I just want to give a heads up, this is just a small snippet of a mini (or even larger) chapter series I wasn't to do, and I hope that people who comment on this give me the motivation to do so. So before anyone says; 'This writes like shit', I get it, but I've been feeling it. So there you go, and I hope you sorta enjoy it.
/This doesn't start in a very satisfying spot, there is more before this scene but I didn't have the actual motivation to write it in./
Young calloused fingers shimmied their way through the confides of his old jacket pocket. He could feel the parted cotton and old paper sheds. It seemed to irritate his hands to move as quickly as possible, bitten nails clawing against the loose stitching and cotton seemed to make the retrieval of such an impossibly foreign object. Especially in this household. Family was enough at times like these to make him want to just disappear and go away with a soft vanish. But judging by the clock on his phone, and the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Alfred would not get his wish. Not yet at least.
Although the blond highschooler seemed to enjoy life, family was fine, his grades were fine, and everyone around him was happy… Just like he should be. He hated this sweater though, it was old and rough and just uncomfortable. He wasn't complaining though, it got the job done. Alfred was prone to feeling remorse though. Young and stupid, that's what he felt, and that's what he always will be.
Blue eyes shifted towards the pocket knife crawling out of his pocket. It was camouflaged, and along the sides there was a clip, obviously used to clip to your belt or satchel. The knife though seemed to be worn, yet the blade once opening it – seemed to be unused, or at least not as used as any of the other pocket knives she's seen within the last months of his exploration into what many has called it to be 'self-harm'. Alfred felt that any harm to himself was completely warranted though.
Technically – he wasn't sure when this started. The self-loathing, the hatred, and overall the general fear of himself. It burst his bubble of glee and confidence like a lightbulb falling from it's socket. If you were lucky, the bulb wouldn't break, if you were lucky to have the right floors – it wouldn't shatter. Alfred wasn't so much so – when the day finally came to the absolute obliviousness of himself, he eventually knew what he was – who he was meant to be. How he was going to live his pathetic miserable life because all he'll ever know is the true authorization of society and the overlooking eyes of his parents and even his over baby brother.
The switch flicked open, and the seemingly virgin blade appeared from its socket, once hidden, now exposed. Choppy breaths and slow movements to his wrist was vile in doing the look awaiting deed. This wasn't anything new to him. He was already scattered with scars, and it was obvious that Alfred had no intentions of slowing his role anytime soon. Anything to make him feel pain was a win in his book to be honest.
Along the first drag – he was reopening a scar from a mere week ago, it was red and lightly scabbed, which was no wonder why he pressed even deeper it was quick to begin casting blood down the round of his arm and drip into the icy floors he had decided to camp at. The second one was at an angle, wanting to make the wound as deep and as painful as he could, he cringed and gasped in displeasure – completely lost in the aroma of blood and his own sulking, but his mind was flooded personally with images of family and friends, all who seemed to love him. No matter what he did though, he couldn't feel the love like he used to…
The sulking blond was older, wiser, and utterly exhausted. Maybe it was from the lack of food he tried to consume, but he was tired. The bags under his eyes seem to go unnoticed, he wasn't upset about it though, and everyone his age did. Seemingly because it was natural for kids his age to be sneaking out late at night and staying as long as they could with their friends till the wee-hours of the morning, or playing video games their parents could have sworn they took the controller to. Alfred on the other hand w suffered nightmare, after nightmare. Horrible creatures of the dark seemed to lurk in every corner of his dreams. Suffocating him in the darkest recesses of his mind, and it confused him at first. Why were they there? Later on it seems he finds out they're his insecurities that he tries ever-so-hard to just bury. Efforts are wasted when he wakes up in cold sweat and a horrible tremor shooting the anxiety through his veins. Tears are there too, but he hides them… even from himself.
The third and final drag was where it all went wrong, he went deeper than he should, and blood was leaking at an alarming rate. It's happened before, but not like this. For once he didn't enjoy the dripping feeling that came when blood was to so kindly ooze out of him like this. His dad would be home soon. What he didn't realize though, was he would be home too soon than Alfred had wished.
Putting all the petty aside, he desperately rushed towards the faucet in the bathroom, it was a distance away to where blood certainly made its presents. It draped itself against the newly designed porclien quite clearly, and whoever walked in right in these moments would get the idea of what was going on. Rushing water took over his main priorities in hearing, distress and the sudden amount of blood that just pooled from his cut made him groan in agony and fear. Not the fear of the darkness, but the sudden fear of death, of disappointment.
Removing his mostly clean arm from the running water he tried to stop the bleeding with a velvet colored towel that was mostly used to dry hands off. But the blood still wasn't stopping, and the floors were still getting coated in blood. This meant another trip to the sink. It was beginning to hurt though.
"-lfred?"
A voice seemed to chant over the pouring water.
"Alfred."
The boy was shocked enough to turn it off and force the towel to clutch around his bloodied arm even more.
"Uh… yeah…"
He asks bitterly, inching himself closer towards the door.
"I called your damn name nearly four times, are you alright?"
His voice seemed irritated, and again, it was rightfully so.
"Oh shit. Uh yeah!"
The lie sneered through his teeth, the bleeding and the pain though becoming nearly unbearable. He removed the towel to look at the wound only to gasp yet again in pain and at all the blood.
"Are you sure, it doesn't sound like it…"
If there was one parent that could tell a lie, it was Arthur, he was good at that. Arthur seemed to be disturbed by the sudden silence, and jarred the door open, slightly.
"I'm coming in…" Pushing the door open, he was greeted with a 'No wait!'
He was exposed himself though, and the nearly dried blood, and the red velvet towel, but mostly the knife was completely drawn over to Alfred's position over the sink. He was shaking, no. He was shivering. The sudden temperature drop atmospherically was daunting in a way. He was forced to face the music. He had yet to take notice to the elongated fingers that made their way onto Alfred himself. He was in shock, and his body was violently shaking, eyes down casted towards the running water.
Fingers left his body, and rustling of even more towels in the background seemed to relieve him of his thoughts, they were back shortly after, taking hold of the damaged arm and tightly being wrapped in a fresh one.
"Sit on the toilet there, love." He was artfully guided. Just a few steps, but he stumbled.
His father's voice was gentle though, it concerned him because it was like he actually cared. Alfred wasn't very pleased but what could he do.
Again though, as he was directed to sit on the toilet seat, the sound of a first aid kit was clearly evident and as Arthur returned to Alfred, he's moved his arm inwards towards himself. Shielding it. Protecting it… hiding it.
"Al, I need your arm…"
He shakes his head.
"Please, I need to see if I need to take you to the hospital or not."
He shakes his head again.
Alfred thought he finally won, but he felt rigid fingers encases his elbow swiftly and carefully laying out for him. Alfred refused eye contact, Arthur wished he hadn't. If it weren't for Alfred subconscious obedience he would've fought. But he had been found out, his defenses were useless, and his pride at this point was nonexistent.
A warm washcloth made itself aware to Alfred almost immediately, the dry blood was cleaned off, and the bleeding had stopped.
"You're very lucky." He breathes in, "Any deeper you'd be on your way to the hospital. And if you had been lucky, Papa would have been there to help you." He tried to joke, make a conversation, but Alfred still kept his glare down, he was unresponsive to any form of human contact at the moment. Dull eyes staring at an even duller floor.
Arthur sighed though, fingers forcing the now cooler washcloth to be damped into the creased of the wound, peroxide was next though. Tapping a generous amount onto the same cloth he dabbed the substance into his skin and his emotions.
Alfred flinched and backed away almost entirely.
"Sorry," The brit took back the arm.
White noise and a risky and tense atmosphere made Alfred do anything like he was walking on eggshells. Breathing was hesitated and low. Movement was next to nothing, like he was a mannequin. His dad took notice.
"…it's okay… there's no need to be so tense." He assured, applying white bandage around his arm with care, and as he was done, he looked at his son. His son who was lost, and almost forgotten. Arthur knew his son never had bags under his eyes like he does so now. His hands cupped the boy's face, forcing it to took directly at him, although his head turned, Alfred's eyes didn't. This was an issue.
"…please look at me."
He almost begged. All those times when he locked himself in his room, all those times he could hear the faint mumble of tears in a room that was just beside him, he never seemed to realize what was going on, and he felt guilty. He should know his son better than this because all this time he never realize Alfred needed someone to talk to, he was sulking and neither he nor Francis realized this. All this time – Arthur thought they were a perfect family. And he had not taken the time to see what was bother their older son.
Tears flooded from his eyes now. Trying desperately to keep a straight face and keep those teenage tears at bay seemed completely worthless because…
He finally broke down. It was nice that he didn't have to fight it alone though – because his dad had the bearing to hold him. Even if it was just about too close. He cried, and he cried, and he cried a damn river.
"I'm s-sorry!" Tilting his face to press against the dress shirt, Alfred tried holding on himself, but he wasn't able to grab the clothing like he wanted to. His head being held to a warm chest seemed enough for now though.
"H-how long?" Arthur asked patiently stroking his head as the whimpers and the gasps seemed to die down slowly, only leaving red eyes and hiccups.
"I don't know…" He tries to admit breathing harshly into the now tear stained vest that smelled just like the fire he's light on especially cold nights.
Releasing Alfred from his fatherly grip, he turns his attention back onto the weary arm and grasped it once again.
"…this has to stop, Alfred. What if I wouldn't have come home so early? What if you would've done it just that much deeper?" Arthur begins to tear up himself. Yet Alfred has no other choice or ambition than just to shrug.
"Papa and I are going to do what we can, okay? This isn't good, this isn't right, you and Matthew are everything to use, please look at me."
He does, and Arthur's heart nearly breaks.
His eyes seemed nearly grey. The bags under his eyes and the yawn that sudden erupts from Alfred is enough to know how exhausted he must be.
"Let's get you to Papa and I's room so you can sleep." He smiles and the blonds nods and tried to steady himself as he walks down the hall and into the master bedroom. Alfred doesn't take a moment to ponder the scenery because he knows the wood smell that emanated from the fireplace, it seemed to have been used just last night. Dad always liked reading by the fire.
It was just moments before Alfred decided to crawl under the warm covers content. It felt like a sudden weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He sighs.
"When Mattie and Francis get home, I'll talk to him about finding you some help, because Alfred, you can't keep doing this…" He pecks his forehead and Alfred would lastly wake up to Francis and Mattie smiling at him.
"Are you hungry mon héros?"
Alfred thinks for a moment, washing the sleep from his eyes.
"Starving."
Wow, it's been a decent amount of time. But I came at you with a depressing ass fic. I liked it though, I enjoyed writing it.
Enjoy.