Author's note: So here's the deal, if you read the last chapter I posted in the original Cry for Help, you can get the full scoop. Basically, I, little miss sarcasm, am rewriting Cry for Help. Why? Because I can! Thanks! Please review if you like the changes and whatnot! Note: you do not need to read the original one to understand this one.
Chapter 1
Rain fell in a white sheet that day.
The thunder rumbled loudly showing no hope of ceasing or quieting down. Lightning flashed brilliantly for a brief moment before disappearing and leaving the world in an endless black night. Rain drops swirled rapidly from their billowing, dark clouds and dropped into puddles before leaping out like scared crickets and bouncing back down, sending lazy ripples across the black depths of the puddle.
The scene looked like a desperate cry for trouble, like the weather and its murky clouds wished for bad to happen; the sky swirled in anger, and a raging flash of lightning brightened the scene before letting it pommel into infinite darkness. But nonetheless, Troy Bolton wished the storm would never end.
It showed a power that enthralled Troy. It controlled how people could come and go or how many lives it could ruin with one bolt of lightning or one unforeseen flashflood. Troy felt powerless against the storm, but he knew it couldn't stop.
But he could hardly stop what was haunting him then, either.
He started a fire in the fireplace and let its light illuminate the room, casting an orange glow to every surface. The light licked his features and sent a warm wave of light on his battered body and his handsome face. The light flickered and fell onto the wooden coffee table, reflecting off a sheet of dust-covered glass that preserved a photo, a memory, one Troy no longer cherished but instead shook his head at, aching for the genuine happiness he had felt at that moment the photo was taken.
It was a picture of himself, sitting on a swing, smiling broadly with his two front teeth missing. His dad squatted down beside him, a smile plastered on his face, and he was holding onto the ropes on the swing, as if to say that he was making sure Troy wouldn't fall. As of lately, he was the one to push Troy over the edge, giving him hope that he would be caught on the way down, but then letting him crash right to the ground. The picture reflected into his dazzling blue eyes, ones that were darkened by interminable pain and fear. An angry monster clawed at his stomach, growling and fighting to escape.
A twisted thought ran through him until his cruel curiosity pushed him to look upon himself in the mirror. He gently peeled his shirt off his back and let the firelight, the only source of light in the room, show his body. Troy's eyes flashed with horror as he saw bruises blotching his torso. They spotted his upper body: bleeding out, spreading far, and randomly grouped covering his chest and back.
Troy let out a shudder and turned away from the mirror. He shook his head, shaking his sandy brown hair into his eyes. Quickly, he pushed his bangs away, pushing back the tears that pricked at the corner of his eyes. He turned to leave his confinement, trapped in walls of his own house. Still, tears bit his eyes. Ashamed of his weakness, he let out a growl of rage and looked in the doorway to find it occupied by a dark, minute figure that slouched against the frame. Troy stumbled backwards, searching desperately for something to help him.
"Troy?" it asked lovingly. "Troy, honey, are you okay?"
Lucy Bolton stepped from the shadows, tears shining in her chocolate brown eyes. Tentatively, she walked up to Troy, widening her eyes as she looked at Troy's battered torso.
"I'm fine," Troy said. He felt his body relax and sat on the couch, letting his tee shirt's fabric slide repeatedly through his fingers. With fumbling hands, he slipped it over his head and turned his head to look at his mother, his tears finally swallowed.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," Lucy said, voice hitching. She sat next to Troy, a slight figure against Troy's striking stature. She placed a hand on his denim-clad thigh, rubbing his leg reassuringly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he'd had been…" Her words stopped short.
"I know," Troy cut in with a sigh, elbows on his knees, his torso bent forward. He didn't look his mother in the eye, flipping his head away from her. Silence clouded the room.
"I'm sorry," Lucy said so quietly her words could've been lost in the wind. "I'm so sorry."
"Mom, we can't live like this," Troy said desperately. "We can't keep having this happen."
"He doesn't mean to, Troy," Lucy said tensely. "He's a good father and a good husband. He'll change. He will."
"G-d," Troy said, sighing and shaking his head. "I hope so."
---------------
Denying had become somewhat of a game for Lucy.
Another day, another thing to deny.
Her clothes were too tight?
Oh, no, they weren't! She was just a little bloated. They really did fit!
Troy got a bad grade on a test?
Never! His teacher was just out to get him. He really was a bright boy— straight A student!
Her husband was an abusive alcoholic?
Well, of course not. That's just preposterous.
It was well past midnight, and Troy laid wide awake in the heart of night watching the gleaming embers of the fire fizz down to sparks of red flames. The logs crackled and snapped as it broke and rotted, hitting the grate with a clang. He sat silently on the hearth and waited for sleep to enter his restless mind. Troy put a hand up to rub his tired face. A lump formed in his throat, thinking of what had happened right on this very hearth hours before. He pushed the lump away and forced it to stay down. He didn't need to cry. Crying was for weak people. He wasn't weak.
Really.
He wasn't.
But did it make him weak to be scared shitless?
A light in Troy's bedroom was suddenly flipped on, and the beams poked him hard in the eyes. He rolled over to escape the blinding rays but only succeeded in hitting his head on the bedside table. He moaned and brought his hand to his throbbing head, not opening his eyes.
"Wake up, Troy!" Jack shouted from somewhere above his son. "Now!"
Troy moaned, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled clumsily to his feet.
"Good morning to you too, Dad," he yawned, scratching the back of his head with his hand. He sat up, leaning against his headboard, absolutely exhausted from the lack of sleep he had gotten. "Sleep well?" he asked in a mockingly bright tone. "Great! So did I! Breakfast? I'd love some!"
"Stop kidding around, Troy," Jack said, holding his temple with one hand. "Just… go get dressed."
Troy glanced at the metal clock on the side table that read five o' clock in the morning, which for someone who wasn't constantly training in the morning was very early… even for someone who was constantly training in the morning, it was early.
"Go get dressed," Mr. Bolton demanded again. "Meet me outside in five minutes. And don't ditz around. I'm really not in the mood."
Troy quietly snuck downstairs, careful to avoid waking his mom up on the way. He opened the door to the laundry room and searched for clothes to wear. Finally, he found a pair of red shorts and a white tee shirt and pulled them on. He rushed out of the house with difficulty, trying to stuff his feet into a pair of shoes on the way. He skidded to a halt in front of his dad who was standing in the middle of the lit driveway, and said, "I'm ready."
"You look awful, Troy," Mr. Bolton moaned. "When I said get ready, I meant get some clean clothes on, not raid the laundry room for the most disgusting thing you own."
Yup. He had a hangover, one big-ass hangover. His eyes were rimmed with heavy bags, he kept holding his temples, which meant he had a headache, and he shielded his eyes with his hands, sensitive to even the early morning— very early morning— light.
But Troy didn't argue his dad's comment, for he knew it was true. He watched as his father paced with his hands on their posts at his temple and over his eyes.
Troy was snapped out of his reverie caused by mere lack of sleep, by the cutting bark of his father's voice, instructing, "I want you to run suicides for the next half hour. The first stop is the flowerbed, the second is the window, and the third is the end of the driveway. I'll call you when your time's up, and I better not see you slack off or stop. Ready? Go."
But Troy didn't move. Instead, he stared dumfounded at his father, his feet like roots in the concrete of the driveway. He shivered; even though he lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the winter had just begun, and it nipped at his bare arms, legs, and face mercilessly, stinging his eyes and slapping his skin like a wave of icy water. Jack watched as Troy just stared at him stupidly and finally said, "Are you deaf or something?" Troy shook his head. "I said go!"
"Why?" Troy asked, absolutely flummoxed.
"Because I said so!" Mr. Bolton shouted. "You want me to make it an hour?"
Troy shook his head but still didn't start his running. Jack looked flabbergasted and opened his mouth to yell, but Troy cut him off. He scratched the back of his head and said uncomfortably, "Dad, the season just started, and it's five in the morning on a school day. Can't this wait until later?"
"Excuse me?" Mr. Bolton asked. He stepped so their faces were only a few inches apart. He only had about an inch of height on Troy, but he had years of muscle and a whole lot of authority to even that out. "Are you talking back to me?"
"N-no!" Troy stuttered, backing away from his dad. "I was just—"
"Fine!" Jack said airily, anger clearly heard in his statement. "Fine. If you aren't ready to exercise, then I guess you aren't ready for the team."
"No, Dad," Troy said desperately. "I was just saying—"
"Go inside, Troy," Jack said, sarcasm gracing every word. "You've made it quite clear that you don't want to be here, so go."
Troy didn't need any further encouragement. He walked into the house and headed straight for the second floor where his bedroom and bathroom were located. If he was already up, he might as well get ready. He heard the door in the kitchen click open and slam close, so he ran the rest of the way into the bathroom, shutting it tightly behind him. Troy heard his father muttering to himself and the refrigerator door swing open, the glass of beer bottles clinking together. He listened for the squeal of the styrofoam egg carton container coming out of the fridge and then decided he was safe, turning to the shower once more.
Troy swung the glass door open with a swish and leaned far into the tile shower, letting his dirty shoes murk the bottom with brown torrents of liquid, and turned on the water, not caring how hot or cold the stream would be. An icy blast of water jetted out of the showerhead and slapped Troy's tattered back. He let out a yelp and jumped back out of the shower just in time to hear his mother's voice outside the bathroom door, her tiny knuckles knocking on the wood of the door cautiously.
"Troy, honey, is that you?" she asked over the slap of the water on the tiles.
Troy pushed himself as far back as he could in the bathroom and shouted, "Yeah, Mom, it's me! I'm showering! I'll be out in a minute!"
"What are you doing up so early?" Lucy asked gently. Troy could imagine her wrapping her purple terrycloth robe around herself and checking the giant clock at the end of the hall. "It's five in the morning."
"Oh, I woke up and went to exercise with Dad," he semi-lied. He did wake up to do that! Just because it didn't happen…
"Okay, well…" Lucy's voice trailed. "Do you need some help?"
At that question, the hardened lump in his throat returned. She assumed he was in there to bind up a cut or cover a bruise, not to actually shower. No. That would be too normal. And he was Troy Bolton.
Normal and Troy Bolton don't mix very well.
"No, I'm good," Troy called, voice cracking. He cleared his throat, his baritone pitch returned. "Thanks though."
Troy stripped off his unused practice outfit and climbed in the shower, letting the now-warm water pelt his back roughly, cringing when the drops came in contact with his skin. He sighed and grabbed the shampoo, squirting the gel into his hands.
No.
Troy Bolton and normal don't mix at all.
Troy came downstairs, toweling his hair dry. Lucy was manning the stove, steam and the sizzling noise of eggs seemingly swallowing her small body. Jack was sitting at the square wooden table, reading the Albuquerque Sun Times newspaper and crunching on a piece of toast.
"You ready for school?" Jack said, not looking up from his paper and taking a chomp on the darkened square of bread. "If not, you have five minutes before I drive away from this house."
"Yeah, I'm ready," Troy said. He turned down the hall, tossed his wet towel into one of the baskets in the laundry room and went back into the kitchen. He walked over to the counter and grabbed a mug and the half-full coffee pot.
"You aren't wearing that," Mr. Bolton said, folding his paper shut. "Go change."
"What's wrong with this?" Troy asked, stopping in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"Your shirt is …" Jack's voice trailed. "Just. You can't wear it. And don't even think about pouring yourself a cup of coffee."
Troy stared in disbelief at his dad as Jack carried his empty plate over to the sink and let it clatter in. As Jack started to drain his own cup of coffee, Troy said, "Dad, without the caffeine boost, the doctor said I'll get migraines. You know—"
"I know what the doctor said, Troy," Jack snapped. "I'm still disappointed by the way you acted this morning. I don't see why you showed get rewarded for acting like you did. Now go change."
Troy shot his dad a dirty look before trudging upstairs. The only reason he wasn't allowed to wear the shirt was because it was short sleeved— too revealing. Well, if Jack didn't want anyone seeing the bruises, he shouldn't make them in the first place! Troy walked into his room and reached instinctively to shut the door before turning to the cluttered floor. "Dad, what should I wear?" he called down the stairs.
"I don't care, Troy," Jack said back up.
"Well, obviously, you do if you made change in the first place," Troy muttered.
After getting a good look at his room and deeming it completely void of appropriate clothes, he went downstairs into the laundry room for the third time that morning. He searched desperately for a clean shirt under the mountain of clothing. He hunted for some clothes. It was a futile attempt, for Troy's mother didn't have the time to do laundry lately, and it wouldn't be cleaned until she found the time; G-d forbid Jack would do them.
Troy's main trick was to find clean articles. He finally decided on a green long sleeved tee shirt, but as he tried to put it on, he got a rather upsetting glimpse of himself in the mirror. Bruises were crawling down his arms, blotching his skin purple and blue. They crept up the nape of his neck but that he hardly dared worry about; his shaggy head of brown hair would surely cover it.
Troy sighed and pulled the shirt over his head. He found it extremely painful to pull the shirt over his straining limbs so did it excruciatingly slow as not to upset his beat-up torso.
A dull throb had begun to pulse in Troy's temple as he made his way to the car, hitching his backpack over his injured shoulder. He winced as the throbbing slowly grew larger and stronger, beating until his entire skull was twisting with pain.
"Dad?" Troy asked as he and Jack made their way into the crowded parking lot of East High. "What am I going to do about practice? I can't wear the jersey."
"Why?" Jack asked, angered immediately. "Did you lose it?"
"It's sleeveless."
There was a silence, lengthened by tension, before Mr. Bolton glanced uneasily at Troy and asked, "Are you sure?"
"Well, you were the one who made me change this morning," Troy said, irritated. "So I don't know—"
"All right!" Jack shouted, the noise sending ripples of pain through Troy's head. "Just pretend you lost your jersey."
Troy sighed. "Fine."
"And I'll expect seventy suicides by the end of practice."
"What?" Troy asked. "Wha— why?"
"You know the rules, Troy," Jack said, shaking his head as he turned into the parking spot designated for Coach Bolton. "If you come unprepared to practice, you run seventy suicides."
Angered, Troy jumped out of the car.
"Bye, Dad!" Troy shouted with false happiness. "Thanks!"
He slammed the door shut, and his dad parked the car, reaching into the glove compartment for some painkillers; no hangover-headaches are allowed at school. Troy put a hand on his throbbing temple and made his way into the building. He pushed through the front door and began navigating with ease through the oncoming teachers and students. He searched for a brown-haired, brown-eyed maiden who was anxiously awaiting his arrival. Troy found her in front of his locker, pacing quickly. He snuck up behind her and masked her eyes with his warm hands.
"Guess who."
"Get away, you stalker!" Gabriella teased playfully. She turned around and faced Troy happily. Her face fell a bit. "You look tired. Sleep enough?"
"Not really," Troy said, throwing books in and out of his locker. His friends were used to that though. Troy never slept whether he was having a bad night or not. He wasn't someone who slept a lot, and he had good reason. The nightmares could sometimes be scarier than reality.
"Well, did you even try?" Gabriella asked. "You look like the Night of the Living Dead just strolled into East High." Well, Troy didn't think he looked that bad.
Troy was about to retort smartly when he saw his father approaching down the hall. He tossed his geometry book into his backpack before turning to Gabriella and saying, "I'm going to hit the library before homeroom to see if that got that book I was waiting for."
"Wait," Gabriella said. "You read?"
"Ha. Ha. Ha," Troy said sarcastically, fake laughing in her face and slamming his locker door shut.
She giggled and said, "I'll come with you. I've got to return a book anyway."
She swung her backpack over her shoulder and plopped it onto the ground heavily. Gabriella fished through her large textbooks and filled-up notebooks until she clutched onto her latest reading find. She took it out and announced, "Got it!" Her brown curls slapped her face as she looked back and forth down the hall.
"Where'd he go?"
Troy breezed into homeroom four minutes early and took a seat at his desk, lazily tossing his backpack onto the floor. He sighed and cradled his throbbing head into his hands. In an attempt muffle a moan, his shoulders shook and jerked. He stopped and cursed himself for being so feeble.
Troy sighed once again and latched his hands behind his head in a mock hammock, leaning his head back to let it rest. His mind flicked to his cell phone that lay in the pocket of his backpack, and he was so tempted to call his mom and beg her to come pick him up from school. It was tempting, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to be the one to ruin her relaxing day alone at home. So he'd cope, because, remember:
He wasn't weak.
He was just scared shitless.
Troy let out a cry of pain and clutched his head tightly, clenching his teeth. His dependency on coffee was embarrassing to him. His friends and parents were the only ones that knew of it. He had developed it around age fifteen, much to the dismay of Jack, who warned Troy of the addiction for a long time before.
"Troy?"
Troy whipped around, upsetting the delicate balance of his aching head. Kelsi was in the doorway leaning heavily against the frame. She cautiously stepped out of her spot and into the room, slowly making her way towards Troy. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Troy said, letting his head fall into his hands again. "I didn't sleep much last night."
"Oh. Do you need anything?" Kelsi asked softly.
Troy shook his head, letting a fresh wave of pain erupt and bleed through the fragile state of his mind. "Nothing you can get."
And he meant it.