Warning: sensitive content, may be triggering. Please don't read if it will make you uncomfortable. You have been warned.
Monday came around all too quickly and it was time for school. Luckily, Tate had only joined a week or so into the new semester, so he hadn't missed much. He was up before the sun and had showered, then dressed himself in a pair of dark jeans, a pale button-up shirt and a mustard yellow jumper. He shoved his feet into his trusty Converse and walked begrudgingly down the stairs. Mornings were his favourite, because neither his father nor Lucy would be stirring for a long while yet. Doctor Langdon's practice didn't start until after two, as most of his patients were 'troubled adolescents', so he tried to work around school times.
Tate sat at the dining table, not bothering to switch on a light. The house was silent; not a creak or shift was heard. The house must have been very recently built. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how terrible his day was inevitably going to be. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Think positively and things will go your way. Be a pessimistic bastard and no one will ever like you." Wise words from a qualified shrink, Tate thought, rolling his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't get on with other people; it was more that he preferred to be on his own and nobody understood that. Deep down, although he would hardly ever admit it to himself, Tate was just looking for someone to understand him. People are so wrapped up in themselves that they miss what other people are going through.
Before he knew it, it was time to leave. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, Tate skulked out of the house, slamming the door particularly loudly. It was a dull morning; the sun had not long risen yet it still wasn't cold. He walked leisurely out of his front gate and made a right turn down the street. He noticed a girl a few metres ahead, shoulders hunched and hair whipping behind her like a lion's mane. He recognised the ill-matching outfit and old boots and decided it was the girl from next door. For some reason he found himself watching her the entire way to school, until he lost her in the crowd of L.A. beauty queens and high school jocks.
His classes passed by in a blur and Tate found himself almost disappointed when he heard the final bell. School sucked ass, sure, but going home was worse. He recalled the helpful receptionist mentioning that the library was open until eight for after-school studying. Grasping his chance for a few more hours' solitude, Tate headed to the school library and sat himself in the farthest corner of the room. The people were few and far between in here, but that was fine by Tate. He hadn't made any friends yet but he didn't expect people to be lining up to make acquaintances with him. He leant forward and pressed his forehead against the cool, harsh plastic of the desk. After exhaling a few times he felt the moisture of his breath pool on the table top, so he sat up to find the neighbour girl sitting across from him, arms folded, surveying him. "You live next door to me, right?" She surprised him by speaking so bluntly. He nodded and flattened his hair against his forehead.
"Thought so." She concluded and proceeded to open the sketchbook in front of her, balancing a pencil carefully on one of her fingertips. When neither of them said anything, she spoke again. "Are you the doctor's son?"
Tate furrowed his brows slightly. "Yes, how did you know that?"
The girl shrugged and held her pencil properly, not making eye contact. She began to draw circles on her page, one after the other, until the paper was covered in circles.
"Are you one of his patients?" Tate spoke again. For some reason he couldn't quite place, he wanted to keep talking to this mysterious, moody girl. She looked up at him and he gave her a half-smile.
"Would that be so ridiculous?" She raised her eyebrows and closed her sketchbook, sliding the pencil in the spiral binding.
"No, I just -" He stopped abruptly as she stood from her chair and flounced from the library.
Tate eventually returned home a little after eight-thirty and was greeted by his father and Lucy groping in the middle of the kitchen. He made a disgusted face and edged around them to reach the staircase. "Where the hell have you been?" his father demanded, speaking over Lucy's shoulder as she giggled into his ear.
"School, obviously," Tate muttered.
"What was that?" his father's voice was calm but he could hear the threat beneath it.
"I said I was at school. Sir." He mumbled the last part under his breath. He didn't like to be degraded enough to have to call his own father 'Sir'.
"Just get lost, Tate." Doctor Langdon ended their conversation and began nibbling on Lucy's earlobe instead. Inhaling deeply, Tate stomped up the stairs and locked himself in his bedroom. He didn't like to be stressed like this. He paced the room in the hopes of calming himself down but with no such luck. Defeated, he stepped into his tiny bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. He felt around the top shelf until he felt the smooth metal on his fingertips. He retrieved the razor blade and shut the bathroom door behind him, making sure to lock it. He rolled up his left sleeve and laid the blade across the skin of his wrist; ghostly scars already marred his pale skin. Taking a deep breath, he dragged the blade in a smooth, careful line across his forearm, air escaping through his teeth at the initial pain. He watched as spots of blood were illuminated crimson against the harsh white of the porcelain sink. That's enough, he chided himself mentally. Don't let him make you resort to this. Taking the flannel from the cabinet, he ran it under the cold faucet and held it to the wound. The water stung his flesh as it absorbed the flow of blood. When it had stopped bleeding, he rolled his sleeve down and washed the blade, putting it back where he found it. God, how he wished someone would get him out of here. He wanted someone to understand. Tate was never a needy boy, always so independent, but he lacked an understanding relationship with anyone. His mother had gone awol and was M.I.A. somewhere, his father was a pretentious, aggressive asshole and Lucy was just a home-wrecking slut. He had no one and that's exactly how he felt.
