Hey, thanks for reviewing and favouriting/ following as usual!
By the way, I know there are typos and stuff in my chapters or a word will be auto corrected to something stupid, but it's hard when most of my chapters end up being like ten thousand words and I have to edit all that. I'm trying to ge better, I hope you'll forgive me.
Ugh, I was reading this one REALLY GOOD fanfiction and now I'm looking back at mine and it's... not great. The sentences don't flow right and some lines are just flat and uninspired, there are typos that I can't go back to correct and so many wasted opportunities for me to write something actually good. I think when I finish this fanfiction I'll just totally re-write it, or at least the first ten or so chapters. Man, anyone else get really insecure about their writing? I feel like mine isn't that good.
Liz: I'm not stopping any time soon lol. Damn, I'm not that good. I can see so many flaws in my writing.
CarolinePhillips: That sucks, I get you. School is dragging me into the abyss. I'm glad I can help!
Lamspickles: (:
Trigger warnings: flashback to abuse, unhealthy attitudes towards eating.
New chapter tomorrow. It will be way more exciting.
Lafayette pressed slowly down on the breaks of his bike as he approached the long driveway of his house. He slid past the picket fence and shook drops of water falling from the trees out of his hair. The sky was a perfume coloured yellow, thick and musky - reminiscent of nineteen twenties jazz clubs and champagne parties on new years. Except this was a rural suburb of Virginia, where the most exciting event of the year was some cat being stuck in a tree.
The bike glided smoothly across the dark concrete and the misty rain had stopped, leaving the roads slippery but easier to ride on.
He hopped off his bike outside the garage and wheeled it inside, putting down the milk to lift up the bicycle and slide it into its rack above him. He closed the garage door out the front and walked through the back garden instead, stepping carefully around large puddles and snails, pulling the key from the pocket of his jacket and approaching the back door.
He looked through the glass into the warmth of the kitchen, a yellow glow suffusing onto the patio outside like a watercolour stain.
Through the glass reflecting images of a darkening sky, Lafayette could see George sat there at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. His face was hidden and his body stiff, sharp lines drawn with his shoulders and a tension in in his knuckles that made the skin taught and light.
His stomach dropped, he felt as though he were interrupting some sort of private moment. Was this because of Alexander? Had something else happened?
Lafayetet slid the key into the lock and opened up, watching George jump at the sudden noise and look up at the back door in alarm. His face and the lines of his muscles relaxed to defeated weariness when he saw it was Lafayette and stood up, walking to the counter to boil the kettle.
Lafayette felt a shiver run down his spine at the contrast between the chilly wind outside and the warmth of the kitchen. He hung up his jacket in the dark hallway in silence and slipped off his shoes, checking his hair in the hall mirror before walking back into the kitchen.
George had opened the milk and was pressing a tea bag against the side of a mug, his posture stiff and tense with his back to Lafayette.
"Papa... is everything okay?"
Lafayette's voice was hesitant and careful, his tone conveying a sort of agitated awareness he often took around Alex. It was small yet determined, unassuming yet demanding answers. George of course, provided none. No real ones at least.
Lafayette walked slowly towards his father and took a mug out of the cupboard above him, watching the man's expression. His face was paler than Lafayette had ever seen it and his eyes were dark, creased with concern.
"I-I... It's just Alex. I guess I'm worried about him."
Lafayette turned around to properly face his dad and pulled him into a hug, he felt his father's muscles relax and the embrace turned from tense and forced to loving. George rubbed his son's back comfortingly and pulled away, holding Lafayette in front of him by his shoulders.
"Son, if you ever want to talk about anything; school, friends, whatever, you know I'm here don't you?"
Gilbert nodded, his ponytail bobbing energetically along with him.
"Of course I do. Why? Are you sure everything is okay?"
George nodded again and pulled his son back into a hug, tousling his hair affectionately.
"Do you know anything about what happened with Charles Lee and George Frederick today?"
Lafayette shook his head, his face still resting against his dad's shoulder.
"I didn't have any classes with Alex until maths, and he hasn't shown up to were we meet at break time for the last few days."
George turned back to his tea and took a long sip, the heat of the drink in his throat calming him.
"Why not?"
Lafayette looked up in surprise.
"I didn't tell you? Well, maybe I didn't. John and Alexander had an argument that night at the cinema."
Lafayette poured some hot water into his mug and perched himself on the edge of the kitchen counter top.
"Oh. Well, I suppose I suspected as much."
Lafayette nodded and stared into his tea, contemplating whether or not to mention the situation with John and his father. He decided against it, after all, it was John's business. It wasn't his to share.
They fell into silence, George didn't want to talk about Alex any longer. Their argument still ringing in his ears and seeping into his mind like the biting winter chill you try to keep out at night but never can.
"Shoved through nine foster homes, I wonder why."
He had to refrain himself from sighing aloud, he turned towards the window to avoid his son seeing the expression on his face. George bit down hard on his lip and took another sip of his tea.
Why had he said that? Why had the thought even crossed his mind, much less left his mouth?
"Shoved through nine foster homes, I wonder why."
How could he ever face his foster son after saying that? Alex hadn't been in the right state of mind to be held accountable for what he said, George on the other hand and no excuse. Shoved through nine foster homes. Yeah, because most of them had beat him, starved him, abused him. How could he have said that? How could he have said that?
Lafayette stared at his father, only his back visible, turned to face the window in the kind of silence Lafayette recognised in him but had only borne witness to a few times before.
Slowly, he slid off the counter and made his way out of the kitchen. He walked upstairs, leaving his father alone with his thoughts. On the landing upstairs he stopped at Alexander's door for a moment or two, listening for sounds of movement or signs he was still awake. He pushed down on the handle slowly and made to open the door but found it was locked.
Lafayette frowned and took his hand off the handle. That was... worrying. Although, he thought it was understandable that Alex would want to sleep undisturbed, considering it would be the first time he'd slept in about four days.
He stood there for a moment before turning back around and walking into his room, flopping back down onto his bed and pulling out his phone. He had four missed calls from Hercules and ten from John. He grinned slightly to himself and pressed on John's icon, ringing his friend.
John picked up almost instantly, the first ring having not even died down when his voice sounded over the speaker.
"Is Alex okay? What happened?"
Lafayette smiled and shushed his friend.
"He is now asleep in his room, everything seems alright. He said something about Lee in the car though."
He heard John swear on the other end and the low tone of Hercules' voice spoke a little further away than John's. Maybe he was sitting next to him.
"Hey Herc!"
Laf called into the phone, grinning and a second later feeling something flutter in his stomach at the sound of his friend's voice.
"Hey Laf. Alex alright?"
Lafayette shrugged, then realised they couldn't see him.
"Je l'espère. He's asleep."
John spoke again, closer to the receiver and his voice slightly more urgent.
"Seriously though, what did he say about Lee?"
Lafayette walked over to his desk and ran his fingers over the books there, pacing up and down.
"He said they had a fight. He said Lee banged his head and punched him."
"Shit."
Gilbert walked to his bed and drummed a beat on the cover.
"Oui, he did not say very much. He seems quite..."
Lafayette searched for a suitable euphemism.
"Tired..."
He finished lamely, rubbing his eyes.
"You saw how he was speaking French and Spanish."
"Yeah. What was with that?" John's voice was so concerned, sympathy and exasperation tugged painfully at his gut.
Lafayette shrugged again, mainly for himself.
"I don't know. He seemed to be a little less dazed after the hospital."
He heard John sigh and Lafayette frowned slightly.
"John, you two need to talk."
John groaned but Hercules could be heard muttering in agreement on the other end.
"He's not gonna want to talk to me."
Lafayette smiled slightly, remembering the conversation he'd had with Alexander on the way into school that day.
"He said the same thing to me this morning."
There was silence on the phone for a few seconds and Lafayette took the opportunity to examine some Polaroids stuck to his mirror. It was John, Hercules and him on the last day of freshman year, in the park. The sun was setting behind them and their faces were glowing with golden light and happiness.
Lafayette didn't want to think about what could have been happening to Alexander the day that photo was taken. He'd still been living with his last foster parent.
"What does George think about it?"
"He thinks... tel père, tel fils."
Like father, like son.
Neither of them had to say anything more about that, it was well known in their town the opinion John Lee and George Washington entertained of each other.
"Are they going to the school about it?"
"I don't know. Last time they didn't want to because I punched Lee. They said that might get me suspended. It could be the same this time."
He walked back over to the mirror and tugged the band out of his hair.
"Do I really look like Jefferson when I have my hair down?"
Lafayette asked, breaking the silence with his usual blunt comic relief.
"Yeah. It's actually scary."
Lafayette groaned.
"But it looks so good down!"
He heard Hercules laugh on the other end, muffled slightly.
"Do you want to look like freaking Jefferson?"
"No..."
Lafayette scowled and pulled his hair into a bun.
"Martha will be home soon. I'll talk to her about it."
He flopped back down on to his bed, supine and stretched out lazily.
"What about George?"
Lafayette fiddled with a loose string on his bed spread.
"Something's up with him. He doesn't seem to want to talk."
"He's probably just worried, right?"
Lafayette frowned and stretched again, hearing his shoulder pop.
"Ugh, I heard that. Gross."
Lafayette laughed and rolled his eyes, stretched again and rolled onto his stomach.
"I don't know. Maybe Martha will have more luck with him."
"Will I see you at school tomorrow?"
Lafayette leant his head over the edge of the bed and hung upside down, still holding the phone to his ear.
"Yeah. You won't see Alex though."
He heard John grunt slightly in what could have been satisfaction and a loud tutting sound could be heard from Hercules.
"Jesus John, you need to end this stupid argument."
"I just want to know why he was casually chatting to Lee about our date."
Lafayette rolled his eyes and sat up, feel it the blood rush away from his head into his torso.
"I don't know what Lee meant that night but I'm sure there's an explanation."
"Sure. One that involves Alex not being able to keep his mouth shut, as usual."
Lafayette scowled and walked over to his mirror again, examining the stubble growing on his jaw.
"John, I don't want to hear it. You don't actually think I believe you're mad at him? You're not."
John sighed and Lafayette heard him tapping repetitively onto the side of his phone.
"I'm gonna go now. Herc's mom made dinner and I don't wanna be rude."
Lafayette sighed but nodded.
"Okay. Sleep well."
He heard Hercules on the other end yell a goodbye, the grin in his voice was evident. Lafayette could picture his smile, teeth a bright white against his dark sepia skin.
"Bye Herc!"
He heard a laugh on the end and some final, indistinguishable words before the phone was hung up. Lafayette smiled down at John's contact on his screen for a moment before turning off his phone and walking to his desk to start on some homework.
oo
George winced slightly as his hand was burnt against the hot frying pan, a long, thin red stripe appearing along the side of his finger.
He ran his hand under the cold water for a moment before taking the pan off the heat and stirring some balsamic vinegar into the fried vegetables. He'd always liked cooking, it was relaxing, took his mind off worries and usually resulted in something delicious he could share with his family.
Martha would be home sometime in the next twenty minutes. He thought it was fair for him to make dinner, seeing as he'd been off since the early afternoon.
He tipped the food onto four plates and covered one of them. He didn't know if Alexander would be awake for dinner, he doubted that he would. George also doubted his foster son would want to share a table with him, or eat food he had cooked. Nevertheless, he didn't want to risk Alexander being hungry and not having something to eat. If he wanted to come and eat dinner with them later, then George would have something to give to him.
George finished making dinner quickly, setting the plates into the oven at a very low heat to keep the food hot until Martha came home. He sat down at the kitchen table and opened his laptop where he'd been working for the past hour or so to take his mind off the events of the afternoon.
For the remaining ten minutes he had left before dinner, he buried himself in reading the articles his colleges and fellow Virginian democrats had sent to him about the other nominees and their backgrounds and political views.
He didn't hear Martha come home and hang up her coat and the chilly wind that blew in when the door opened brushed by him, not enough to distract him from his work.
"George."
He looked around, fingers pausing their dance over the keyboard.
Martha tilted her head slightly, a small smile on her face with one hand on her hip.
"How is Alex?"
George sighed slightly and closed his laptop, turning back around to face his wife.
"I don't think he's doing great."
Martha's face looked drawn and tired, the weary look in her eyes only exemplified by the bright light in the kitchen.
"You took him to the hospital?"
George nodded, moving towards the oven to take out the dinners and place them on the counter.
"Yeah. He was pretty out of it for a while. He has a concussion so he was speaking French, and apparently Spanish at one point?"
George shrugged and turned on the tap, filling a glass with water.
Martha was retying a her hair and had tidied away George's work things.
"What did the doctor say about it?"
"Well, they reckon he fainted mostly because of sleep deprivation and not eating enough-"
Martha sucked in a sharp breath which hitched in her throat. Her eyes were wide and pained but she said nothing so George continued.
"But according to Alex, he got in a fight with Charles Lee and hit his head, which is why he has a concussion."
Martha took two plates from the kitchen counter and helped George bring in the food to the dining room.
"Do you think he'll come down for dinner?"
George shook his head and carefully placed a glass of water on the table.
"No, he went to sleep almost as soon as he came home."
Martha sat down next to him and he looked up, surprised.
"Shall I call Gil?" He asked, making to stand up.
Martha shook her head and took his hand, which had been resting on the table, tapping a nervous beat.
"Are you okay George? You seem... distracted."
George closed his eyes and leant back in his chair, his hand squeezing Martha's tightly. She was not going to be happy with him, but he couldn't not tell her.
"Did something happen that I don't know about?"
George opened his eyes and nodded, fixing his gaze on the point between his wife's eyebrows, so he wouldn't have to look her in the eyes when he told her every thing. He knew he was doing the right thing in telling her, she was his wife and Alex was their son. This had as much to do with her as it did him.
"Well, when we came home from the hospital Alexander and I had an argument.
Martha's eyes widened infinitesimally and her eyebrows were slightly creased together, but George continued.
"He told me how his teachers wanted to move him a up a grade and I, well, I expressed some reservations about the idea."
Martha nodded slightly.
"Because of every thing he's going through right now," she finished for him, her hand still gripping his tightly.
"Yeah. Only, he was not best pleased. In all fairness, Alex wasn't really in the clearest state of mind and I don't really hold him accountable for anything he said..."
Martha shifted slightly in her chair, moving closer to him with an apprehensive look in her eyes. What was George getting at?
"What kinds of things did he say?"
George sighed, "just that...It really doesn't matter Martha..."
She shook her head, her eyes not moving from his, her tight curls bouncing and her expression determined.
"Its obvious that's it's bothering you."
George looked out the window for a moment watching the sun set over the trees.
"I- I hope he doesn't mean what he said, I think if he did I'd have to be a pretty bad foster parent to warrant it."
Martha's mouth tipped into a frown and her head moved slowly from one side to the other.
"I don't think you're a bad father, I don't think Alex does either."
George laughed at this and moved to stand up, he wanted to get Lafayette so they could eat dinner together and not talk about this anymore. Martha however, still had a firm grip on his hand. He knew that if he wanted to he could break away from it, but he wouldn't.
"What did he say to you? Did you say something to him?"
George's stomach twisted painfully, he could feel his hand shaking slightly and his foot was bouncing up and down again. He decided he'd have to answer the first question, put off the second one for as long as possible.
"He just said the kind of thing Lafayette did a few weeks ago. I'm always at work, I don't care about him, the whole corrupt politician line people often use."
Martha's eye were wide and she was on her feet in a second, standing behind him with her arms around his shoulders and her warm, smooth cheek against his.
"You're none of that George. I know Alex couldn't have possibly meant that, he knows how much you care about him, how could he not? Nothing he said he would stand by now. He was disoriented, emotional..."
George bowed his head and stared at the grain in the wooden table.
"He thought I was going to hit him Martha, I was angry and he said I was just like his other foster fathers"
Martha spun his chair around with some difficulty until they were facing eachother and cupped his cheek with her hand.
"Now I'm sure he couldn't have meant anything he said, because no one in a clear state of mind could think that about you."
He leant forward and rested his head against her shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around her smaller frame. She reciprocated the hug immediately and rested her lips against his forehead, he could feel her warm breath against his skin.
"I... I said something I regret too. I was angry..."
He pulled away from Martha and looked her in the eyes now. Her arm was still draped over his broad shoulder and her hand was stroking his knuckle softly.
"I, I said something about how many foster homes he'd been in. That it was no wonder there had been so many."
Martha closed eyes and sucked in a small breath. When she opened them again he recognised the frustration and despair clear in them.
"Oh George..."
He closed his eyes and nodded.
"I know, I know, I should never have let him provoke me."
She sighed and lowered her head for a moment.
"You need to apologise and learn to keep your cool George. Let it go, don't let things you know to be wrong get to you."
He nodded again and took a sip of water from his glass, still not looking at his wife.
Martha was conflicted. She was angry at George, of course she was. He had been foolish and short sighted, he should never he'd let the argument come to that. But she could also see how much he was beating himself up for what he'd said. He didn't need to be told twice that he'd messed up.
"I'm- I'm confused. I thought you'd have learnt from your argument with Gilbert."
George said nothing but inclined his head slightly. Then he stood up in silence, his face stony and expressionless.
"I'm going to get Gilbert. You don't mind heating the dinner up? I think it's gone cold."
He left the room before she could answer and walked upstairs, his chest feeling tight and his jaw tense.
He knocked on Lafayette's door and heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of papers shuffling.
"Is it dinner?" He heard his son call, his was voice tired and George wondered how he'd been faring. He'd been able to talk to Martha, Lafayette hadn't been able to speak to anyone.
"Yes, it's on the table now."
The door opened and his son stepped out onto the landing. He was changed into pyjamas now and he'd let his hair down so that it surrounded his head in a coconut scented cloud.
George smiled slightly and turned back around, walking downstairs with Lafayette behind him.
Dinner was a quiet affair, George attempted to make casual talk about school, work and whatever else but for the most part Lafayette and Martha stayed silent, only the sound of cutlery scraping plate could be heard. The rest of the house was silent, with no indicator of Alex being awake upstairs. Lafayette reckoned it would be a little while until they saw him again.
After dinner Lafayette went back to his room and George to his while Martha stayed in the kitchen with the newspaper.
John had texted him a few times in the last hour or so, asking for updates on Alex. Lafayette told him the same as before. That Alex was asleep and probably wouldn't wake up till some time tomorrow.
He fell asleep not long after dinner with his phone on his chest and his light still on.
oo
The plaster was cold against his skin, the heating having not been turned on in months. The room was dimly lit, ripples of white light from a street lamp outside casting everything with an eerie, ghostly sheen. The smell of nicotine and fear was working it's way into his nostrils, settling into the folds of his jeans and the curls of his hair.
Large hands were wrapped around his throat; he could feel every callus and blister against his skin, the rough tips of fingers he knew were stained yellow from cigarettes.
"Please..."
He hated his voice when it got like this. How weak and helpless he sounded. Like he couldn't run mental circles around this man for miles on his worst day.
The was no response except the feeling of the hands clenching tighter and fingernails digging into the side of his neck. He knew there'd be marks in the morning, he'd have to hide them for school less someone realise what they were.
The sound of joints clicking in preparation for a fight. Not that there would be much fighting per say, Alexander knew that kind of behaviour only landed him on accident and emergency faster.
The clinking of a belt buckle.
Panic seized him now and his limp arms were up at his throat, clawing at the grip there, squirming, writhing, trying to escape.
A sharp knee into his back stopped his movements quickly, winding him and forcing his hipbones into the wall painfully, there would be bruises there tomorrow too.
He wasn't ready for the first time the belt came down on his back, or even the second or the third. The whistling of leather through the air and the sharp cut across his shoulder stung like a wound that had been rubbed with alcohol. He frantically tried to kick away and groaned in pain, trying to get his mouth to form coherent words.
"Please, please, I'm sorry. You can't... I have s-school tomorrow."
Mr Johnson's hand left his throat and seized his shoulder instead, flipping him around roughly to face him. Alexander whimpered as the lines cut across his back were pressed against the plaster. He didn't dare look up at his foster father's face. He knew that making eye contact was taken as insolence and he didn't want a repetition of the last time he'd made that mistake.
A fist was raised in front of him, pale in the silver light like a full moon hung in the air, ready to swing. He subconsciously ducked away, feeling his back slide down the wall and wincing again when he felt the cuts rub.
The fist connected with the right side of his face and he was sliding to the floor. The room around him was fading in and out of focus before a sharp kick to his ribs cued darkness to fall over his vision.
Alex's eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling heavily and his forehead damp. The curtains were drawn - he thought he remembered closing them the night before - and that harsh, matutinal light fell in beams through the crack in his curtains, a world away from the slow, smooth lustre that filtered into the dark of his room at dusk.
Alexander's hands were clutched tightly around his sheets and his legs were tangled tight in blankets, most likely from his thrashing and kicking moments earlier.
He relaxed his muscles slightly and melted into his bed, feeling his shoulders trembling against the soft cotton of his pillowcase. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to think of things to distract him from the subject matter of his dream.
His mother's laughter, reading in the garden with Lafayette, the beach near his house in Nevis where he'd write.
It was unusual for him to dream about Mr Johnson. Normally Pace was the subject of dark, night time terror and sharp awakening. He rolled over onto his side and looked at the clock. It was eight minutes last ten o'clock. He wondered if any one was home. God, he hoped George wasn't.
Please let him be at work, please let him be at work...
He sat up in his bed and took a deep, steadying breath. He raked his hands through his hair and counted to ten once, twice, three times. Then, slowly he swung his legs out of bed and walked to the bathroom.
He took a quick shower. Burning hot, as usual and dressed slowly in jeans and his hoodie. He didn't want to leave his room lest he run into George and besides, he knew he'd be made eat something and talk about what happened. That he didn't want to do.
They're probably furious at you. George definitely is, Lafayette has certainly sided with John and Martha most likely hates you now you've ruined everything.
He pulled out a pen and set it to his paper, waiting for the words to come flowing from him like they always did. He frowned and thought harder. An essay for English class about the themes of family relationships in the novel. It should be easy. He tapped his pen against the side of his desk, moving the ink further towards the nib. Slowly, he wrote one phrase at the top of his sheet of paper.
Themes of family relationships and the struggles caused by these relationships have much significance in Khaled Hosseini's 'The Kite Runner.'
Bland. Uninspired, dull. Was that all he could come up with?
He crossed out the phrase and started again one line down, rubbing his eyes and tapping the nib of his pen against the margin of his page, a colony of little black dots appearing there.
One hour later he'd written a page and a half that he could barely bring himself to read. It was flat and unemotional, too one sided and not detailed enough to be a sophomore honours class essay. Nothing he talked about went into to depth about the novel and the context in which it was written, barely a B grade if he was honest with himself.
He scrunched up the paper and flung it against the wall, frustration bubbling in him and rising to his chest where it burned his throat like fire.
There was a polite knocking on his door and he jumped slightly, his hand settling back to the desk from its clenched fist in mid air.
"Yeah?"
He stood up and moved towards the door, remembering it was locked. Alex slid the bolt out of place and opened the door hesitantly, peeking out into the corridor.
It was Martha.
Thank God.
He opened the door wider and stood in front of her nervously, wringing his hands together in an anxious dance.
She was holding a large plate out in front of her laden with breakfast. Toast, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages. She'd remembered that he didn't like bacon - from a conversation she hadn't even been part of...
"I heard the shower on so I thought I'd make you breakfast."
She smiled warmly at him, her eyes running over his under eye circles and defeated posture.
"I-I..."
He didn't want to eat. His throat seemed to clench at the thought and his brain furiously told him not to. Not till he'd written a proper essay, not till he deserved to.
Martha inched the food closer to him, a pleading look taking over her features.
"Please Alex, I'm sure you're hungry."
He was hungry. His stomach was growling at him to eat something, anything edible.
"O-okay."
His voice was low and croaky, hoare from yelling and crying the previous evening. Somehow he managed a small smile in Martha's direction and reached forward to take the plate, his shaking hands clasping around the china carefully; he was afraid he would drop it.
"Do you want to come down later, watch something on TV, or do some homework while I'm on my laptop?"
He shrugged and put his plate down on the desk behind him.
"I-I might later, uhh, I'm pretty wrapped up in something right now..."
She smiled and nodded slightly, holding her arms out slightly to invite him into a hug.
He hesitantly stepped forward and they hugged for a moment, her arms tight around his thin shoulders. When she stepped back her face was concerned and her features set anxiously.
"You've lost some weight."
He shifted slightly on his feet and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, shrugging.
"Well, just eat breakfast and I'll see you later, okay."
He nodded and tipped his mouth into an awkward grimace, something not even worthy to be called a smile when compared the the warm grin she gave him, exuding understanding and kindness.
She retreated back downstairs with a wave and Alex walked back into his room, sitting back down at his desk where he had put his breakfast.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Write first, eat later. Write first, eat later. Write first, eat later. You don't deserve it, you don't deserve it, you don't deserve it, you don't deserve it - Don'tdeservedon'tdeservedon'tdeserve.
Alex picked up his plate and put it on the bedside table behind him, where he couldn't see it. He flexed his hand and dismissed the ever growing hunger pangs in his stomach, reasoning that he would work better with his mind sharp and not sleepy from a full stomach.
He set his pen back to his paper and began to write.
New chapter up tomorrow. It's complete, I just need to edit it one last time.
