Bar Red's Redemption ✔

c h a p t e r. 25

He crumbled and sat down on the bathtub's edge, almost falling on how smooth the surface was and Bar glared down at it, "Fucking porcelain and the need to polish everything."

Sighing, the brute knew he couldn't blame the bathtub for his fucked up mind.

For that, he only had himself to blame.

Bar stood up, gathered his clothes together, and folded them up to waste time and maybe try to collect his scattered thoughts, and then sat down on the floor.

Bar felt panicked and wasn't sure why.

Was it because he was scared about what they would think about his scars? What lies he'd have to tell if they asked about them? Is it because he doesn't want them to see his scars but also just wants to swim and have fun like every other bad-tempered teen?

Is it because, even if he didn't want to be, Bar knows he's too fucked up to be normal enough to have fun?

That no matter how much Bar swam with friends or his goddess, that no matter how much he distracted himself, the pain of what his father does to him always weighs heavily on his shoulders?

Bar couldn't breathe, he could barely think.

And he couldn't just go out there, he couldn't face Clementine like this— feeling like some destructive monster with scars and a bad attitude and with panic crawling around in his chest and up to his lungs and choking him.

Gasping for air, Bar reached for his pants and clumsily pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he got to the number he was looking for.

Pressing the call button, Bar put the phone up to his ear and waited, his leg bouncing and body thrumming with the need to hurt itself.

Bar hated this.

He hated wanting the hurt himself but it was addicting— addicting and freeing and something he was fighting.

He couldn't hurt himself again.

Not here. Not by the goddess. Not because if some stupid fucking reason. Just not again.

Two months clean.

That's the longest time he's gone without hurting himself since he was in 6th grade.

He couldn't regress. He couldn't.

Bar clutched the phone harder as the seconds grew by and the ringing grew louder.

"Hey, daddy," Gus chirped as he answered. "What's kickin'?"

"I feel like I'm going to do something stupid again," Bar said, not beating around the bush. "I feel like doing something really fucking dumb and I don't know why."

He doesn't know why. There are so many fucked up things to choose from.

Gus was silent for a second before he spoke, "Where are you?"

In other words: are you safe?

Gus and Law were Bar's best friends, they've been through enough shit by now that they know how to handle most situations— no matter how heartbreaking.

That's why Bar felt comfortable calling them.

They were his family, they could count on them. Bar could tell them how he was feeling— even if how he's feeling is that he wants to be dead.

"I'm not gonna do shit to myself, okay?" Bar said, rubbing his hand down his face as he wondered how long he had until his little goddess came looking for him. "I'm with my babygirl, at my apartment, and the rest of the dipshits wanted to go swimming. I— fuck, they're going to see my scars. Her brother already fucking hates me, the last thing I need is for him to see my scars and decide I'm some ugly, dangerous fuck who can't be trusted."