Hey! Things have been stressful for me lately, with school, sports, homework, essays, anxiety. You know, the usual :')
Anyway, enjoy the fourth chapter, and don't forget to R&R, everyone!
. . .
I groggily open my eyes and turn my tired gaze to the same clock, sitting on the table, as it was there yesterday morning: 2:17am. Groaning quietly, I get up and out of my bed, and pull the covers up to the pillow, leaving it organized and clean, just how I like it. I cannot stand an unmade bed; it shows irresponsibility and carelessness. It shows that one has no motivation to keep something so simple, clean. Therefore, I prefer to leave my bed made every morning, as it shows that I care for the very few things that I have in life.
My feet drag across the lair floor as I walk, my form slumped and slow. I used to playfully and excitedly run and hop along this floor, laughing and playing with my three dear brothers. I used to run around this place with a real smile on my face, not one that has been forced for the sake of others' worry. Now, everything is different. Everything has changed. I walk around with a frown, no longer bringing that joyful spring to my step as I walk. After everything I have experienced over these past several years, I see no reason to.
My mind is a haze right now; all I can think of is the negetive things in my life. The beatings from my own father, the opinionated behavior of my intermediate younger, the loathing of all my friends and family, the burden of leadership, and most of all, my depression.
I enter the kitchen, and reach for the cupboard. I pull out a clear glass and look at it. I see myself looking back at me. I stare into those ugly, sapphire eyes, that have clearly defined most of my emotions and feelings though the irises. I stare at the dark blue mask, that has symbolized my role of my team. It has symbolized my leadership, my part, my job . . . and that job is to be the best leader and protector there is.
There's another part of me that I stare into: my hatred. I see my own hatred towards myself in the glass. I scoff in disgust, clearly disgusted by the way I look, the way I can easily track and see my own hatred, and the way I have chosen to handle myself. After everything I have done, there is no reason to not hate myself. I see more reasons to do it than to not to, so I have just chosen to roll with it. I will admit, I hate myself more than I will ever begin to explain. I cannot describe such an emotion that is so frequently held by various people. I hate myself for my actions of the past, my predictions of the future, and the way I am trying to control the present. I've done so many wrong things in my life, more than I could ever describe. I have sinned, made plenty of mistakes, and have been committed to doing things that I will regret . . .
I set the glass on the counter and open up a drawer, starting to scrutinize through it. I keep tossing things on the counter, still finding my way to the small knife in the back corner of the drawer. I hastily grab the knife, and start to mark deep, long cuts along my wrist. Go on. Cut. Cut until you can't bleed anymore. Cut until you collapse. Cut. Cut. Cut. The voices inside my head scream at me, demanding to be heard. They don't care about you. They never have, especially him. He'll never love you. He'll never feel the same about you. You know that. He sees you as nothing but a mistake; a fault in the system. The knife digs deeper into my skin, causing a small stinging sensation. Go on, keep cutting. Go deeper. Deeper. Deeper. They hate you. They all do.
They all do.
"Leo? What are ya' doin'?" I am snapped out of my thoughts as I see him, he's standing across from me, and he looks . . .
He looks worried? Concerned, maybe? But, why? Why would he be worried about someone that he doesn't care about, that he hates? He couldn't care less about a thing I do, so why would he be so worried, so concerned?
All of these questions are coursing through my mind, that I don't even process the fact that he has grabbed the knife from me, and is now holding it in his hand, his other hand clasped around my wrist. "What were ya' doin' with this?" He asked, confused.
'I was going to cut myself deeper and deeper, until I finally bleed out.' Boy, it would be unbelievable to experience what he would do if I actually said that to him. But then a sudden question hits me, something leaving me pondering aimlessly . . .
What if it isn't the things he would do, but if it's the things that he wouldn't?
What if he doesn't do a thing about it? What if he shrugs it off and just carries on without a care? What if he just lets it go, like there's no problem? What if he doesn't bother to care about me?
"Leo? Ya' keep spacin' out. Is there somethin' wrong?" Now he is looking really worried. But, why? Why would he be worried for someone like me?
"Of course not. Why?"
"'Cause I asked ya' a question."
"Oh, well, what was it?" I feel completely out of my way and lost right now. What did he say?
"I asked what ya' were doin' in here, with this." He held up the knife in his hand, as I see my disgustful reflection once more, through the bloodied blade.
I snatch the knife away from him, causing him to flinch. "N-Nothing. I-I was just getting something from the drawer, a-and my hand slipped and the knife was there, that's all." My voice is once again stutterful and shaky, which, unfortunately, catches his attention.
"Why are ya' stutterin' so much?"
"I'm just tired."
"Then why aren't ya' asleep?"
"I couldn't fall asleep."
"How are ya' not able ta' sleep when ya' tired?"
That's it. I don't know what just got into me, but it was not good. I was so annoyed with this, but I had no idea why. He was just asking questions, right? "Goddammit, Raph, I just can't sleep! Now will you stop with all these questions already?"
His confused expression turns into a hard, stern one, his brows furrowing in anger. His teeth are gritted together, as I can see he is trying to hold back a low growl. "Fine, but don't come cryin' ta' me, Fearless, when ya' get insomnia." He pushes past me, shoving me into the refrigerator. I can hear him mumble lowly as he walks out.
"It's not like I care, anyway."
My gaze softens at this, as I watch the distance between us expand. I hate to see him leave me like that—angry, done with, careless. It makes me want to reach out to him and apologize for all my mistakes. It makes me want to keep him forever in my reach, so I could feel him beside me, instead of the cold, sharp metal—that I had advanced to, from glass—dragging across my skin.
I look at the knife still in my hand. I go to reach for more cuts, before I rush to the sink and clean it off. I place the knife carefully back in its place, along with everything else I tossed out of the drawer before hand. My bandages are worn, so I slowly walk back to my room to rewrap my arms.
I start to remember my reflection. Those cold eyes staring back at themselves, mimicking each other. My pursed lips, tied in a knot, making me unable to speak out my problems, my troubles. I am unable to seek help, as I have no one to run to; no one to call my family. They all hate me.
They all do.
That's what hurts me the most. The fact that I am alone, with no one to turn to, no one to guide me along the way to freedom.
Alone. That's how I always feel. Broken. That's how I always am. I always am, and always will be, alone and broken.
. . .
Sorry for such a short chapter; this was just a side-tracker chapter. but I'll make it up next time.