His Lifeline

Chapter 8: The Discovery of The Broccoli Constellation

During the weekends, I tend to stay in my room and not leave. I don't mind the hunger or the thirst. I don't even go to the restroom. I sit on my bed and try my best to block out the words with music. Even when Gabe pounds on the door or when I can barely move from hunger, I stay in my room. Fear doesn't leave, and neither do the words on my wrist. The ones he carved into my back are easily ignored; I don't see them 24/7. But that four-letter word was written on my dominant hand, and my brain didn't want me to forget it. I kept it always wrapped, not bothering to clean the bandages or wound itself. I was too scared that once I saw it, I would agree and be unable to beat down that side of my mind.

You have to get through for mom. Do it for her. I clenched my teeth as I felt tears start to well up. No, no, no, no, no, not happening. Don't prove Gabe right. Come on, Percy!

It was no use. I was feeling hopeless; I couldn't deal with it. I took a shuddering breath as tears streamed down my cheeks. Once they started, the tears wouldn't stop. I couldn't get them to, no matter how much I pep talked. I bit my lip before I could let out a sob.

I moved from my bed and rolled to my feet, stomach screaming for some food. My wounds yelled at me to lay down and sleep, but I couldn't do it. I needed a distraction. I needed to go to a party.

Free food and blaring music, not allowing you to think. Sounds like a plan.

I walked over to my small window and looked at what I was wearing. I haven't moved since Friday night, so I was still in those clothes. Groaning, I changed my shirt and pants into a random combination and threw on another black hoodie. Going over to my desk, I took out a small makeup kit from a drawer and pulled the hood off my head. The bruises on my neck mostly faded, but the black eye and other bruises on my face were still fading and showing up. Sighing, I tried my best to apply the makeup to cover them.

After around fifteen minutes of trying to cover bruises, I looked good enough to go outside and not raise too many questions. Sliding open the window, I snuck out of the house, making sure I left my window open for when I came back home.

I grunted as I slid out of the window and landed on my feet, my stomach eating its walls, trying to find food. I held my stomach as it growled. Wincing at the sharp pain, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and walked in the direction of last week's party. The same kid always threw one, his parents didn't care, and they were loaded. Without knowing it, that kid's parties have become my main intake of food every weekend.

I walked down the winding blocks and tried to appear as if I wasn't starving and in pain. Thankfully as I stumbled along the road, I eventually turned down the street with the house, music beating down the street.

Smiling to myself, I stumbled across the street and walked into the house, teenagers were dancing or making out, and music blared so loud I couldn't think. Breathing in the alcohol and smoke almost made me choke, but I gulped down my air and maneuvered towards the food table.

Grabbing a plate, I loaded it with chips and cookies. Throwing a sandwich in the pile of food on my plate, I walked to the backyard. There were even more kids, but there was a lot of space, so I could find a corner to hide and eat in peace.

As soon as I sat down, I inhaled the food. Feeling content but still starving even as I ate. But I knew that this amount was the only thing I could stomach after eating so little for so long without puking it up.

Taking a shaky breath, I looked around as random upbeat music blared in my ears. Teenagers were eating, talking, dancing, anything you could think of. A few already drunk, laughing hysterically, and a few sat down at a table, not drinking. Probably the designated drivers.