DISCLAIMER:
THIS CHAPTER CONATINS DESCRIPTIONS AMD DISCUSSIONS OF PHYSICAL ABUSE, MENTAL/VERBAL ABUSE, CANCER/ILLNESS, AND HOSPITAL-RELATED DEATHS. IF YOU ARE SENSATIVE TO THESE TOPICS, DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER.
He heard screaming and yelling.
That was all he ever heard.
Even when he wasn't at home, he still heard them, the voices ringing in his ears.
Get the hell out of there!
You useless waste of space.
Do me a favor and stop breathing.
What are you doing just standing there?
Make yourself useful for once!
I hate you.
I wish I had never had you!
Resist one more time and see what happens.
You told anyone, boy?
You piece of garbage!
It was a lie when people said that words stopped hurting over time, or that a person could block them out. That simply didn't happen. The words continued to hurt, even though he had heard them thousands and thousands of times since he was a kid.
Right now, he was living through the hurt behind the closed shutter door of his locked closet. The words imprinted themselves on his brain, burning into his subconscious. It even stung more than the beatings. You could eventually get used to the pain when it came to physical abuse. Your pain tolerance always had room to improve, and he was pretty sure that his was at its maximum. He could take full hits without a sound.
It was also easier to escape the physical abuse. It didn't matter how hard he clasped his hands over his ears; he could never block out the sound of the shouting.
"Get out here, you piece of shit!"
Lance pulled his knees tighter to his chest and pushed his palms against his ears with every ounce of his strength. The shutter door in front of him rattled as fists pounded against it. The doorknob made a horrible creaking sound as it was turned and pulled furiously. He could see his father's outline through the slits of the door, the form looming. The boy could always smell the alcohol seeping through his pores, the odor caused by constant drinking. It had been a bit heavier today. Without even seeing the man's face, Lance could tell that his father was drunk out of his mind. That scared him more than anything. His heart hammered and pulsated, shooting adrenaline through his veins that caused his hands to shake and his breath to come in short pants. He just had to pray that the door held shut. He had tied it closed with one of his old hoodies. It wasn't the best method, but it was the only one he had. He had twisted the sleeves around the long, curved door handle and tied the rest on to the clothing wrack above his head. No way to open it or close it unless the clothing was untied.
Lance wished it would never come undone, even when his father left, his rage spent. He wished he could just stay there and waste away. If he left, wouldn't that just mean more beatings? Wouldn't it mean more pain? More anguish? He would rather lock himself in his closet and starve. It was the least painful thing to do.
Suddenly, the pounding at the door grew just a bit more forceful. He could hear a splintering sound and looked to see that the door handle had twisted to the side a bit. The fabric started to slip.
No, no, no, no!
Had his father started to beat on the door handle? Had he figured it out? If so, he was screwed. Desperately, he scrambled to grab at the hoodie that held the door in place. He tightened the ends, grabbing the door and holding it with every ounce of his strength. The fear seemed to have taken root throughout his body, amplifying his grip. Had his drunken father heard the crack? Had he felt the budge? He prayed for the first time that the man had consumed so much alcohol that it impaired his senses beyond comprehension. He listened intently, heartbeat pounding in his ears. The pounding continued to rain down onto the shutter door, but he did not hear another heart-stopping splinter.
Lance hung his head between his knees, sighing in relief. His arms were twisted uncormfortably in front of him, his shaking hands still gripping at the hoodie.
He was safe. He was safe. He was fine.
He was fine...
The lanky boy felt tears prick in his eyes and his breath came in a heaving shutter.
He wasn't fine.
It seemed that he would never be fine.
xxx
Hunk was in the middle of telling some ridiculous pun when the monitors started screaming and beeping that something was very, very wrong. He saw his sister's shrunken eyes flutter, saw her skeleton of a body start to spasm. He felt a nurse shove his frozen body aside and heard her yell something about a 'code blue' and slam her hand down on a button behind his sister's hospital bed. If he could hear and see and feel all of these things, then why wasn't it processing? Why wasn't he terrified? Why was he still standing there, frozen, as a doctor rushed in and ripped her hospital gown open and charged electric paddles against her chest? They shocked her four times. After the first one, the monitor stopped screening out smashing sounds and went scarily flat. The next two were unsuccessful. After the third one, however, the monitor picked up another terrifying screech and his sister gasped for breath, her eyes fluttering open.
He was numb.
He felt something warm on his cheeks, something that travelled down from his eyes down to his neck.
There were hands on his chest, ushering him out. He looked up to see that it was a doctor in a long, white, scary lab coat. His mouth was moving, but Hunk couldn't hear it.
Suddenly, his stomach was in his throat and he was running down the hallway, turning towards the bathroom. He dove into the nearest stall and emptied the contents of his gut into it, coughing hard. Hunk leaned against the small walls of the stall, panting. He had to collect himself. He had to collect himself.
He backed out of the small confinement shakily, leaning on the sink and washing his mouth. He looked up at his reflection, barely even processing what he was seeing. There was a large, flushed face in front of him. Tears streamed down his face and left clear marks all the way to his neck. Vomit pooled in the corners of his smile-less mouth.
Who was that person?
Who was the one he saw in the mirror?
He didn't recognise it.
Before he even knew what he was doing Hunk had slammed his palm against the glass, over the unrecognisable face.he couldn't look anymore. He couldn't do it anymore.
Slowly, he turned away and pulled his hand back, sinking to the bathroom tile.
He didn't even recognise himself anymore.
XXX
MmmMm.
These are gonna take a while to come out.
I'm taking all sorts of summer classes and I don't have my laptop and all that shiz, so yeah.
I'm really sorry that this is so short but I couldn't find a way to transition it into the next bit that I wanted to write. I'll make the next one longer to make up for it.
Anyways, thank you for reading~
Carobonara~!