," she snapped. I feebly sat myself up straight. I contained no emotion, but my head throbbed with liquid fire spreading throughout. My fingers clung onto my bed sheets, nails tearing holes in them. My stomach felt like lead. My eyelids flickered open and I was able to see her better.

Chandler was transparent but shadows flickered on her face and differing locations on her form. Her eyes were glowing a dull white. Her mouth was fixed in her ever-present frown. I opened my mouth but no words would come out. My throat had been rubbed by sandpaper, or so it felt.

"Why am I here? What, did you miss me?" she answered my mental question sarcastically. She waved her hand dismissively. "I don't really care. So she broke up with you? I should've known you two were dy*es. Besides the point. What're you gonna do, sit here and mope like a f*cking weak-*ss being?" She thrust her face in mine. I didn't flinch, but her words seemed to have an effect on me.

A cold feeling washed over me and emotions that terrified me with their strength came swarming forward. I buried my head in my hands, shaking twice as hard.

"Answer my question. Are you going to sit here and cry like a weakling? You're not weak, Heather, are you?" she jeered. The word rang in my ears, growing so loud it forced them all back. Weak, weak, weak, weak, weak, weak...

I  was standing in the middle of the kitchen of our house. I was seven years old. My mom was pacing around in the other room, crying and throwing things. My big brother, Mattie, had ran off to his room. Fat tears dripped down my little, chubby cheeks.

My father was dead. Two days ago, he'd ditched us. Left a note saying he had things to sort out back in Japan. He'd taken a flight down there and returned to his hometown. There, he hung himself  less than a mile away from his childhood home. He'd left a note for that, too. He'd said he was a weak man for killing himself when he had a family to care for. But a weak man couldn't do that, he'd written.

When my mother had explained this to me, "weak" was a new term to my miniscule vocabulary. What was weak? I had asked her. She'd told me it meant not able to handle things well. She'd broken into tears after that and left.

I'd decided then and there that I wouldn't end up like daddy. I wouldn't be weak. Because, like he'd said, weak people couldn't care for their families. That was why he died, I concluded. He didn't think he had a purpose if he couldn't care for us. So weak people didn't have purposes.

I would not be weak.

I blinked, shaking my aching skull as the flashback cleared.

"F*cking answer me! Are you weak?" Chandler snarled in my direction. I looked up at her. Her eyes glowed brighter and her shape was darkening.

"N-no.." I quivered as I spoke.

"I said, are you weak?"

"No!" I spat the word out, expressing my determination.

"That's right. Now, what're you going to do?" Her body was changing. It shrunk down and flickered before turning to a black shadow. Two burning white circles for eyes were fixed on me. I shoved myself to my feet, hissing in pain. I took a shaky step forward, dropping my knife. Crimson blood gushed out of my arms, creating puddles on the ground. The shadow, an outline shaped exactly like myself, appeared behind me. It waited for a response.

"I'm going to get my revenge," I growled.