Short Story Collection

Scream

Trigger Warning: Mild language

A cold wind ripped at the scarf of a lone figure, walking a long stretch of road. He had to fight to keep his scarf from flying into his face, muttering a few swears, as if that would keep the scarf at bay. It didn't, of course, but the figure couldn't help but yell at the inanimate object. He supposed it was just an excuse to yell because he was very, very angry at this point.

"Leave."

So angry, in fact, that he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs so that everyone could hear his frustration, so that everyone would know how hurt and absolutely, positively FURIOUS he was. He wanted to punch the ground, he wanted to make the concrete shatter, to cause the ground to shake for miles around where he was standing. And then maybe, just maybe, he'd get a little bit of attention, some recognition for once.

"Just pay attention to me!"

But also he knew, deep down, deep past that desire to please his parents, that everything he did would come up short. And that made him sad. It made him want to sob, to curl up in a corner and bawl his eyes out. It made him want to scream, but not his furious, frustrated scream. No, he wanted this to make people hear how much pain and hurt and agony and overwhelming sadness he was in. But he knew that wouldn't do much good either.

"I said LEAVE!"

The figure's hand gripped the railing of the road he was on, half trying to steady himself, and half making sure he was still physically present. Sometimes, when these clashes of emotion happened, he spaced out. This spacing out often led to him feeling as though he weren't really there. As though he was floating in a void of nothingness. As though he were watching his memories and life through a television screen. As though he was there, but not... there.

"You son of a BITCH! I HATE you! You're AWFUL! I only wanted you to look like you CARED for me!"

He was doing it again. The figure gripped the the railing tighter, more forcefully. So much so that he thought he might crush the metal. The cold feeling of the long, gunmetal grey barrier separating the road from thin air. The figure peeked over said railing, peering at the frozen water below. Tugging his hat on over his ears, he leaned his elbows on the cool metal, feeling the frigid temperature spread across his body soothingly.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

He still wanted to scream, but the urge was getting a lot easier to handle.

"No! Tell me! Did you ever really fucking care about me? Was all the 'you could do better's and silent treatment how you showed AFFECTION? Was holing yourself up in your damn room without warning, and forgetting to get me and Karter fucking dinner how you showed that you CARED? Or was I just a soldier to you, someone to train whose feelings didn't mean ANYTHING?!"

Maybe he should scream. Maybe he should just let it out, get it over with. Maybe screaming would alleviate some of the heaviness in his soul. Maybe, just maybe, he'd feel a little bit of relief, a little more like an actual person.

"I was only trying to prepare you for the real world! The real world won't praise you, it will TEAR YOU SHREDS! You have to learn that eventually, and nobody else was going to teach you! So stop bitching about a little bit of pressure and get out of my house!"

He screamed. He made a sound from the very bottom of his stomach, letting the world know how he was feeling. His emotions. Things he hadn't allowed himself to feel for so, so many years. He felt damaged, he felt bruised, he felt anguished, he felt rage, he felt betrayed, he felt guilty, and he felt lonely and abandoned. But most importantly he was SAD. So very, very sad. And it felt so good to scream it all out, even as tears slid down his cheeks like children down a hill on a snowy day. Swiftly and in numbers as though the tears made up an entire waterfall.

"I don't need a drill sergeant to teach me how to take care of myself. Why couldn't you have just been my dad?"

"Kalist?" A voice cut through the screaming, jarring the figure to a stop. Making him to realize that he was nearly out of breath, and causing him to take a deep gulp of air. "Babe, what are you doing out here? You're going to catch a cold. And screaming like that? Hon, you should be in my theater class with that kind of emotion you can put in just one scream. Though knowing you, it doesn't surprise me quite as much as it should. Need some honey for that throat?"

"Get out. Of my fucking. HOUSE!"

The voice in question belonged to a certain multi-colored-haired boy, wearing a crop top under an unzipped jacket and jeans, even though it was the middle of winter. He also always wore sunglasses, despite the fact the sun had decided to hide itself away behind the clouds for the past few days like a child who was determined to win hide and seek. The shades-clad boy took a good look at the figure, taking in his tear-stained cheeks, sniveling form, and heavy, tired panting.

the door slammed shut behind him.

"Oh, babe," The boy murmured, before reaching down to awkwardly shift the figure to a sitting position, before proceeding to hold him up bridal carry. "You wanna crash at my place?" He asked softly. As the figure wrapped his arms around the boy's neck, the boy waited, before feeling a hesitant nod against his shoulder. "Alright. Let's go. I'll call Jackson to come pick us up. You must be freezing."

"Good riddance."

"Thank you."