I didn't proof it. I didn't re-do any of it. It's short and it is probably not very good at all. It's sort of based off the plot in Old Awakenings and New Beginnings, but not exactly accurate with the plot in that. I hope it is okay. It is a oneshot.

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CRASH!

Fifteen-year-old Kakeru sat in his room, the door locked behind him. That didn't stop him from hearing the voices of his mother and her boyfriend downstairs.

"Well, you're just a fucking piece of SHIT!"

"Get the hell away from me, you low-life bastard!"

"Don't you talk to me like that, bitch!"

"You fucking smacked up my kid, what makes you think you have the right to do that?!"

"Pfft, I've seen you hit 'im up the same way."

"He's MY kid, and I had a reason for it!"

"A bullshit one, and I don't need a fucking reason, you know I'll take you down the same way, whore."

"Shut the fuck up, you know I—

SMACK!

Kakeru tried not to listen. Tried to hold his hands over his ears so he wouldn't hear them yelling, or the thuds he assumed were from them pushing eachother around.

But he couldn't simply stifle these noises. He couldn't stop his ears and shut his eyes and make them go away. No matter what he did, how he tried to seem happy all the time, he couldn't shut it all out, it was still there. His mother still had an abusive boyfriend, he still had bruises on his face he would have to explain the next day at school, he still had problems that he simply couldn't shut out.

He tried to think about other things. He soon realized, however, when his thoughts turned to the soon-to-be President of student council, that everything else sucked, too. He thought he might be in love with this boy. The same one who had every girl in school pawing after him, and no reason that Kakeru could see to return his feelings towards him.

He dug through his backpack, carelessly rummaging through his books and random objects that he couldn't find the time to remove. He finally fell upon his pocket knife.

He pushed his sleeve up. He hadn't done this in a while. The old scratches had pretty much healed, leaving marks that he hoped wouldn't be permanent. However, he couldn't stop himself this time. He realized that he didn't have that power. He had to embrace this truth, that he was a cutter, and this was the only way he could relieve the anxiety that filled him.

The blood seeped down from the small laceration he had made, careful not to get his wrist. He didn't want to die; He wanted to live so very badly that he was resorting to this. It was his last safe place, the only place left to go, the only option left for him.

Because of the crying and the screaming and the thudding downstairs that he couldn't stifle, he knew he had to face this reality.