Thomas Sanders Sides OneShots 5

Opposite - Patton

"Who is it, Honey?" He heard his mothers voice call from the living room before her head appeared through the doorway, losing her smile when she spotted her son. "He's still here?" She turned to her husband who shrugged and gestured towards the door. Patton clenched his jaw, turned on his heel and left the house, knowing they didn't exactly care where he went, or if he stayed in his room for the night.

Walking around the house, he climbed up the tree outside his room and opened his window he always kept a jar open for these instances. Climbing on in, he shut the window most of the way, his room was cold enough as it is, his radiator had never worked and most of the time he'd catch a cold from just being in here.

Dropping his bag, he sat down on his bed and held his head in his hands. In the end he knew his parents would change his room into something else, he'd heard plans of them wanting a gym or some shit, by then he'd truly have nowhere to go. He couldn't believe them, he was their son, biological son, it wasn't like he was given to them as a gift from a friend, they knew what they were doing, she had wanted to get pregnant, they both wanted a child.

Patton guessed he just wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough for anyone.

Looking into his bag, he scooped out some work and set it on his desk, sitting down and glancing at the mirror leaning against the wall right in front of him. He sometimes stared at his reflection for hours at a time, most evenings he'd leave on the light and just gaze, wondering, imagining what it would like to be different, to be kind, to have a family that loved him.

Most days he could think of it perfectly, others he would have a hard time. Those 'other' days were usually the ones his parents would resort to physical abuse to get their hatred through to him. On those days he was so low he couldn't imagine anyone liking him, even if he was different, even if he was nice.

No one could love him.

He silently did his work, it was a good pass time, mainly the reason why he didn't do it in school, he didn't want to be bored when he was home. Luckily he was able to drag it out through the afternoon, by the time he was finished his room was considerably darker, but still light enough to see. Packing his books back into his bag, he sat down at his desk once again, arms resting on the surface, eyes staring straight ahead into his own.

"You're unlovable" he murmured to his reflection, eyes growing cold. "You're unlovable and-and...and mean. You're so mean" his voice broke to a whisper as tears welled up in his eyes that usually held such an icy exterior, while underneath the thin sheet it's an ocean of sadness.

"Why are you so mean?" He carried on, eyes closing, head dropping. "Why can't I be different? Why can't I just be...the opposite?" He then lifted his head again, "why can't everything be the opposite of what it is?" He sniffled and swallowed, trying to budge the clog in his throat. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Looking down at his desk again, he lifted his hand, wanting to touch the mirror but the more he moved his arm forward, he realised he wasn't actually touching anything, still! He should be at least touching the wall if he did miss the mirror. Looking up in confusion, he gasped and recoiled his arm speedily, staring at the mirror with wide, fearful eyes.

No, no...that-that was impossible, he did not just see his hand go through the mirror!

Standing from his seat, he shook his head and continuously murmured 'no, no' under his breath, trying to convince himself he wasn't going mad, but he kept glancing back, staring at that mirror more and more.

"It didn't happen, it didn't, and I'm going to prove it" he reassured himself, even if he sounded confident he wasn't at all, shakily moving towards the mirror, hand trembling as it moved through the air, ready to touch the glass, ready to feel it's cold surface against his finger tips, but when it didn't, when it slipped through again as if it weren't there he yelped and jumped back, landing on his bed and tugging the sheet over his head, trying to reason with himself what was happening.