Hinata's in a poisonous, and abusive, relationship. He hides it from the others, until one night he just can't take it. He doesn't know why but he goes to Kageyama. Kageyama takes him in, lets him into his house and his heart, and Hinata is surprised by how many dark secrets they both have.
Hinata is such a cinnamon roll why did I do this to him. Also I know nothing about Kageyama's family so I made stuff up.
Also I have never been in a relationship like this so I don't actually know what it's like. I'm sorry if I write something incorrect or say something that offends you.
Warnings: Poisonous Relationships, Domestic Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Self Harm, Drug Use, Panic Attacks
My knees hit the floor.
Sharply, hard enough to leave bruises.
I don't really feel it.
He's behind me, crouching down, but he's still taller.
His hand goes to the back of my neck, brushes up in my bright hair, grabs tugs of it and pulls. His knee is in my back and my chest hits the floor. My knees slide back. The rest of me follows, my face colliding sharply against the tile.
I'm on the floor now.
That's not good.
He steps over me, treading on my legs for a second, before he's straddling me. His face goes down, right up against mine, and the seductive purr in his throat does nothing to stop my nerves.
My head spins.
I feel like throwing up but I don't.
He leans down, his body heat soaking into my cold skin, past the layers of clothes that never make much difference. They don't make me feel safe.
I don't feel safe.
I never feel safe.
His hands go to my shoulders, across my back, down to my hips. His hands press me further into the ground, as if I'm not already completely submissive. I'm laying on my stomach, completely pressed against the floor.
His hands shift, move back up to my shoulders, he grabs the collar of my shirt. The meaning is clear. Sit up. My face leaves the floor, neck painfully craning upwards, and I bite back a hiss. He grabs my shoulders, tugs me upwards, and then I'm sitting up. My back straightens, head raises, and I'm sitting on my legs.
I miss the floor.
He shifts around, so that he's facing me. I have to look up to see his face. His face looks gentle. It really isn't. His hand swings around, without any warning, and It takes a minute for the pain to register.
"Bed." He says, and I don't bother to move. He will move me. I just watch as he stands, and wait for the kick to the side, which comes just as I expect. The breath leaves my lungs, and there's a cracking sound, but the pain isn't really there. He grabs my wrists tight enough to leave bruises, and hauls me up. Before I know it I'm standing.
My legs wobble.
Standing is difficult.
He shoves me into the bed, my hips collide with the frame. I'm standing but his hand goes to my back, shoving me forward. My chest falls forward, onto the stupidly soft mattress. My hands curl around some of those stupidly soft sheets.
"Don't"
My head spins.
I can't breathe for a second but then I can.
He picks me up, lifts me up, places me on the bed. I don't resist. Then I'm down again, this time laying on my back. He crawls on the bed, crawls on top of me, brings his hands to my wrists and holds them down. He envelopes me in a hungry kiss, lips pressing heavily against mine, and when he bites my lips I taste blood but my mouth opens and he doesn't waste time in exploring it.
I don't kiss him back but he doesn't care.
His breath tastes like alcohol but mine's probably worse.
He pulls away slightly, his hands dropping from my wrists and going to my hips and higher, fingers curling around the bottom edge of my shirt. He tugs at the fabric, and I shift slightly, lifting up my back so it's easier to slide the material off. My shirt's thrown to the floor. His shirt follows.
"Stop"
My stomach twists.
His mouth goes to my neck, tugging at the flesh, and I shudder.
"Please Stop"
He acts like I'm begging for fun but I'm not and we both know it.
His hands roam down my chest, down to the waistline of my shorts, and he tugs at the fabric before he slides his hand beneath it. My stomach twists, and I look up at his face. I know fear is written all over my face, but his smirk tells me he doesn't care.
I struggle for a second but he hits me so I stop.
He pulls off my shorts. Then straightens up a little to slip off his own shorts. He kicks them off. He gives me a hungry, predatory look and my stomach twists. I start to sit up but he presses a hand against my chest to hold me down. I'm abnormally brittle and my ribs ache under the pressure.
"I don't want this." I tell him, even though I tell him every night.
"I know." He says, even though he says that every night.
He doesn't stop. Just pulls off his own briefs, then pulls off mine, and I'm crying but he doesn't care. His gentle hands get rough and he flips me over, straddles me, and I bite back a cry.
Pressure.
Pain.
My face is in a pillow and I can't breathe but it doesn't really matter.
I can't scream and I'm suffocating but it doesn't really matter.
My hands curl around the wooden posts in front of me, hands closing around them tightly. My body shifts as his does. He lifts my hips. Drops them. More pressure. More pain.
My mind reels, thoughts sputtering on and off, and my heart does the same.
I'm not sure how long it lasts but it lasts.
It's not rape but it feels like it. I don't want this, but I don't fight him, I don't try to stop him. I just lay there, as he dominates me, feeling my body shake and shiver. My stomach twists, pain flooding out, but it's dull and I'm so tired.
I'm just so tired.
I float in and out of consciousness for a while, only vaguely aware of pain, and I hardly notice when it all stops and he climbs off me. I hear his feet as they hit the floor, hear him pause for a second, before he leaves the room and closes the door. It still hurts, and even though he's gone I still feel just as violated and disgusting.
The sound of the shower pulls me out of it, but not all at once, for a while I just open my eyes to stare at the stupid wall in the stupid house and try not to cry. Even though I don't cry my throat still hurts and my eyes still hurt and my ass still hurts.
I should get up.
It takes a while for the thought to form, for my body to react, to pull myself up. It hurts when I sit. But that's okay. I'm used to it. I bring a hand to my ribs when they twinge, and feel the rough uneven texture of them, and hope to god they aren't broken. It's hard to tell because my bones are sharp, skin drawn tight over them, any shred of fat I had in my body long broken down.
I'm scrawny.
My stomach hurts too much to think about food.
So I don't eat.
My head spins.
I look down at the floor. My clothes are there. I swing my legs off the bed, but as soon as I try to stand my knees fail and I'm on the floor. There's a brief wave of panic but it's gone before it starts. I sit on the floor for awhile, left looking down at my thighs, at the multicolored bruises all over them. My pale skin is marred with black, blue, purple, yellow, red, every single shade you can think of, and my stomach twists and twists as I think of how they got there.
There's scars there to, slender white-and-red ones, but I don't feel bad about those.
I feel nauseous but it's nothing new so I ignore it.
I reach over, pull my boxers to me, and put them on. My shirt follows. Then my shorts. I stumble with the fabric, struggle to move my limbs, but eventually I'm fully dressed. I don't feel any more secure or any less vulnerable. I grab the edge of the bed and haul myself upwards.
The bed is disgusting.
I'm disgusting.
The shower sounds have stopped and I'd heard the sound of a door closing so I'm pretty sure he's out of the bathroom. I should take a shower. I'm tired though, and I'm unsteady on my feet, and I kind of just want to sleep.
I'm dirty.
I stumble over to my dresser, wavering unsteadily but not falling, and grab some clean clothes. I then walk over to the door, pausing for a moment to listen. I can't hear him. I gently pull on the doorknob, silently open the door, to find the hallway clear. I hear something drop and shatter in the kitchen. A loud curse follows and I flinch, my whole body twitching with fear, my vision blurring for a second as my heart skips about five beats in point-two seconds.
I hurry into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, lean against it when my knees threaten to fail. I don't want to take my clothes off but I want to feel clean so I do. The air around me is cold but I'm not. I'm never going to be cold.
My skin crawls with unwanted heat, but it goes deeper than my skin. It's not normal warmth, not the easy warmth that comes from alcohol and sex, it's something darker. It's the knowledge of how disgusting and violated I am, making my skin crawl like there are millions of spiders all over me, leaving this itch under my skin that I can't reach no matter how deep I cut. Leaving this heat that stretches out my temper and leaves me emotional.
And I just want this heat to go away and leave me alone.
I could turn the water to a setting below freezing, so cold that it sinks though my skin, leaves my hands numb, leaves my skin as unfeeling as plastic. I'd done it before, stood under the harsh flow of cold water until my hands were tinted blue, before I realized it didn't exactly help. Maybe my temperature is screwed to hell from all his sex, because it didn't help. I still felt hot.
Cold doesn't help, so I fight fire with fire.
I turn the water on so hot that it steams, hands going to the faucet and turning it and turning it and turning it, until it's so hot that I can feel the heat before I'm even close to the water. And when I step into the water, I can feel my skin burn, water cascading down and leaving the after-effects of a fire. It taints my pale skin, stains it red-pink, but there's no blisters. There's no white-grey spots covering my skin like ash. I wish there were. I wish there was some kind of lasting evidence to show just how much I was burning up inside.
When you have an infection you use heat to get it out. It's common first aid knowledge I taught myself. I feel infected, like there's something foreign in my blood, something screwing with my brain chemistry, and I just want it out. It's him, I know, little bits and pieces of him he leaves behind every single day. Changing me completely, into something I'm not. And, I don't want to feel like him anymore. I want to feel like me.
It's too late for that though.
It's on my skin but it's deeper than that.
I try to make it go away, I always try even though it never helps. I try to clean off the dirtiness locked under my skin. I take soap and more soap and more soap, I scrub my skin until it's even more red, even more raw, trying to get rid of that dirt that just sits under my skin. I scrub until the skin breaks, until blood mixes in with the water, but it doesn't matter because that dirt is beneath my skin and nothing can get it out.
It doesn't help.
It never helps.
I pour shampoo in my hair, and I tug at the loose bright strands, out of nothing more than familiarity. I'm used to the tug of my hair, the strands being pulled tight, and I bite back a whimper as I pull out clumps of my hair. My hands leave my hair and I stare at the bright strands tangled around them.
The water is burning me but my body's used to adjusting so it does.
I wash out the soap, run my hands over my arms and my legs, feel slight pain as I rub against the bruises. I barely feel it over the ache of every muscle constantly tense from fear. My hand goes to the faucet, turning the water off. It's weird to not have the water beating me. I swallow back acid, slowly sink to the floor, put my head between my knees and just breathe for a second.
My lungs are corrupted and breathing is difficult.
But I'm used to that so it's okay.
It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.
It's not okay.
I curl my hands around my hair again even though I shouldn't. My hands are shaking, and I need to focus their movement, and I need that slight twinge of pain as my hair is tugged tighter and tighter and tighter. It hurt when the people at grade school pulled my hair. It's even worse when I do it. When I pull my own hair out of my scalp, just for a vague sense of control that's gone as soon as it appears.
I can feel his hands even though they aren't there.
"You're good at adjusting." He says.
My head spins.
He's not really there but it doesn't matter because he's been there.
I let out a heavy sigh, trying to relax my muscles but failing, and I eventually give up and just sit there in the bathtub for a while. I study my legs, the splotches of color on them, the unnatural colors up high on my hips and down lower on my knees and everywhere in between. The bruises lace across my thighs, thick splotches, some darker than others, layers and layers of them from different times.
My thighs have scars to, most of them up high on my hips, an easy place to hide and an easy place to reach. The scars aren't exactly the same. Some are fainter from age, some are more ragged from shaky hands, but they are all essentially the same. Some call it self-harm. I just call it medicine.
The razor doesn't glint or anything but it still catches my attention.
I still reach for it even though it's not any more significant than anything else.
The razor's the same as the scotch in the back of the cupboard, the same as the pain killers stuffed behind my bed, it's just another way to forget without forgiving.
It's just another addiction my boyfriend got me hooked on. Just another thing tugging at my heartstrings, telling me to hurt myself, to drown out my thoughts in liquor, to take more pain meds than exactly needed. Telling me to stay with him. Telling me that he needs me.
The knife goes to my skin and it hurts.
The cut's shallow but it's still a cut so it still bleeds.
I don't know why it helps but it does.
My vision goes out and so do my thoughts. Mind spinning and reeling, exhausted from the constant pain, and I watch the blood slide down my thighs and into what little water is puddled in the tub. It's not a lot of blood but it feels like it is. My mind reels, head spins.
More blood. Less thoughts.
More blood. Less thoughts.
I lay my heavy head against the cold tile and just sit there. My stomach twists, the nausea sending a pounding through my skull, the combined effect making me swallow back bile. I can feel my body spinning out of control, the pain and the shock sending my thoughts reeling. My muscles loosened, shoulders slumped, and I limply leaned against the wall. I sighed in relief, the pain spilling out all the tension.
I need to stop the bleeding but I'm tired. I wait a moment first, leaning against the wall, waiting for my head to stop spinning a little. I don't know how long I sit there, limbs stretched out, back resting against the wall, head laying limply on my chest.
Eventually the logical side of my brain clicks into action, months of the same procedure sending my body into autopilot. Feeling all numb and unreal, I go through the usual motions. I stand up on shaky legs, walk over to the closet while my knees threaten to fail, aware of the blood dripping down onto the floor. The closet door squeaks when it opens, and I don't waste time pulling out some bandages.
Stopping the bleeding and applying the bandage takes no thought. I'm so used to it that my hands work off something akin to muscle memory, my brain still lacking the ability to focus but my hands staying steady, easily putting on the bandage. Afterwards I pull on my clothes, the material scratching against the bruises, in a way that is almost comforting. My arms have bruising to, so does my chest, so does every inch of my skin. I pull on my clothes, uncomfortable jeans, scratchy t-shirt, thin jacket. I layer on my clothes to hide the bruising because it's what I always do.
It's normal.
I'm used to it.
I'm used to every damn second.
Before I know it I'm crying. Not quietly either, these are ugly sobs, large heaving cries. My breath gets trapped in my lungs, torn out raggedy in this broken sound I didn't think I was capable of producing. My eyes sting as tears puddle in them, overflow, flood down my cheeks in tiny rivulets. My breath hitches, and I gasp, trying to breathe past the suffocating feeling in my chest. I rub my hand across my face, smearing snot and tears together, leaving my face covered in snot and salt. I can taste it on my lips, and that only increases the intensity of my cries.
I'm disgusting, I'm so disgusting. I need to keep it together for my boyfriend, but I'm not stable enough. I can't. My eyes burn, my throat aches, my breath catches. The helplessness builds up in my chest, escapes in agonizing cries that my whole body shakes with.
And suddenly I just want out.
So I walk over to the door, turn the handle, leave the bathroom. I go straight to my room. Grab my backpack. I feel like I'm on autopilot, numb, like I'm not in control of my own movements. I feel like a puppet, that someone else has got the strings of, and they are jerking me around without a care in the world.
Clothes go in the bag. I don't know what clothes they are but I'm grabbing them and shoving them in my bag. My hairbrush follows. I reach over to grab my concealer, the heavy stuff I use to hide bruises, but all of the sudden it doesn't feel like mine so I leave it.
The tears have stopped but there's still snot all over my face so I use my sleeve to wipe it off. Then I look down at the disgusting smear on my jacket that reminds me just how disgusting I am. I take off my jacket, throw it to the floor at my feet, as a sense of urgency twists my stomach.
I need out, out, out.
My movements are frantic, erratic. My hands shake. I pull open my drawer quickly, grabbing a pair of socks, putting them on faster than I thought possible. Followed by the closest pair of shoes, the white-and-red volleyball ones, and it doesn't feel right to wear them now but I'm too out-of-my-head to go searching for my other shoes. Before I know it I'm ready to go.
I forget why for a second but then it comes back to me.
My hair's a mess and so is my face, but I've already packed my hairbrush and I don't want to touch the concealer, so I ignore both. Instead I just grab my backpack, hike it high up on my shoulders, and turn towards the door. I'm going somewhere. I don't know where but I'm getting the fuck out of this house. Just for a little while.
I open the door, and make it about three whole feet before I see him and what little confidence I have shatters.
He's not doing anything, just sitting at the table, drinking a beer. Nothing abnormal, but all of the sudden I'm just so scared. My skin crawls with unwanted heat, and my stomach twists and twists and twists and all of the sudden I'm shaking. It's a terror I'm not quite used to, usually I'm too out of it to realize how scared I really am. Usually I drink a lot, or take too many pain killers, or something before I see him. But the beers I'd drowned before he fucked me were wearing off and I just felt so vulnerable.
The feeling to escape worsens, until it's a physical feeling just as much as a mental one, until I can almost feel the sensation tugging at my muscles and nerves, telling me I need out out out.
I start walking to the door, muscles tense, telling myself that I'm overreacting. It's fine. There is no reason to be anxious. Telling myself that over and over and over again. For some reason I can't believe it. My heart keeps racing, heart pounding, in my fingertips, my neck, my wrists. All the pressure-points he likes to hit ache.
He speaks and I flinch, my whole body jolting, sending a flash of adrenaline through my veins that's gone as soon as it's there.
"Where are you going?" He says, voice slurred, wide unfocused eyes staring me down with this half-confused half-angry look.
"I don't know-" I start to say, because it's the truth, but I don't finish because I get distracted when he stands up and starts walking towards me. I back up a few steps, until my back is pressed up against the door, and my breath once again against gets caught in my chest.
"But aren't you going to help me? I broke a glass. It needs to be picked up." He says, and his voice is suddenly just so sad, that I let my guard down just a little. He's so drunk that he's helpless. I loosen up just a little, look behind him to see a pile of broken glass on the floor. Must have been the crash I heard before I went to the bathroom.
My gaze drifts back to his. He just looks so sad. And I know he's just that sad. I know those anti-depression pills he takes too many of, those anger-management pills he doesn't take enough of. He's broken. Unstable. I need to look after him.
"Yeah." I say, "Yeah sure I'll help."
He smiles at me, and the last of the feeling to escape disappears, evaporates like it was never even really there to start with. I drop my backpack, and it lands at my feet with a quiet thump. I start to move forward, away from the door, and I look around for my broom. Something to pick up the glass. I can't find the broom though. Anywhere. I swear it was there yesterday, where did it go?
"The broom is broken." He says, and I bring my gaze over to him.
"Then how am I supposed to pick up the glass?" I ask, more confused than angry. He can't be held responsible for his actions. He's too drunk to think clearly.
"Use your hands." He says, and his voice just sounds so sincere that it's unnatural.
"What? Of course not! That would hurt, idiot." I say, not really thinking, brain already whirling, thinking of other ways to pick up the glass. I'm not really paying attention to my words, to the last word hanging off the end of my sentence said with no anger and no real force. In fact, I'm not even looking at his face when he snaps.
"Don't call me an idiot!" He screeches, hand going to the front of my shirt, curling around the fabric. I jump, flinch, surprised by the sudden change of emotion. He shoves me up against the wall, and my head bangs up against it, sending tiny pinpricks of light invading my vision. His hands grab my shoulders, apply pressure, pin me up against the wall.
I don't struggle.
I just look at his face. The shaggy hair, the wide eyes, the curve of his chin. It's all familiar. It's all so familiar. His eyes narrow, radiating fury, and it's all just so familiar. He spins me around, throws me to the ground. I crumble there, sprawled out, just laying there on the ground.
"Okay." I say, but I don't know why.
"Okay." He agrees, but I don't know why.
I pull my feet in towards me. I try to stand. Once. Twice. I make it the third time, pulling myself up and leaning against the wall, ignoring the way the world was spinning and how dizzy it was making me. He's just standing there, staring at me, watching.
"I'm tired." He says, weaving unsteadily on his feet. He has that look in his eyes, that sad pitiful look, and I shouldn't fall for it because two fucking seconds ago he was shoving my head into a wall but he didn't mean to. He can't help his anger issues, can't help the way they get worse when he drinks, making him even more unstable.
He needs me to take care of him.
He's crying now, apologizing, loud broken words snapping from his lips. I walk over, throw an arm around his shoulders, support more of his weight then I probably should, as my legs ache and feel like they have the consistency of jello.
"Let's get you to bed." I said, as we started off. We went all the way to his room. And I was once again glad I had once upon a time decided that if I was going to move in with him we had to have separate bedrooms. I carefully pushed the door open, walked him over to the bed, where he slid his arms off me and basically fell into the soft mattress.
He looks so beautiful that I'm taken aback for a second. His pale face flushed lightly pink, his dark hair fanning out perfectly against the white pillow, the light curve of his chin and his cute chubby cheeks, all of it made him look so perfect. He's far from innocent, but he looks almost like an angel now, face peaceful, hair all around his head like a halo.
I shake my head, reminding myself that his personality isn't as nice as his looks are. But it's hard to feel the need to escape someone appearing this weak.
He shuffles his feet, his legs, until he's under the mound of blankets. He looks up at me, large blinking doe-eyes, before reaching up towards me. I flinch but he doesn't notice. He puts his hands to my neck, pulls my face closer, and the kiss that follows is sloppy and drunk and hungry. His hands dig into the back of my neck with a strength he just didn't have two seconds ago.
When he pulls away I don't miss him. I don't miss the warmth on my lips. Not like I should. He smiles softly, and he just looks so innocent, and I know he's not but he has this look about him I can't shake. "Come to bed, please, just to be there with me."
For a second I almost say no. For a moment I hesitate. As if he senses my reluctance he frowns, speaks in a sad soft voice, "I love you. Don't you love me?"
"Yeah." I say, and maybe he's breaking me more than helping me, but he needs me so it's irrelevant. I sigh softly, as I gently lower myself onto the bed. I lay down beside him, slide beneath the blankets, lay my heavy head on the pillow. I'm not facing him and that's dangerous but the thought of looking at his face right now sends my stomach twisting.
"You are so small." He says, drawling closer to me, wrapping his arms around me and tangling our legs together. Before I know it we are spooning. I'm folded up in his arms. It feels wrong. It feels unsafe. But I'm just so tired. I close my eyes, relax my muscles, and just lay there. His arms tighten around me, shoving me even closer, and I kind of can't breathe but that's okay.
Everything's okay.
I tell myself that over and over again to keep from panicking.
It doesn't take him long to fall asleep. His arms loosen around me, body relaxes, and my eyes flutter open. I gently pull away from him, slide out of his grip, untangle out of the blankets. I sit up, for a second, and just look at him. Now there are creases between his eyes, and his mouth is tugged down into a half-frown, but he still looks beautiful.
I sigh, look away, pull myself to my feet. I almost fall over, but I right myself at the last moment. I need to clean up the kitchen. He gets angry when I'm not a good boyfriend. When I don't keep the house clean. I leave the room, go down the hallway, all the way to the kitchen.
I should go find something to clean up the glass but his words ring in my head and I don't. What's a few more cuts anyway? It's not like it would be the first. I crouch down in the glass, careful not to fall. I pull the trash towards me. I then pick up the glass, ignoring the way it sometimes slices my hands. The pain helps anyway. The pain always helps.
I don't know how long it takes but eventually I'm satisfied that all the glass is gone. At least enough for now. Until I get a broom there's not much else I can do. I stand up, wipe the blood off my palms and onto my jeans, ignoring the fact I'm just shoving tiny pinpricks of glass deeper into my hands. I glance at the table, at the pile of aluminum beer cans. That's next. I walk over, dump what's left in them in the sink, before throwing the cans away. Then I'm done. At least for now.
My phone is sitting on the coffeemaker, charging. I walk over to it, wipe my hands on my jeans again before I touch the screen. I find a whole lot of texts on the screen. The volleyball group chat, which Tanaka had unhelpfully renamed "Raven Bitches" in all caps. I scrolled through the hellos and the what's ups. Past the conversation where Asahi said he was getting a haircut, which caused Nishinoya to freak out, because "don't get rid of your man bun bro".
Reading back through the texts made me laugh, because these wonderful people were my friends. These funny awesome people were my friends. I am a worthless idiot, and I don't deserve them, but that didn't matter because they are there.
I don't know when but at some point my laughing turned to crying. And I suddenly wanted them. I wanted them all. Right here. Only I didn't really, because then they would see how broken I am. How useless I am. I know they wouldn't want to be my friends if they knew about the rough way my boyfriend treated me. If they knew the way I just backed down and let him do whatever he wanted.
Whatever he wanted.
My skin crawled.
I reached in the cabinet, getting up on my tiptoes to reach, and pulled out that bottle of scotch. Scotch was stronger than the ridiculous watered down shit my boyfriend got from the gas station. I unscrewed the lid, lifted the heavy half-full bottle above my head, and took a big heavy gulp. The scotch burned, and it was warm, and it did nothing. It settled heavily in my stomach, like always, but it didn't give me any sort of the liquid confidence I needed.
I drank a few more sips just to be sure, felt my stomach get weighed down, my thoughts to become even less connected than usual. My head spun, knees wobbled, and I fell back into the chair. I wasn't drunk, not quite, but I didn't feel like getting drunk. I didn't want that artificial feeling, those weird synthetic emotions, that numbness spread over my skin. I didn't want that. I just wanted to clear my head, just enough alcohol to get rid of that pained haze that I sometimes get.
I glanced at the door, at the backpack mindlessly discarded beside it. I try to summon that feeling, that desperate feeling that I needed to escape. It didn't come though. I was just tired now, just accepting, I had no want to leave. Not anymore. I sighed, walked over to the door, picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulders.
I left anyway.
It didn't mean anything but I felt like it did.
When the door fell closed behind me, and the cold bitter air whipped around and stung my skin, it felt like it meant more than it was. I was just taking a walk. Just clearing my head. Just shaking off the unwanted heat lurking beneath my skin. My head spun, brain sputtering out broken thoughts that didn't quite fit together, and I just started walking.
I wasn't going anywhere I was just walking. It probably wasn't a good idea, to go out walking in the dead of night, but I'm never really a clear thinker. My feet moved, one in front of the other. I pull out my phone to check the time but my vision was blurred and it took a while to figure out what it said. 4:26.
For some reason I unlock my phone. I stare at the home screen for a second, wondering why I did that. I click the phone button. Stare at the recent calls that sit there. I get the sudden urge to call my mom but I shove it down because she can't see me like this. Instead I just hit the name underneath her's, for some unknown damn reason, I call Kageyama.
My hands are shaking when I raise it to my ear. It rings. Once. Twice. A couple more times then it goes to voicemail. I hit the end call button before it can record. He's probably asleep. It is past 4 in the morning. I stare at my phone blankly, at the slight red stain smeared on the screen, and I bite back a sob.
"Goddammit." I hiss under my breath, panic crawling up in my throat, my emotions stretching out to their breaking point.
Then my phone rings. I jump, scared by the sudden noise and vibration. It's Kageyama. Calling me back. I accept the call, put the phone to my ear. His voice is soft, edged from sleep, half annoyed and half something else, "Hinata? It's four in the fucking morning, what's up?"
"I'm sorry." I say, and I don't know why I'm apologizing but I feel like I need to. My hands are bloody and I tighten my grip on my phone so it doesn't fall from my hands. "I'm sorry."
"Hinata? Are you okay?" His voice is strained. He sounds worried. I shouldn't make him worry. He shouldn't worry about me.
"I'm fine."
"No you aren't. What's going on?" His voice is sharp and edged, but too soft to be angry. I think of his question, try to think up a response. My mouth opens. Closes. I don't know whenever it's a lapse in judgement or not but I feel like I need to see him.
"Can I just-" I start to say, but the words die in my throat, wither up to nothing, as I realize just how stupid it sounds.
"Do you need a place to stay?" He asks, his voice concerned, but it's calm. Like he's almost used to being called by worried friends at four in the morning. It doesn't make sense, but he's calm, and I'm glad he is.
"Yeah." I say, though I don't know why. I don't need a place to stay. I should just go back home. My boyfriend would be angry if I'm not there when he wakes, especially if he finds out I'm at a different guy's house no matter how platonically it was. My boyfriend would take it as a betrayal. I don't want him to feel betrayed.
But I don't want to go home either.
Not right now anyway.
"Okay. You can stay over here. For tonight and as long as you need." Kageyama says, and I'm suddenly so grateful. I just call this guy, my teammate that's almost kinda my rival, at past four in the morning and he just says I can come over. No difficult questions, no judgement, just the steady even voice that I need.
"Where are you?" He asks, and I think for a second. Somewhere near my house, I hadn't walked far. I looked around for a street sign. There it is. My voice is slurred and I'm stuttering but I manage to get the name across.
"That's not far at all." He says, "I'll be there in a minute."
"Can you stay on the phone?" I ask, suddenly scared that he will disconnect the call, and I don't know why the thought terrifies me but it does.
A pause and then, "Yeah sure."
There is the distant sound of something jingling and then a soft curse not directed at me. There's the sound of a door closing. I stand there, waiting, for a while before I see him. He looks even taller than I'm used to, but it's not as intimidating as I figure it should be. He spots me and walks over. I end the call, stick my phone in my back pocket.
He stops in front of me. I look up at his face, then immediately look back down. His gaze is sharp as ever, and just as calculating, like he's analyzing me, trying to figure out what's going on. "Hinata, look at me."
I do as he says, more out of habit than I realize, eyes snapping up to his face. His dark hair is a mess, ruffled from sleep, and his gaze softens when his eyes meet mine. He reaches down, and I flinch, but then still when he gently rests his hand on my chin, lifting my head up so he can see it better. I don't know what I expect him to say but it isn't the "You look like shit." that I hear.
My eyes close, and I suddenly feel like crying. It's just a sentence. Just something he says. He doesn't mean anything by it, but for some reason it feels like a true insult, and I take a step back. He speaks, voice softer than I expect, "I didn't mean it like that. You just look like you have been punched in the face."
I knew that but my anxiety didn't.
"We can talk later let's get out of this cold." He says. I don't feel cold. It probably is cold, but I don't feel cold. I wish I did. I wish this unwanted heat wasn't just there, somewhere beneath my skin, making me feel dirty and violated and disgusting.
When he turns I follow him. He's right when he said it wasn't far away. We only go about two blocks before we stop at a rather small sized house. He pulls keys out of his pocket, turns the lock, and pushes the door open. The house is dark. He steps over to the wall and flips on the light, and I follow him inside.
"Stay quiet. My little brother is asleep." Kageyama says. I didn't know he had a brother. Then again, I don't really know much about Kageyama's personal life.
"Where are your parents?" I ask. He pauses for a moment, and I suddenly feel like I said something wrong, but before I can apologize he replies.
"They are..." he pauses "on vacation."
It feels like a lie but I don't push.
"Wait here. I'll be right back." He says, and then leaves through an open doorway, going deeper into the house. My stomach twitches, anxiety twisting it, and I mentally tell it to stop. To distract myself, I swing my gaze around the room. I'm in a living room of sorts. It looks pretty average from what you would expect in a house around here.
It reminds me of my mother's house, and I think of that time when I lived with her and the rest of my family. It was only a little over a month ago, but it feels like it was longer than that, it feels like that was a lifetime ago. I think I was a different person then. I think my boyfriend changed me.
"Hinata?" Kageyama says, and I turn around. He has a box in his hands, a small black one. It looks familiar and I should know what it is, but my head spins and I can't place it. He turns around.
"Follow me." He says, so I do. We go through the living room, and then turn into a kitchen. There is a table with stools and he gestures to it. So I walk over and sit down on one, taking off my backpack and leaving it on the ground by my feet. He sits beside me, turns towards me, sets the box on the table and opens it. It's a first aid kit, I realize, once I see the contents. There were bandages, wraps, bandaids, even packets of medication.
"Are you drunk?" He asks, shuffling through the contents of the box.
"I don't know." I reply, because I really don't.
"Best not to give you anything serious then." He says, pulling out some over-the-counter pain meds. He hands them to me. The bottle is familiar and I don't even have to look at it to open it. I pour two capsules in my hand, forgetting that I'm not supposed to have the dosage memorized. I swallow them with practiced ease, and I hope he doesn't notice just how natural it is to me now.
If he notices he doesn't say anything, just starts to rummage around in the first aid kit. He pulls out tweezers and a small tray. He sets the tray on the table and then focuses his gaze on me.
"Give me your hands." He says, holding out his hands and gesturing with them. It takes a moment for me to realize why he wants them. I hold them out, and he gently takes ahold of them. His hands are cold. I didn't think mine were cold but he tells me they are.
"Glass is trouble. There's not much here, but if I can't get it all out then you have to go to a doctor. The glass gets stuck in your skin and sometimes it works itself out but a lot of the time it doesn't." I wonder for a second how he knows this, but the thought immediately leaves my head when he reaches forward with the tweezers. He is as gentle as possible, but he's careful to, taking out the glass slowly and setting it in the tray.
It still hurts but I don't make a sound.
Noise is dangerous.
"I think I got it all, but if you notice that I didn't, you have to tell me." His voice is serious, and I snap my gaze up to his and nod in response. He drops my hands, and they land limply on my thighs. He keeps his own hands hanging mid-air, like he doesn't know where to put them. They twitch and I wonder if he's having trouble keeping them steady.
He frowns slightly, reaching forward, and I flinch when his fingers curl up under my chin and he lifts my head slightly. Fear runs through my blood, anxiety making my nerves twitch. I want to pull away but I'm too scared to move. He runs his thumb across the bruise on my cheek, but the touch is so feather-light that it doesn't really hurt. He quickly pulls away when he sees the fear in my eyes.
"Did he do this to you?" He doesn't specify who he is but we both know who he is talking about. I don't know what to say so I don't say anything. He sighs softly, shaking his head, and looking back up at me.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asks. I think about denying it for a second, but I don't feel like lying to him right now, so I just nod. There is no fucking way I'm showing him the fresh cuts and bruises on my hips, but my ribs probably should be looked at, so I gently raise the edge of my shirt to reveal the bruising on my chest.
He drawls in a breath, eyes softening and becoming glossy, and for one terrible moment I think he's going to cry. He blinks it away though, sighs backwards, breathes in all the air and then lets it out in a controlled way. It's more than his breath he's controlling, it's his emotions, they fade from his eyes like mist. He buries his emotions under six feet of dirt. I wonder how they don't crawl out of his throat like mine do.
"I need your shirt off so I can make sure your ribs aren't broken." He says it softly, gently, carefully. Like I'm something broken. He's probably right. I feel broken.
He needs to see my ribs.
The thought of taking off any clothes, even if it is just a shirt, doesn't sit right in my stomach. Fear sinks heavy in my bones, the emotional part of my brain rising up, absorbing all logic and replacing it with something akin to panic. I swallowed, twisted my hands around the edges of my shirt, pulled the fabric down so he couldn't see an inch of my skin.
I was scared.
Kageyama blinks, pulls his hands back and up against his own chest, leans back in his seat. He drops his shoulders slightly, loosens his posture, drops his head down just the slightest bit. Most people wouldn't have noticed, the changes being more subtle, but I noticed. I needed to be able to detect the slightest shift in emotion.
And he was shifting.
He was trying not to seem threatening. He was trying to shove back that natural powerful aura he has. He was trying to seem unthreatening. For me.
Something in my heart shifted, changed. Some of the make-shift stability I had thrown in to keep it steady started to break apart. My heart collapsed upon itself, and something changed. Not just something. Everything.
My shirts comes off, my own numb hands curling around the fabric and pulling it up and off.
"I'm going to touch your ribs." He warns me this time, hands twitching in the air, waiting. I nod.
He reaches forward, and I flinch even though I try not to. He doesn't seem to mind. He gently presses a couple ribs. I wince, skin tender and the ribs underneath tender to, but Kageyama doesn't seem to find it unusual. He presses on another couple ribs, and the pain isn't horrible but it's definitely enough to make me wince. After he's done with the front he gently reaches forward and runs his hands down my back, making sure that there are no hidden breaks there. Afterwards he pulls away.
"I don't think they are broken. I think the pain is just skin deep, from the bruising. Were you hit with something heavy?"
He sounds like he's in pain, voice strained and rough, like he's trying to stay collected but he's starting to fall apart. Guilt suddenly crawls up in my throat, twisting my stomach, and I want to cry. I shouldn't have come. I just hurt him in doing so.
I always hurt everyone I care about. My sister, my family, my friends. I always hurt all of them. I get hurt, and everyone else is collateral damage. I don't want them to be collateral damage, but every time I try to distance myself from them it always fails. I'm always too dependent and too clingy, and I always drag everyone else down with me.
My weakness probably hangs over me like a shadow. It's probably all over me, for all to see. It's probably written in my slouched shoulders, my over-expressive face, my dull eyes. I hang my head, half-hide my face, try to swallow back the tears before they come.
"Hinata?"
My head snaps up, mind whirring, trying to remember if he had asked a question. Confusion. Anxiety.
"Were you hit with anything heavy?"
I wondered if boots colliding against my ribs counted as heavy.
Probably not. I started to shake my head no, but I stopped because the world was already spinning and I didn't want to make it worse. A worried frown tugged at his face.
"Did you hit your head?" He asks, brows knitting, concern and alarm overcoming the calmness in his voice.
I shake my head no because I can't remember if I have or not. But the answer is no. The answer is always no.
"Okay." He says, but he looks unsure, "Tell me if you get a really bad headache. Or if you feel dizzy or nauseous. You have to, okay?"
It takes a moment for his words to register. Another two for me to realize how ridiculous they were. That's how I feel all the time. I nod anyway because it's easier than explaining.
He's done with my ribs, so I reach over and grab my shirt. I shrug the material back on, feel it settle lightly on my skin, like a security blanket. It doesn't make me feel completely safe, but it makes me feel less exposed. I pull my arms around my chest in a sort of self-hug. It feels stupid but I don't drop my arms.
Kageyama stands up, walks over to the fridge. He pulls out a water bottle. He takes it back to me, sets it on the table, and slides back onto his stool. I stare at it for a second before realizing I don't need to ask for permission. I hesitate even with that knowledge, hands reaching forward but not touching the bottle. My throat hurts from crying.
"You need to stay hydrated, drink the water." He says, and I quickly grab the bottle. I unscrew the lid, put the plastic to my lips, and just drink. I didn't realize how dehydrated I was until I got a taste of the water. The water tasted like a forgotten piece of scrap metal, like copper and iron and tiny bits of dirt, though maybe that was just the taste of my mouth. I didn't care. The water was cold, and soothing, and it healed up the rough texture of my throat. I ended up drinking almost the whole thing.
"There is a spare bedroom here. You can sleep there. I don't know what all you brought but there's a spare toothbrush and whatever else you may need in the bathroom closet. I can show you all that." Kageyama explains, his voice not as shaky as before, like he's starting to gain back that sharp control he has.
He's being really nice to me. He's taking me in. A small grateful smile grows on my face, as happiness settles into my chest. It's not real happiness, but it's not the helpless dark pit I am usually in, so I smile.
My smile doesn't quite feel correct, like it's been so long that I've forgotten how, like I'm rusty and out-of-practice. It's been awhile since I smiled. It's been awhile since I was happy enough to smile.
"Thank you." I say, and I mean it, but it feels like it's not enough.
"You made the right choice. It's good you contacted me." He says, his eyes conveying a sense of security and honestly I'm not used to. I smile at him, and how real it feels surprises me. It's a piece of honesty, dropped upon the lies.
"Follow me." He says, picks up my bag, and starts to walk off. I quickly stand and follow him. Out of the kitchen is the hallway, on one side is the living room, and further down there are four doors. He walks to the nearest one and shoves it open.
"This is the bathroom. The lock is broken but we are used to knocking so it should be fine." He says, going over to the closet. He pulls out a cheap toothbrush wrapped in plastic, and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste. "I don't know if you brought these or not but they are here if you need them."
My head spins, and I gently grab the corner of the sink before my knees crumble. I blink away my blurry vision, viciously telling myself to concentrate because this knowledge he's giving me will be beneficial in the future. His back is to me. I've straightened up my posture by the time he's turned to face me.
He sets the toothbrush on the sink, before closing the closet and stepping back out of room. "The door farthest down is my brother's room. The other door in the back is mine, and the closest one is the spare room."
I notice his parents don't have a room but I don't mention it. It's none of my business. Curiosity rises up through the cracks in my mind, but I shove it back because curiosity never does me any good. He pushes open the door to the spare room. It's mostly empty, only having a bed, a bedside table, and a table lamp. It's clean, but has that not-lived-in feeling. Kageyama speaks, "I'm going to bed now. Knock on my door if you need anything."
I've already forgotten what door was his. I nod anyway, because I know I won't disturb him. He's done enough for me already.
"Goodnight." I say, and he nods, dropping my bag off just inside the room, before disappearing from the doorframe. Once he leaves I just stand there for a minute, Numbness swirling in my gut, along with the growing feeling of irritation. Something builds up in my chest, rising past my aching stomach and my aching ribs. Panic.
What have I done?
I abandoned my boyfriend. He needed me, and I left him. Regret pools in my mind, mixing with guilt, and the panic falls behind. My face scrunches up, my eyes burn, my breathing becomes erratic. But I don't cry.
Something is suffocating me.
My hands curl around my hair, and I tug at the loose strands, and I should really stop doing that but I need something to distract myself and that's what I'm used to. I curl up on the floor of this unfamiliar room, shove my thighs tightly together out of habit, and tuck my head in my shoulder.
My breath quickens, scratches against my throat, and I worry I'm going to have a panic attack but somehow I keep it together. Somehow I don't fall apart. Not completely anyway. I fray at the edges, eyes wide with fear, panic in my chest, but I don't completely shatter. I'm too tired to completely shatter. Exhaustion lays heavy on me, weighing me down and dulling my emotions.
My knees give out, legs shaking, and I end up on the floor in front of the door.
I look up, at the bed with the off-white blankets, and I wonder how likely it is that they are the exact same shade as my own bed. It is so similar to mine that my memories flood back before I can stop them. I can almost see my hands curling around the sheets, as the fabric gets stained, just like me. I shake my head to get rid of the thought. This is different. He's not here.
My gaze shifts to the floor. It's wood. I don't know what kind, something glossy and synthetic and brown. I'm curled up on it, right in front of the door. It isn't comfortable but I'm used to not being comfortable. I should go to the bed, because it's just a damn bed and I shouldn't be so goddamn scared of it, but I just can't stop my fear.
My fear crawls up my chest, tears up my stomach, puts pressure in my skull. It doesn't make any sense, why I'm so scared, because I sleep in my own goddamn bed and my boyfriend fucks me there. Maybe I'm just vulnerable right now, like any little thing could set me off. I feel vulnerable, without my scotch and my pain killers and my pocketknife. Right now I'm emotionally unstable, and there's no way to fix it.
I'm mostly sober to. My head spins with that too-real feeling, not being too-heavy with that artificial buzz, and if I was home I'd get a drink. I can't here. Instead I just lay my heavy head on the floor. I just swallow back acid, feel my stomach clench and unclench, and try not to throw up at the sudden wave of nausea.
I'm tired but I can't sleep. So I just lay there, curled up in a tight ball, arms a pillow for my head. I pull out my phone and some earbuds I had luckily left in my pocket, and turn my music on shuffle. I have it turned up a couple notches too high, but I don't turn it down.
The lyrics fill my head, echoing caverns, ringing in my ears. The music fills up all the gaps in my brain, drawls my thoughts away from the mess they usually are, until it's loud enough that it blocks out my thoughts almost completely. I sigh, shuffle my head into the crook of my arm, close my eyes and try to sleep.
I don't dream.
I don't sleep enough to have the luxury of dreams. Any moment of sleep I get is deep, brain skipping the whole dreaming stage and just throwing me straight into the inky blackness that I spend the nights in. It's better that way. My thoughts are so dark that any dream would just be a nightmare.
It's not exactly like sleeping, when you don't dream, but it's rest and it's all I get.
And I don't know how long I'm asleep but the next thing I know I'm awake. My muscles ache dully from being stuck curled up all night, but I'm used to the feeling. I open my eyes, and see a wooden floor in front of me. It takes me awhile to remember why I'm on the floor. A moment more to calm down after I remember why.
There's something light over me, and when I readjust my gaze I notice it's a blanket, Kageyama must have seen me sleeping on the floor and thrown a blanket over me. For some reason that thought causes warmth to curl up in my stomach, but it's a happy kind of warmth, completely different than that unwanted feeling stuck beneath my skin.
I shoved the feeling back, let the poisonous warmth quickly overcome the better part, let the bitterness soak up all the sweetness, because the good feeling wasn't normal. It was different. It was change. It was scary and dangerous and I can't ever let my guard down.
I close my eyes, stretch out my arms, then my legs, trying to relax some of the tenseness in my muscles. My head is spinning, pounding, and my ears ring. Now is about the time I would reach behind my bed to some of the pain meds I stuck in between the mattress and the bed frame, but I wasn't exactly there so I couldn't.
My stomach lurches with the thought that I'd need to go back to get them. I don't want to see my boyfriend right now, I don't know how he would react. He would know I was gone by now. He was probably worried about me, probably mad at me. He was probably feeling so many conflicting emotions that it was smothering him, and that happened to him a lot, only this time I wasn't there to help him.
Guilt wrapped around my ribs, sunk through my muscles, past my organs and somewhere even deeper than that. Guilt settled in my heart, flooded through my whole body, making my muscles even heavier.
My stomach hurts, from always being so tense, and when it twists I think I might throw up. I bite my lip, surprised when it actually breaks the skin, but not unfamiliar with the bittersweet taste that floods my mouth. I place my hands on the ground and start to pull myself to my feet, but my ribs creak and the guilt sinks deeper. I fall back to the ground.
I screw my eyes shut, let out a soft groan, and pick up my phone. The 11:45 time causes me to panic for a second before I remember that I'm not with my boyfriend and I don't have to fix him his light morning breakfast and best-for-a-hangover drink. I wonder how he fared without me, and that thick guilt once again crushed my ribs.
Either way it's late so I shrug off the blanket and stand. The familiar way I walk on the edges of my feet so my steps are quieter is more noticeable, because my shoes aren't tied and I could trip at any moment. I don't tie them. I don't bother.
It's an everyday task and it just seems so pointless.
Because what's the point?
Right before I open the door I'm suddenly aware that this isn't my house and I don't know what to expect, so I brace myself. I tense up my muscles, ready to jump backwards should a fist come my way. When it was just me and Kageyama last night I hadn't worried as much, but now it was morning and I didn't know what to expect.
I never used to be so wary of other houses before my boyfriend had taken me to his friend's house, where a party was being held. Five drinks and a few sharp words later, it all went to shit. I had been held down by three blurry faces and I hate to think what would have happened if my boyfriend hadn't shown up and told them to back off because I was his. They backed off without even touching me, but I can still remember that predatory look in their eyes.
And I definitely remembered what happened after.
I had been grateful that my boyfriend had defended me. So grateful in fact that I let my guard down around him. I shouldn't have. I was taken by surprise that night when he said to thank him I should let him stick his cock down my throat. I said no. I was even more shocked when he shoved me against the wall and insisted while unbuckling his pants and hitting me across the face with a beer bottle.
That was the first time I felt truly trapped. The first time I felt so out of control, like a puppet that someone else got the strings of. The first time I felt like I was suffocating, drowning, getting the life drawn out of me by something thick and poisonous. The feeling didn't go away while his hands got rough enough to leave bruises and he just seemed so intimidating and I just felt so small.
I rationalized it by thinking that he needed it and I didn't have a choice.
I couldn't talk for a day.
My throat was rough for longer.
I can still taste it.
I shake my head, clearing that thought trail before it can continue, but the lingering feeling of uneasiness remained. Keeping that tenseness wound in my stomach and my ribs crushed with that invisible weight, the unsafeness of it all weighing me down, making me cautious and alert.
I picked up my backpack, threw it over my shoulders. It was light, but it had never felt heavier. In fact, everything felt heavy. My whole body did, like I had rocks in my blood, and every movement sent pain flaring up. I shook my head against the thoughts, shaking it so violently that every thought skidded across the edges of my skull and rebounded back, echoing across the empty space.
I sighed, tried to focus.
I carefully reached for the doorknob, turned it, shoved the door open slightly. Light filtered in from the empty hallway. A sweet smell drifted in from somewhere further down the hall. It smelled like syrup and butter, like homemade breakfast, and my mouth about watered.
Then the door across the hall opened. I flinched, jumped back. I was surprised to see a younger kid, probably around 10 or 11. He had the same black hair as Kageyama, but it was brushed to the side, and his eyes were just as sharp as Kageyama's but they were a few shades lighter. He was about my height, maybe a couple centimeters shorter. His brother. Had to be.
The brother bounced on the heels of his feet, like he was stuffed full of energy, and when he spoke he spoke fast, but clearly like he always spoke fast, "Hey so you must be Hinata. My brother's friend? Tobio told me about you. This is our house as you know it's great but it's boring. Not much to do. There is a cat here but she doesn't like strangers so leave her alone. Her name is Princess, she's calico. Anyways, I think my brother is cooking us food right now but you never know he could have bought an air freshener that smells like breakfast he would be one to do that. But I'm hungry either way so I hope we have some food."
I blinked, trying to follow his rapid thoughts and failing, my half-dead mind trying to make sense of all that information but having trouble processing it all. I blinked at him, confused, but not as tense as I had been moments before. Despite this kid's seemingly hyperactive personality, he had this calming affect, in the same way that his brother sometimes did. When Tobio wasn't caught up in the intensity of a good volleyball match. When he was just sitting half-relaxed with a carton of milk, sitting beside me in some secluded corner away from other people, where we could just talk and hang out during lunch.
The thought almost made a smile tug at my face but I stopped it before it began.
"Anyways though I'm going to go see if Tobio's making food." He said, turning around and leaving just as fast as he'd appeared. I blinked after him, realizing that I hadn't caught his name. Then I slid into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Painfully aware that the door didn't lock right, I hesitated, but then decided that I needed to get ready for the day.
I took off my clothes quickly, trying not to see the bruises laced across my thighs, trying to ignore the thought that I needed to mar that skin, cut lines in those bruises, get rid of this excess heat beneath my skin. I shuddered at the thought, quickly pulling on my clothes, trying to hide all the scars before I decided to add another to the collection. I needed to forget. I needed the world to be a little more hazy, so that I could just forget. Well not so much forget, as loose the capability to give a damn.
I needed alcohol.
I needed pain medicine.
And more than that I needed my razor, my blade, I needed to bleed out that excess heat, that vulnerability, I needed to loose myself in the dark haze that was pain.
"It wouldn't help." My sister's voice rang in my head, dark eyes filled with too much pain for her young age, and my head spun with the memory.
I swallowed, leaned over the sink, nausea suddenly filling me up. I remember that look on her face, the blonde hair fanning out around it, and my chest heaved and heaved and heaved. I retched, spat out bile and stomach acid into the sink, wishing I had something in my stomach to throw up.
My mouth burned with acid, the foul liquid dropping from my lips, landing puddles inside the marble surface of the sink. I remember my sister's face, her soft words, the way she ran her hands gently across the surface of my arms after she found my first bruise.
I missed her. Oh god I missed her. She never knew what was happening. She was my little sister and I wouldn't drop these problems on her, but she was always just there. She was just there, curled up on the couch, looking up at me with sad eyes whenever I came home late with a few suspicious bruises.
That was before I moved. Before I abandoned her.
My stomach twisted and twisted with guilt and I wanted to cry but I couldn't. Instead I just shook, whole body trembling, breath coming out in short little bursts. A cry tore from my chest, it being nothing more than an accidental noise as my uneven breath scratched roughly against my voicebox.
Someone knocked on the door.
My head spun and I didn't respond.
My heart beat was rapid, and I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. A thumping in my chest, a rattle in my ribcage, the steady pulsing on my neck and my fingertips. The sensation was familiar, and it just brought back more memories until it was all too much and I couldn't breathe and I was dying.
I was on the floor. I couldn't remember how I got there or when but the floor was cold and it felt nice.
My head spun, phantom hands working their way down my sides and my waistline, with that not-real quality that told me my boyfriend wasn't really there, even though he had been there. I knew what he felt like. I knew what it felt like, the feeling ingrained in my skin so whenever my heartbeat raised I could feel him.
My boyfriend wasn't there but it felt like he was.
A door creaked.
I struggled against nothing, breath getting caught like there was pressure on my ribs, eyes bulging open and wide but seeing nothing but blobs of faded color. I struggled, gasped, squirmed against nothing as every muscle in my body jerked and trembled.
Someone's voice. I knew it but I didn't really. It was familiar though, prickling that section of my brain, and I flinched when the door creaked open. I brought my hands to my head, curled my fingers around my hair and tugged. My vision was blurred, spinning side to side and back and forth, but I could clearly see a large figure in the doorway.
"I'm sorry." "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry."
I couldn't say it clearly enough, fast enough, my words jumbling together, and I curled in on myself expecting a hit. None came. The figure just approached slowly, crouched down in front of me gently, keeping a little distance between us. The space was too small and I was suffocating.
Someone told me to breathe. Reminded me how.
I didn't listen.
I just tugged at my hair as my breath tugged at my chest until my vision blacked out. Until my body went limp and I fell forward into something warm and soft and threatening.
Everything was threatening.
Except for this voice, soft and quiet and gentle, words carefully formed, "Hinata, You are safe here."
The voice was sweet but the words were lies, thin white wisps let out like mistakes. Because this wasn't a safe place. There is no such thing as a safe place. I'd found that out the first day my boyfriend held me down and fucked me on my own bed in my own bedroom. Nowhere was safe.
I wasn't safe.
Something broke, something like my brain or my heart, something holding me together snapped and I snapped with it. I shattered, into a million billon trillion pieces, so small and microscopic that I doubted even the strongest liquor and the sharpest knife could duct-tape it back together.
I was broken, too broken, for anything or anyone to pick up the pieces.
I guess Kageyama took that as a challenge, because he leaned forward, and I flinched and my heart jumped, but he only gently laid a hand on my shoulder. He fixed those sharp eyes on me, those dark-light eyes, and said with a conviction I'd only ever heard on the court, "You are safe here. I promise."
I didn't quite believe it but I believed it a little bit more than before.
And my hands didn't stop shaking but the trembles didn't spread up to the rest of my body.
Not as fast as usual anyway.
That had to mean something right?
That was long. Sorry for any mistakes I only edited it like once. I don't know if I'll make another chapter or not. Leave a favorite or a review if you liked this.