"Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" Mitchell muttered to himself, pulling up short just before he reached the curb outside his school. The bus had departed mere moments ago, and no matter how fast he had sprinted to catch up, it had resolutely ploughed on, turning onto the highway where he had no hope of getting on.
"Shit!" he yelled again, running his hands through his wild hair. He had to get on that goddamn bus; he couldn't afford to be late back home twice in one week. He glanced around the parking lot for George or Annie, hell, he would even take Nina at this point, but they were nowhere to be found. Hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders, he pulled out his decrepit mobile and quickly walked back toward the school building.
where r u any chance i could get ride home
He painstakingly typed out the text on the number pad of his phone (it was so old it didn't even have a keyboard, so he had to hit the numbers a thousand times just to get one letter) and then sent it to George. George was one of the majority of students who drove to and from school and was gracious enough, after about twenty minutes of complaining, to sometimes give Mitchell a ride home.
Mitchell jogged up the steps to the entrance of the school and flung open the door, glaring at a couple of giggling first years in the hallway. He immediately took off for the library, where George was most likely to be, either studying or working on some new project for the Debate Team, which Mitchell believed George spent an unhealthy amount of time worrying about.
He had nearly reached the library doors when his mobile buzzed in his hand.
Honestly, Mitchell, I have a Debate Team meeting in ten minutes! Can't you wait till it's over? Where's Annie?
Mitchell groaned and set about typing out his response.
cant find her please ill make it up 2 u plus im only 5 mins away
In all truth, Mitchell hadn't even tried to look for Annie. If he found her, he knew she would just jabber on forever and he would be even later than he already was. Plus, Annie was nosy. She may ask to come inside his house or (heaven forbid) to meet his father.
By this time, Mitchell had reached the library doors. He wrenched them open to find George rising from a table, looking severely pissed off as he packed up his things into his backpack and snatched his keys off the table.
"Let's go. And I swear to God, Mitchell, if you make me late for this meeting, I WILL kill you."
"No, you won't." Mitchell grinned, clapping George on the back. "Thanks, mate."
George just grumbled something about not being a taxi service and headed toward the parking lot, Mitchell hurrying along behind.
Ever since George had first met Mitchell, three years ago when he and his father had moved down from Dublin, he had only been to the Mitchell household a handful of times, not counting the occasions that he picked him up and dropped him off. George knew very little about Mitchell's home life; he didn't like to talk about it and preferred to hang out at George's or Annie's house rather than his own.
Nonetheless, he knew the route to the Mitchell abode like the back of his hand, and they made it in under five minutes, just as the clock on the dashboard hit 3:08. Mitchell, who had been on edge the entire car ride, leapt from the old Nissan a nanosecond after it had rolled to a stop.
"Thanks, George! Have fun at your meeting!" He called over his shoulder, already sprinting to the little ramshackle house, with its peeled siding and trash piled up on the front porch. George knew that Mitchell's mother had died six years ago when Mitchell had been eleven and that it was just him and his dad in the little house. Mr. David Mitchell, whom George had only met once, was someone whom his mother would have appropriately called a "bum."
George hesitated a moment, thinking back to Mitchell's behavior in the car. He had been noticeably agitated; he kept biting the nails on his gloveless fingers, and his eyes flicked to the clock every few seconds. What's more, he had barely said a word all journey, when normally he talked George's ear off just to annoy him.
George watched the door swing shut behind Mitchell and considered going after his friend just to make sure everything was okay, but then he dismissed the idea, knowing that Mitchell would just call him a worrywart and laugh. So, he shook his head, replaced thoughts of Mitchell with his plans for the Debate Team meeting, and headed back to school.
Mitchell hovered in the doorway of the tiny bungalow he shared with his father, heart pounding. The house was totally silent, and the stillness was unnerving. He quietly removed his shoes and set his bag down, then began looking for his father.
"Dad?" He checked living room first, and sure enough, his father was sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, with several empty beer bottles surrounding him. Mitchell tiptoed to the kitchen and was greeted with the sight of last night's washing up to do, which he had been too tired to finish the night before. He decided to leave his father be and began getting to work on cleaning the collection of dirt and grease off the towering pile of dirty dishes and glasses. He had made it through about half the stack when a gruff voice interrupted him.
"Finally decided to turn up, have you?"
Mitchell dropped the glass he was holding and flinched as it shattered on the floor. He spun around to find his father standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a murderous expression on his face. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and a few days' worth of stubble was growing on his face.
"I-I'm sorry. I missed the bus and had to have George drive me home, but I was only a few minutes late, I swear." The words spilled from his mouth in quick succession, trying to pacify his father before he got too angry.
"I tell you to be home at three every day, and you can't even bloody well get that right!" David yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he approached Mitchell. "You're a fucking failure, you know that? How can I even call you my son?!"
Mitchell winced and began slowly backing away from his father and toward the door that led upstairs. If he could only get away...
"I-I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I swear." He stammered, the fear gripping his insides as his father drew closer.
"YOU'RE A LYING LITTLE SHIT! THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID THE LAST TIME!" David bellowed at his son. His fist came flying out of nowhere, catching Mitchell in the jaw and snapping his head to the side.
Mitchell brought his hands up to his face to try and deflect the following blows; he could already feel blood welling up in his mouth from where his teeth had sliced open the inside of his cheek.
"Stupid - fucking - bastard - idiot - can't - do - anything - right - " Each word was punctuated by a punch or kick to Mitchell, who had found himself on the floor after the first few blows. His arms did little to protect his head, as the blows kept raining down - on his stomach, his legs, his head - nothing was spared.
Mitchell didn't know how long the beating lasted, only aware that this was a particularly bad one. David usually had enough control over his mental faculties to try to stay away from Mitchell's face or any other visible areas, but today he seemed to have completely lost control.
Eventually, the beatings slowed to a stop and David turned away from Mitchell, digging a cigarette out of his pocket.
"Get your arse off the floor." he growled. "And clean this shit up." He kicked a piece of glass from the broken cup towards Mitchell, who was curled up on the floor, tears streaming down his bloodied face. David snorted at him and then staggered back to the living room.
Mitchell managed to drag himself over to the cabinets, where he pulled his battered body into a sitting position. He knew he was going to have horrible bruises on his face he'd have to explain away the next day.
He rested against the kitchen cabinets for a moment and then began the arduous process of standing up. His muscles strained and burned as he used the cabinet handles and countertops to hoist himself to his feet. Finally, ignoring the stars that were dancing in front of his eyes, he limped over to the cupboard to retrieve the dustpan and broom, then set about cleaning up the shattered glass. He swept the pieces into the dustpan carefully, but as he was transferring them to a paper bag so they wouldn't split open the garbage bag, one of the pieces nicked the edge of his palm, and bright scarlet blood began welling up immediately.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, the bag and dustpan falling to the floor with a clatter. He gripped his hand, already feeling the familiar stinging sensation that he had taken comfort in for so long...but he was doing so well. He couldn't afford to give in.
He thrust his hand under the cold water trickling from the faucet and then rummaged around in the poorly stocked cabinets for a plaster. He found a nearly empty box behind a tin of long ago expired coffee, and hurriedly applied the bandage to the cut, which was still bleeding sluggishly.
"Shit, shit, shit." he whispered, trying his hardest to ground himself and not give in to the overwhelming need that was consuming him to just go to his room and lock the door and completely fuck up. His hands were shaking violently, and his breathing came in heavy gasps. No, he couldn't do this.
But even as he tried to persuade himself to be strong, the little voice in the back of his mind was raging and screaming.
JUST DO IT! NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU. YOU'RE A FUCKUP ANYWAY. JUST GO AND DO IT!
Before he really even knew what he was doing, Mitchell had made his decision and was hobbling up the stairs until he reached his small, sparsely furnished room. He made sure the ratty old lock was firmly in place before collapsing to the floor next to his dresser and wrenching open the bottom drawer with trembling hands. He rooted around in the drawer, throwing clothes every which way until the tips of his fingers came into contact with the small box he kept there. Fingers shaking, he slowly opened it to reveal several shining silver blades inside.
Salty tears trekked down his cheeks as he gingerly pulled off his jacket, trying not to irritate any of his injuries, new and old. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow, revealing a forearm covered in pale silver and pink scars. He picked up the sharpest blade, one he'd stolen from a box cutter at his job at a local cafe a month ago. He'd never used it before.
Mitchell placed the brand-new blade against his skin and pulled sharply across his arm, the need for relief overtaking his mind. The familiar calming sensation immediately overcame him as he watched the blood begin to flow from his arm.
All his troubles melted away. The storm inside of him finally ceased and calmed, and he focused on the burning pulse in his arm. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, pulling the blade across his skin again. The sharp edge worked like magic against his soft flesh, making deep, smooth cuts that bled such a bright red.
Mitchell lost track of time as he sat on his bedroom floor digging the blade into his forearm over and over again. He only stopped when he realized that he had never finished cleaning up the broken glass in the kitchen. He methodically began cleaning himself up. He retrieved a cloth from the bathroom and cleaned off his blade, then wiped up the blood that had splattered on the hardwood floor of his room. He then returned the blade to his box and dug around in his drawer until he found a second box, this one containing a few bandages and antibiotic creams. He was always careful to clean himself up afterwards. He couldn't risk anyone finding out about this.
He was running low on bandages, so after he had wrapped his arm in the least bloodied one that he soon covered with his shirt sleeve and fingerless gloves, he slowly returned downstairs, ever wary that his father might still be on the rampage. However, peeking into the living room revealed that David had passed out on the couch again, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers. Mitchell rolled his eyes and carefully pulled the cigarette from his father's fingers, snuffing it out in the ashtray. He didn't want the whole goddamn house to burn down.
Mitchell returned to the kitchen and quickly finished clearing up the glass, his arm stinging and smarting, distracting him from the pain and soreness from his earlier beating. The familiar feeling of guilt was washing over him now, replacing his initial relief. He'd been clean for three whole weeks, enough time for his old cuts to heal over and turn into pale pink scars. But that was over now. He was back to square one again.
Exhausted and in pain, Mitchell finally dragged himself back upstairs to his room and collapsed on his bed, not bothering to shower or change his clothes. He just wanted to sleep. He would worry about everything else in the morning.
