Title; Release
Author; Diane (nuttynutgirl)
E-mail; diane@barely-floating.net
Summary; [SLC Punk!] 'Then there are nights that make lying in his bed biting his lip seem like fun.'

Notes; This takes place before the movie, around Stevo and Bob's first year in college. If you disagree with what happens, I can point out why it's in character, so feel free to e-mail me: diane@barely-floating.net and I'll talk to you. Civilly.

Thanks to Sarah who read this even though she's never seen the movie. Which, saddens me, but I can't help.

That's it, so here we go:

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Release
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Anger is an easy emotion. So much easier than pain, or fear, or all those other fun emotions that plague him even has he tries to ignore them. He likes anger. He likes to vent it. But it always turns back to pain. Physical pain is manageable. You can fight against the psychical pain until you feel good, feel like you've beaten it, and you've overcome whatever it was that had you hitting the wall in the first place. To him, self-inflicted pain is a sweet release.

But then there are those nights. The nights where it just doesn't work. Nights that he finds himself drunk and curled up on his mattress, biting back the urge to just scream until his throat is raw and bleeding. Just to do something other than feel. He doesn't scream, he just bits his lip and tastes blood and forces himself to keep his emotions and thoughts in check.

Then there are nights that make lying in his bed biting his lip seem like fun. Nights when he can't even move, can't seem to care that tears leak out from under his closed eyelids. Nights when every feeling, every thought seems bleaker than the next.

It's one of those nights. He finds himself in the bathroom. Music drifts in, Bob's voice asking if he's okay. He locks the door, then throws up alcohol, nearly missing the toilet. Tears come before he's finished. His stomach continues to summer salt, raging against it all.

He hates himself for letting things affect him, for claiming it doesn't hurt when deep down he's still the same kid that just wanted some fucking acceptance, to sit at the cool table. He hates everyone he's ever known that wrote him off as a loser, or some worthless punk.

He can't remember what started it all, if anything triggered it. Sometimes it just comes. He had too much to drink and suddenly he's not so good at fighting off emotion. It doesn't matter how it started.

He sits leaning against the tub, crying silently, anger and hate and sadness and emptiness all building in the pit of his stomach. Release must come, that much he knows.

There is no conscious thought, just action. Simple action that leads to release, relief. To know it will stop, that emotions are going to disappear, everyone that hurt him, everyone he's hurt, to know that it will all be gone is almost calming.

He lets his eyes slip close, head resting against the cool tile, he doesn't remember laying down, but he is, and it's nice. He can focus on the pain and the knowledge that it will be over.

But there's a problem, something he hadn't factored into the equation. A friend. A real friend, someone who's not obligated to like him like his family, someone who actually does want to know him. A friend that's now pounding on the door so hard it seems to shake in it's frame.

There's concern in Bob's voice. Real concern. He can't make out the words, but he knows there is fear behind them. He forces himself to speak.

"Go away."

Not what he wanted to say. He wanted to call Bob in, tell him he needs a friend, tell him the truth, about how he's just to weak to fight it all anymore.

He doesn't say that, and doesn't have to. The door explodes in wards, and Bob stumbles in. Stevo can't be surprised that he broke the door. He would do the same if the situation was reversed.

Bob just stands there, looking at him, eyes large and concerned. Bob calls him a 'fucking moron' under his breath but there's no anger there. Then he's being pulled to his feet. And pushed to the stairs.

He slips once, he reaches for the railing but his hands slip, slick with blood, but Bob catches him. He feels dizzy, numb almost. He can feel the heat from where Bob holds his arm, guiding him down the stairs of their apartment and out into the chill. It's snowing.

He leans against the van, as Bob searches his pockets for the keys. He's dripping little circles off blood onto the sidewalk, bright red blotches against the white. He fucking hates the snow.

Bob curses and puts both his hands on his shoulders, pinning him against the van. "Stay here."

Something makes him nod, but the movement is sluggish, it's hard. Some of Bob's fear is starting to seep into him as well. But he can't really feel that either. He watches Bob run back inside, taking the stairs two at a time, slipping once on his blood, catching himself from falling.

His legs don't want to hold him anymore. He slides down the van, his eyes starting to close when there's bright pain in his cheek. He looks up to see Bob standing over him, keys dangling in his left hand, reflecting light from the street light. His right hand open, ready to hit him again.

Something leaves his throat that's almost a laugh, but there's no power behind it. Then Bob is pulling him to his feet again. Somehow, he winds up in the passenger seat, and Bob even takes the time to seat belt him it. Again, that thing that's not really a laugh leaves his throat.

Then Bob's in the driver seat and hitting the gas. He tries to focus, to tell Bob to watch the road every once in a while, but he feels high almost. It's like he's watching a movie and he's really not part of it anymore. It's too hard to concentrate, to listen to what Bob's saying. He listens to the rhythm of it, finds it comforting, and stares at his blood. It seems brighter than everything else.

He knows he should stay awake, he can feel Bob's hand shaking him, hear his voice telling him to stay awake, but he can't. He hears all the curses that leave Bob's mouth very clearly. Then there's nothing.
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Voices. Again, he can't understand them, but he recognizes them. He feels groggy, drugged. For a few seconds, he can't figure out where he is. The bed is too soft, the room too noisy to be his apartment. He feels weird.

Then he remembers. His eyes open in surprise. He wasn't sure if he would open them again. His mother and father are sitting in chairs next to his bed, the space between them obviously not far enough. Bob is leaning against the wall behind his parents, his chin is almost touching his chest. By the time he realizes Bob is asleep standing up, his father is talking and Bob jerks his head up. The relief in Bob's eyes is almost painful.

He tries to hear what his father is saying, not sure if he even cares, but he can't help the guilt that rises. It blurs out everything else. He stares at the ceiling, knowing that his eyes are tearing up, hating himself even more. His cheeks feel flushed, he can't remember the last time he blushed, but he is now.

"I'm sorry." He says finally, staring at the ceiling, not looking at any of the people in the room. Tears are in his voice, and he doesn't care.
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It takes of a lot of talking, a lot of promises he doesn't intend to keep, and a lot of assurances that he doesn't entirely believe himself, but it works. He takes after his father, knows what to say and how to say it to get people to see the situation his way. It takes a lot of convincing, but his parents agree to let him go back to the apartment. They each hug him, something that hasn't happened once in the year since he graduated high school.

He has a bunch of papers in his hand, he tries to look at them and not Bob as they go home. The silence in the van hurts his ears. The bandages on his wrists are impossibly white. Bob actually obeys the traffic laws this trip. Stevo doesn't want it to end. He knows he has a lot of explaining to do and he doesn't want to.

The air in the van gets thick, and it takes Stevo a long time to realize that it's because Bob is chain-smoking. If he tries really hard, he can ignore the fact that the end of the cigarette is bouncing around lightly --Bob's hand is shaking.

He doesn't even have time to think about how that makes him feel because they're in front of the apartment. He squints in the bright light. Everything feels different now, so much more different. The night's events are blurry, vague, like they happened years ago.

But they didn't happen years ago. He follows Bob into the apartment. The stairs seem to go on forever. He's tired, feels drained. He wants nothing more than to go up to his bed and hope the ground opens up and swallows him.

He starts towards the stairs to his room, when Bob grabs his arm. Rough. He spins him around. Bob's mouth opens, closes, then opens again. Stevo can only look him in the eye for a second. It hurts too much.

"I'm sorry." He says it again like it will matter.

Bob's grip on his arm loosens. He still doesn't say anything.

Suddenly, Stevo needs to sit. His legs are shaking. As he drops down to sit on Bob's mattress --the closest, semi-soft thing-- he realizes it's his whole body that's shaking. He pulls into himself, hunched over, hugging himself. Trying to look as small as he feels. He feels the mattress dip a little as Bob sits next to him.

"Stevo?"

He can't get his jaw to unlock. There's a lump in the back of his throat, so big that he can't swallow. His eyes burn. He's so tired of crying, of feeling, but he knows he's just a few seconds away from doing so. He wants to talk even less than he wants to cry.

Bob puts an arm around his shoulders and everything explodes out. He doesn't say anything, doesn't have to. He just lets him cry into his shoulder.
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End.

Feedback is fun: diane@barely-floating.net