Broken- And Fixed Again- (A Jamilton Fanfic)

Chapter 34: Confessions (part 2)

//TW: suicide, abuse, rape, trauma, swearing\\

Thomas

"Thomas? What're you doing?" The voice drifted from the hallway. It caught me off guard, wrenching me from the fantasy I had lost myself in as I traced those long, spiraling shapes up my arm. I had constructed myself my own little world, devoid of heartbreak, told by the fallings of the ink along my arm in whatever way destiny chose for them. And now, I could only be disappointed by the stark, agonizing reality that sat before me.

I glanced up at the doorway, at the figure who had stolen into my brief existence in a separate time and life. The light dipped around her, revealing her face. She hadn't looked all that different from the person who had listlessly followed me through my dreams. Same face, same laugh, same smile. But there was a sadness, that haunted her eyes. A sadness that turned her expression wiser, less hopeful. She was not how I remembered, and I suppose it just goes to show how even the mightiest stones are weathered and aged by the battering sea of time.

I set the marker down on the hardwood table next to Dick, who was watching me and giving me his best impression of a car alarm. Such a strange, yet passionate song. It was one of the things that made me love him all the more, that made me terrified to lose what light there was left glimmering in a darkly vast sky.

"Hi," I said, softly, attempting a smile. It felt like a vain effort, like nothing I could do would ever be good enough for her. She had deserved the world, and I had left her when she needed her family most, and there was nobody to blame but me. I stiffened in her presence, terrified of meeting her gaze and uncovering hatred, uncovering utter disgust. It would destroy me, especially coming from somebody who had always promised to love me unconditionally.

So, I stiffened. I erected the pillars and the old, vine-entrenched walls, and I sheltered behind them so she would not have to see my face, so I did not have to see hers. I was a coward, and that I understood, but it was all I had.

"What are you doing?" she repeated softly, nodding to the marker.

I gazed down at it, at my colorful arm, wondering how I could ever explain such a thing, when I could not even reason it out with myself. "Um, nothing, really. Just drawing on my arm."

"Why?" she whispered.

I shrugged, hugging my body. I couldn't help it; it is what has always felt safe. I am the only one who can truly protect myself, so I might as well. "I don't know. It makes me feel better when I'm upset, I guess," I whispered.

"Thomas? Is everything alright?" she asked. I watched her carefully as she joined me on the couch and sat down next to me. I turned to face her.

"Yeah, I guess," I murmured, training my eyes on my hands. Sobs choked my throat, finding the few cracks I had been unable to heal. You drown in the sobs if you do not learn to speak through them, but fortunately, I have learned. "Yeah. Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

She reached forward. I gazed at her hand as it snaked across the couch, as it slid towards mine, as it latched on tight. She held my wrist carefully, the wrist of the arm I had drawn on, and examined the skin. A sharp burst of horror exploded through her eyes like an electric storm, and the room suddenly grew colder, emptier, smaller. I know what she saw. I know those white marks quite well, remnants from times that weren't all that long ago, the stragglers who didn't understand that they were no longer wanted, that I was supposed to be getting better, that I was supposed to be moving on. But how could I move on with their very presence reminding me every single second exactly who I was and exactly what I had done to myself and how weak I had been when I had needed to be strong—