There's a very brief nod to one-sided Dave/John and full Vriska/John.
I don't own Homestuck, or the characters associated with it. Andrew Hussie holds that honor.
oOoOo
You were cornered. They stole your Aviators.
"Fucking fag."
"Pansy."
"Demon-eyes."
Another punch to the face, sending you spiraling to the ground. You covered your injured eye.
"Don't come near my John, you disgusting piece of shit. I see the way you fucking look at him."
A flash of silver, then a biting pain -another cut from Vriska, glistening red. Just another on the pile.
"You're better off dead."
A kick to the stomach this time.
"Your excuse for a brother is right for not caring about you."
More names. More laughter.
It stopped. You went home.
oOoOo
You stared at your forearm, transfixed by the red pearls that were beading up along the methodical cuts. Your name was David Strider, you were tired, and you wanted it to end. You never could gather the nerve to cut deep enough, but maybe today was the day. Their venomous words rang in your ears.
Fag.
Pansy.
Demon-eyes.
Don't come near my John.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. The worst thing is, you know they're right. You didn't belong here. You were better off dead. Bro was gone so often that he would hardly notice your disappearance. He was always off at a gig or whatever. He didn't have the time for you anymore. Hell, you don't even know where he is right now.
That doesn't matter. He's not going to miss you. You were weighing him down from day one. You didn't deserve to be here.
Get it over with. Nobody wants you here any longer. Just fucking do it.
You steeled your resolve and positioned the blade just so, before taking a deep, shaky breath and carving a few deep lines into your wrist.
Crimson blood viciously bubbled up out of the gouges on your forearm. You watch it drip onto the floor with dull eyes for a few seconds before the reality of what you just did sank in. Holy shit, you were bleeding out. A pang of fear shot through you- you don't know why of all times, but suddenly the thought of dying terrified you. You bolted up- definitely not liking the way your vision swam- and bolted to the bathroom, bodily colliding with the door to your room before you managed to slam it open in your panic. You sprinted into the bathroom, grabbing an old towel and wrapping it around your arm.
Lost in your adrenaline rush from both the cutting and your brief panic, you barely noticed that Bro was shouting something.
Oh well.
You contemplated on whether you should stay in the bathroom or not, but decided to go for broke and took the towel with you back to your room. It wouldn't do you any good if you accidentally passed out in the hallway and Bro happened to find out about your only working solution. That is, if he gave a shit enough to even check you. He would probably just step over your unconscious body and continue on his way to.. whatever the fuck he does nowadays.
You closed the room to your door and plopped on your bed again. Your vision is blackening around the edges, but you think that with the makeshift bandage, you'll be okay. You picked up your razor blade from your bedsheets and just held it, not putting it to use. Tentatively, you pried off the stained towel and examined the cuts.
It was not only still bleeding profusely, but it was also worryingly deep. You might need stitches. You grimaced and applied more pressure to the wound, then removed the towel again to see exactly how fast you were losing blood.
"Dave, what the hell have I told you about slamming doors around here?" Bro's voice was authoritative and loud. You had no time to act as the door to your bedroom slammed open, and Bro loomed in your doorway. "This place is already-"
He cut off as he saw you. Time seemed to stop as the random CD he was holding dropped to the floor. You finally found yourself capable of movement and pulled your sleeve back down, disregarding the crimson that instantly stained the thin fabric. You quickly stashed your blade in your pocket and looked at Bro. He was still frozen to the spot, mouth slightly parted.
His hair was, as usual, messy under his cap, and the hands that once held the CD are gloved and slack. His usual white polo had been swapped for a black band shirt.
"H-ey bro," you said, inwardly grimacing at the way your voice cracked from disuse. Bro didn't move other than turning his head slightly to look at you and then lowering it so that his eyes are trained on the ground. You fidgeted with your sleeve awkwardly, waiting for the screaming to come.
Bro seemed to snap out of his current state and walked towards you on shaky legs, only to sit down next to you on your bed and remove his cap. He adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his already spiky hair, messing it up further. He dropped his hand in his lap with the other and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Silence ensued for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes.
"I'm sorry." You turned to look at him, and saw that his face was almost..anguished? His head was down. "I am...so sorry Dave. I..I had no idea. Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you tell me?"
What..
The fuck
Did he just ask?
Something in you snapped, and you saw red. You couldn't control the words that exploded from you.
"It's probably because you're never fucking home, for one. You value your damn job far more than you value your family. Second, it wouldn't exactly help that if I told you I was getting pushed around at school, you would just tell me to suck it up and be a man about it. And if you knew why they were harassing me, it would just be worse. But probably worst of all, you don't seem to care about how I feel. You're always so impassive and you've taught me to be the same way since I was a baby. You taught me to never show emotion. Never to be weak, because cool guys aren't weak and cool guys don't cry. You and I both know that if you ever caught me showing any sort of sentiment, you'd demolish my sorry ass in a strife. But you're not even home most of the time, so I guess I can just do what I fuckin' want! For ya being my bro 'n all, ya never seem to actually care about your own flesh 'n blood. Ya know, I would have told ya somethin' if ya hadn't conditioned me from day fuckin' one to not tell ya 'bout that shit, but it wouldn't 'ave mattered cuz ya just DON'T CARE!" You screamed, your thick Texan accent slipping in at the end. Your breathing was labored and you realized you had gotten to your feet during your tirade. You sheepishly sat back down, your arms tingling, pushing you for further damage. Head swimming, you glanced at your brother.
His head was in his hands, and his lips were drawn into a tight line. He exhaled in an almost-silent sigh, and sat up straighter. He sat in silence for a second before he opened his mouth as if to say something.
You knew you wouldn't be able to take it. You knew he was going to yell at you, kick you out, disown you. You wouldn't be able to bear the weight of his words. Before you could think, you sprung up and bolted across the hallway into the bathroom. You clicked the lock into place before realizing that the bathroom was the only room with a lock. Huh, so you had at least one shadow of a rational thought in the back of your mind when you left. Good for you.
You dug through your pockets, finding purchase in your cheap razor blade. With that outburst and the knowledge that you just fucked up any kind of respect he may have had for you, screw being scared.
Time to finish what you started.
Setting it against the abused flesh of your forearm, which was bleeding again anyway, you were interrupted by the harsh jiggling of the doorknob and pounding on the door.
Your brother was begging you to come out. He yelled for you to stop, and his voice tinted hysteria- you were actually surprised. This was the most you've ever heard him express emotion in one day. Maybe he does care.. Maybe he just wants to keep the cops off of his case.
Whatever it was, it made your resolve splinter like fragile glass and you ignored the persistent tingling in your arms as you drop the blade. You lean heavily against the door, dizzy from your blood loss and frantic heartbeat, before sliding down so that your back is to the door and you were sitting on the cold tile. Time to face the music.
"Fine, I won't. Speak your part."
oOoOoAll of this is already prewritten, since I already published it under the name TurtleGirl91 on Wattpad. This story isn't new in the slightest, so please don't report me for uploading a carbon copy. Which, this is what it is. I literally copied the words from my Wattpad account and put it here.Enjoy this story!
~Flowery Pyrope (TurtleGirl91)