Chapter 9

Afraid

Feliciano didn't know he could feel this much anxiety outside of his old home. Ever since he discovered how to relax he's been ironically more nervous than normal. It was bad enough he was still afraid of men and loud noises, now he has to be afraid of his arms and legs being seen!

First period was as uneventful as ever. Today their class was going around the school grounds and writing short pieces based on the imagery of the outside world. Feliciano was, again, pulled aside and told to do the best he could. He hated the sympathy more and more.

By last class he was completely drained. His eyes were far too heavy and his legs were far too shaky. He became self-aware and self-conscious of where his socks slid and where his pants shifted to possibly expose the bandages. He grew more anxious as the day dragged on and caught himself multiple times digging his nails into the palm of his hand.

He stumbled to his seat, not caring enough to watch where he was bumping into and which chairs were being moved. He flopped into his usual seat and placed his head in his folded arms. Ludwig watched him with worry as he entered the room. It wasn't like Feliciano to be so careless.
Clumsy, yes, but careless? Never.

But he let his friend sleep, remembering those bitter words, "Don't ruin that." Class let out and he casually nudged the Italian to wake him up before he slinked away.

That night Feliciano and Roderich ate their dinner in silence, neither knowing what to say or how to say it.

"So, Feliciano… how was school?"

"It was fine."

The young teen moved his bare feet together under the table and snuck a few light scratches with his clipped toenails. He needed release and he couldn't get it with this damn Austrian here watching him!

He finished his food and excused himself to get showered. He stopped in his room along the way, bringing a change of clothes with the knife hidden between the loose articles. There was a small beat of triumph in his heart when he locked the bathroom door behind him.

He slid his clothes off, stopping to look at his reflection. The same, ugly reflection. His ribs weren't as sickly prominent and his hips were still jutting out dramatically. He smiled dryly, At least I'm gaining some weight.

He examined his pale skin, where the bruises once were and where the bones once stood starkly against the dirt he used to acquire from the conditions of his old home. It was chilling to watch himself, knowing he may never have that old reflection ever again. No more bruises from his dad and no more reddened cheeks from his mom smacking him. Even the weight gain was a change—no more being starved for beer money.

But his legs would get worse. His legs would be scarred and bleeding in no time, and he liked that. If he liked it, then he didn't have a problem. People who were depressed and emo and cut for attention had problems. He didn't. He was okay.

He sat on the edge of the cold bathtub, legs in the basin, turning the water on as he began the new layer of cuts, all smaller and placed closely together to save "good" space on his skin. The water burned and the cuts hissed in pain, but it was so worth it. The happy feeling danced around the broken skin again and faded up into his head. He felt good again.

The water ran down his long legs and took the red liquid down the drain, leaving trails of the crimson joy down his feet. Feliciano wiped away the red remaining in the tub with his foot and stepped back out. The bandages were easily found under the sink and before long he was all wrapped up again, taking the old, used bandages and the knife with him to his room.

A familiar buzz echoed from the nightstand and he smiled seeing Ludwig's name appear brightly on the screen.

Are you ok? You seemed off today.

He frowned. Why couldn't that idiot leave him be? Feliciano typed an excuse and sent it without care.

I couldn't sleep last night

He stuffed the phone under his pillow and ignored the buzzing to follow. Stupid Ludwig and his stupid unwarranted worry. He angrily grabbed the spare pillow and curled up at the foot of the bed, away from that damn phone. He was too tired to even consider turning it off.

The next day was worse than anticipated. Feliciano fell out of bed, forgetting where he was. He had a small anxiety attack in the darkened room, worried his dad had pushed him out of bed (again) and left him alone to panic until he remembered he was at the Edelstein's home.

Then Elizaveta was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It seemed the adults were doing their best to ensure he ate. Each meal felt bigger than the last, especially since his stomach was still expanding from his previously starved state. All the food in him made him want to get sick when the nerves kicked in.

When he arrived at school each teacher informed him they felt he was ready to do the work again and began piling on the new assignments; forty math questions, an essay about imagery (along with reading the first few chapters of The Scarlet Letter), sketchbook assignments to draw his bedroom and a portrait, along with crippling amounts of notes and study guides for World History.

He was picked up from school by Roderich and left alone at the house again with the promise that they would close the shop early and have dinner together.

Feliciano found himself sitting on the bedroom floor with all the work he had spread around him. He picked random assignments to start on, stopping when he realized he had no idea how to graph that function or format that essay. How could his teachers expect him to do all of this?!

His cheeks burned and his vision blurred. It was stupid to be so upset over this. His negative thoughts began to build up and get heavier as they tipped over and crushed him. Tears leaked out and down his red cheeks. He attempted a few half-assed math problems before he gave up and pushed all the work to the side.

He leaned against his bed and sobbed into his hands, growing louder, unafraid of being heard in this empty house. He begrudgingly stood and dug the knife from his hidden place in the bedside drawer, under an inconspicuous notebook.

The blade felt comfortable in his hand and slicing through his other leg, the clean one. He needed plenty of space to vent and his left leg was already a battlefield beneath the knee. He knew he was going too far, that he should stop and let them heal before he added to it. And as he cut into his previously-good leg, knee to ankle, in hurried slashes, he told himself he would stop. He would give himself time to heal.

Feliciano knew it was all just comforting lies.

And the tears continued to fall and the stress wouldn't leave. He paused, sobbing and gasping for air. It didn't help. The cuts didn't make the pain go away, they made it worse. But… why couldn't he stop?

I like it, he told himself. I deserve this. It's my fault I'm going to fail school and it's my fault that… that my parents…

More sobs wracked his body and he flung the knife aside to the floor. A few limps and he was in the bathroom, sitting on the side of the bathtub, pouring a bottle of alcohol down the cuts in his paranoid fears of getting some kind of blood poisoning. He gasped and loudly sobbed in crooked breaths at the searing pain. He patted his leg dry with some tissue and gingerly wrapped the appendage with a thick layer of gauze and whatever cloth bandages he could find.

He limped back to his room, wiping away the wetness on his raw face. He groaned when he saw the knife, kneeling with a grunt to pick it up and re-hide it, not caring he hadn't cleaned it yet. There was a small darkened spot on the carpet and he kicked a pair of discarded pants to hide it.

He was even more drained than he thought he ever could be and curled up under his blanket, wincing at his legs rubbing against everything. But it was good. He liked it! He needed it!

He hated it.

Completely forgetting the world around him and the early arrival of his guardians, he drifted off.

Feliciano slowly opened his eyes, which were still heavier than lead, watching the wall of his room. There was a nightlight on somewhere and he could actually see his dresser and the desk rather than the total darkness.

As he gained his senses back a small throbbing in his head, with a matching throb in his leg, etched deep into his skin. He felt like he sweated through his blanket and shivered when he made a move to take off the offending covers.

A few rushed sneezes flew through him and he burrowed his face deeper into the pillow as the throb intensified.

The alarm clock to his side was bright and blinding. He narrowed his eyes and read it to himself. 9:45 PM. Oh no. That means Rod and Eliza would be home!

He sniffled, unsure if it was because of his emotions or the apparent sickness. His attempt to sit up was accompanied by a sudden dizziness and he settled for sliding to his back and watching the ceiling.

Elizaveta peaked her head in the room and scurried to the small teen's side, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. She reached a hand out, smoothing the hair out of Feliciano's face. She felt a pang of worry when he flinched away and winced a tiny bit.

She left the room and spoke quietly with Roderich, telling him she was getting worried and Feliciano was sick. The boy couldn't catch a break.

"I'll call the school in the morning," Roderich said airily. Elizaveta nodded and walked to the bathroom to check for supplies while Roderich went to check on Feliciano. The teen was trying to sleep but failing miserably, moaning to himself as he tried to get situated in bed without hurting his head too much. He startled the boy when he sat down and felt his forehead. Feliciano had flinched once more.

He left and quickly returned with Elizaveta. They laid a damp cloth on the teen's forehead, making him whine momentarily at the cool invasion to his skin. Elizaveta patted his hair and stroked his cheek until he fell asleep again.

They left, leaving the door ajar. Elizaveta and Roderich sat in the kitchen, pulling out their cold dinners from the fridge.

"He flinched," Elizaveta murmured. "It was like he was afraid."

"I know," Roderich said. He averted his eyes and the two ate in silence. "I'm calling his brother." He got up from the table and half-eaten food and walked to his bedroom, shortly followed by his wife. They sat together on the bed while the phone rang, eventually picked up by a very angry Italian.

"Someone else better be dead," he hissed.

"It's your brother—"

"Feliciano's dead?!"

"NO! He's not dead!" There was a barely audible sigh of relief on the other end. Roderich composed himself. "We are worried about him."

"The fuck, why?"

"He hasn't been the same. Since…. That night… I haven't seen him act like his usual happy self. He's been bored at school, he's skipping dinners, and that German friend of his stopped by the shop today saying he was worrying as well."

"The potato bastard?"

"Yes, the potato bastard. And he's gotten sick and started flinching away from us. We don't know what to do with him," he admitted.

"Feli doesn't like adults so much," Lovino muttered into the phone. "He's had some bad experiences."

A small coughing in the next room stopped them from their talking. Roderich sighed into the phone, "I think he's awake again. If there's nothing you can tell us then we need to go take care of him—"
"Wait."

Roderich and Elizaveta leaned into the phone, both listening in. It wasn't like Lovino to be so receptive.

"Be careful with him," he bit out.

"We've been trying."

"Not enough!"

"Look, Lovino, we've been doing all we can. It's hard when he keeps acting different!"

There was some shuffling on the other end and Lovino's voice came back, somewhat echoing, as if he moved to the bathroom to speak. "Let's try this: I'm guessing Feli never told you how great our parents were growing up. I'm going to clear shit up. My parents were bastards and they died too late. I'm not going to go into details but, spoiler alert, Feli wasn't mugged that day he came to you bleeding. It doesn't take an idiot to see child abuse. I've got to go. Call me tomorrow." There was a click and the line went dead. Roderich and Elizaveta stared at one another, shocked at the revelation.

Child abuse. Everything made sense again. Feliciano was always willing to work to be out of his house. Feliciano wasn't bruised because he was 'clumsy.' Feliciano's destroyed house spoke volumes and his little flinches were clear as day. He was afraid of being hit. He was afraid of being found out. That poor young man was afraid of them.

Elizaveta wiped the forming tears from her eyes and walked with Roderich to Feliciano's room. They sat on the bed together, watching the boy sleep with a slight grimace on his soft face. Another coughing fit and he was awake again, this time with Elizaveta there to rub his back and with Roderich at his side, holding a trash bin just in case.

He choked down the sobs and coughs and looked at Roderich with his half-lidded eyes. He winced a little when the older man reached forward and wiped his mouth with a tissue. Feliciano closed his eyes again, threatening to fall asleep sitting up. Elizaveta was soothing him in such a foreign way. She was more of a mom and Roderich was more of a dad than—

The tears were back faster than ever and he sniffled while Roderich wiped away the tears, a box of tissues sitting on his lap. Elizaveta held onto him and held him close while he tried to calm down. She and Roderich both kissed the top of his head and helped him lay back down. They replaced the cloth on his forehead and Elizaveta held his hand, stroking the back of it.

"We're staying home tomorrow," Roderich said softly. "And you're skipping school."

"But, I have so much work," he croaked out, voice broken and throat dry.

"I saw your work. The Scarlet Letter sucked," Roderich mused. "No use reading that trash. We'll just rent the movie." Feliciano smiled at the change in character and snuggled deeper into his blankets.

He was drifting away again, content this time. Elizaveta brushed his hair aside, this time with no flinching away. "And Feli," she softly called. "Don't ever be too ashamed to tell us something."

Those words were so uncalled for. He worried he had been caught, but in the moment didn't care if he was. These people were caring for him. They must mean it. He fell asleep for the last time that night, feeling safe for the first time.

"Afraid" by The Neighbourhood

Being me can only mean

Feeling scared to breathe

If you leave me then I'll be afraid of everything

That makes me anxious, gives me patience, calms me down, lets me face this,

Let me sleep,

And when I wake up

(when I wake up, when I wake up)

Let me be