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Sep. 19th, 2006 09:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veiledndarknessTitle: Heavy Thoughts
Author: veiledndarkness
Movie: Breakfast Club
Rating: PG
Summary: Each one must deal with their thoughts, a heavy task.
Disclaimer: not mine, just messing with them.
0
Brian stared down at the ruined elephant in his hands. With exaggeratedly slow movements, he set the ceramic animal on his desk before sitting down on his bed, his hands shaking slightly. He watched it, almost afraid to take his eyes off the pieces of the elephant. It stared back at him, mocking him, mocking his failure, and taunting him every time he closed his eyes. He breathed out shallowly as the sound of his mother’s shrill voice floated up the stairs. The very idea of telling his mother what had happened in shop today sent a bolt of fear through him. Brian knew damn well what his mother would say, the words were always the same and he’d had them drilled into his head ever since he was five years old.
“What do you mean you don’t understand? How could you have gotten this wrong? How stupid are you?” she would say, her voice going higher and higher with anger until it was as sharp as an ice pick, one that would drill in his ears, making him want to cover them and cower from her rage. Her disappoint and the threat behind her voice had kept him toeing the line from a very young age.
Brian swallowed dryly as he stood up, to head downstairs for dinner. Each step he took towards the kitchen was heavier than the last. The note from the principal about his detention was still folded up in his back pocket. ‘I shouldn’t have grabbed the flare gun,’ he thought miserably. He’d been so desperate the night before, unable to think rationally. The very idea of facing his mother put the fear of God into him. Once she saw the lower mark on his grade report, once she read the note and realized that he had essentially flunked shop, Brian shivered. This might be just what she needed to go over the edge.
The worst memory he had of her was of the time that he’d come dangerously close to failing math when he was twelve. He’d been unable to concentrate properly in class and had struggled badly with algebraic equations. Brian had come home to find his mother in an absolute rage. He had cringed and ducked his head while she screamed at him, berating him for not paying attention in class, for not going and getting help from the teacher and worst of all, for not understanding. Brian had bit his lip until it bled, determined not to let her see him cry. It only fueled her fury, he’d learned over the years.
It was the words that she said that hurt the most, Brian reflected later in bed, while he let the silent, hot tears roll down his cheeks. Sometimes he would have preferred a slap to the terrible things she said to him. A slap would have hurt less, he decided. The words lingered, imprinted themselves on his mind and made him doubt everything about himself. And in time, Brian had learned to push, to work harder, to study until his eyes blurred, to push till he couldn’t breathe, if only to keep her happy. All he ever wanted was for her to say she was proud of him.
0
Claire was fairly certain that her mother didn’t love her, not really. Oh, she had pretended for awhile, until she had gotten tired of the façade. Claire had listened with much resentment as her mother went on and on about how wonderful her brother was, and how he had accomplished so much in the time that he was in school. When Claire had shyly shown her mother her essay from English class, one that she had gotten an A on, and her mother had nodded and then told her that she needed to spend more time on her studies the way her brother had if she ever wanted to make something of herself. It was then that Claire had decided to stop trying to win her mother’s approval. She’d switched to her father, winning him over by being as charming as humanly possible.
And now, years later, her plan had backfired miserably as she had become the pawn between her parents, a weapon that they could use to hurt each other. Claire hid in her room, listening to her music and experimenting with her makeup and clothing, blocking out the angry shouts, and the sound of smashing glass on the floor. She didn’t understand how her mother could be so upset at the threats that her father made. ‘It isn’t like she really cares about me,’ she rationalized to herself.
Claire fingered the slip of paper that the principal had given her the day after she’d cut school. She winced as the sound of more glass echoed down the hallway. She wondered idly how many glasses her mother had broken in ten years. Claire examined her fingernails while she waited for the inevitable slam of the bedroom door before she left for her friend’s house. ‘I’ll give them the note in the morning,’ she decided.
The worst memory she had was of the day she heard her mother on the phone to a friend. To Claire’s surprise and horror, her mother had been on a rant about how useless Claire was and how she would never amount to anything, about how they’d probably still be supporting her when she was an adult, about how much of a disappointment she was to them. Claire had leaned against the wall, her mouth dry, her heart beating madly, and felt the sudden urge to vomit uncontrollably. The last words reverberated loudly in her ears.
That night, Claire had tossed and turned in her bed, feeling hot, bitter hatred lodging in her heart. She felt a burning need to scream, and swallowed over the hard lump in her throat instead. ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she thought as she choked on the unwanted tears. ‘Why can’t she just love me the way I am?’
0
Allison sat in stony silence at the dinner table, stabbing her pork chop with the tines of her fork, mutilating it while her parents talked over her as though she didn’t exist. After four years of silence, Allison supposed that it must feel just like she wasn’t there. She stared out the window and watched a blackbird hop from branch to branch. ‘I wonder if I could fly if I wanted to bad enough?’ she thought, a small smile on her face at the idea of what her parent’s might say if they saw her trying to fly. She bit back a sigh as her parents laughed about something that she hadn’t heard. Allison tapped her foot to an irregular rhythm, ignoring the curious look from her father.
She stood up without a word and walked to her room, her plate of food only half-eaten. Her parents glanced at each other and sadly shook their heads. She wouldn’t talk to them, wouldn’t let them in. Allison rolled her eyes as she slammed the door behind her. ‘It’s their own doing,’ she thought viciously. She sat down on her bed, her notebook always close by as she started sketching the blackbird she had seen outside, outlining every detail, capturing the bird in mid-flight. She felt free when she let her herself draw without restraint. Allison scoffed softly as she remembered the last time she had said anything to her parents voluntarily. She’d asked her mom to look at some of her drawings, seeking, wanting approval much more than she was willing to admit. Her mother had brushed her off with a hastily promised ‘later’. ‘Too late now,’ she whispered as she initialed the page.
Allison flipped through her books, making a halfhearted attempt at doing her homework before giving up and lying down on her bed and staring up at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and envisioned herself to be flying, soaring above the clouds, anywhere but in the house where silence cloaked the inhabitants and you could cut the tension with a knife. She mentally went over her day and realized that the next day was Saturday. ‘The school, I’ll go there,’ she decided as she swooped below a flock of geese, smiling at the way they honked and squawked angrily at her.
The worst memory that Allison had was of Parent’s night when she had been 14, her first year of high school. She had left out the forms, making sure to leave them where she knew her parents would see them, feeling unable to tell them how badly she’d wanted them to come and see the art display that she had been asked to do for the event. A whole childhood of repressed feelings and rare displays of affection had left her desperately craving attention and being alternately afraid of it. Throughout the whole evening, Allison had waited, sure that her parents were just running late, confident that they would come, that they would understand why she didn’t just tell them how much she needed this.
When she had finally gone home, numbly accepting the truth that they hadn’t come, the car hadn’t broken down, and that they did not even notice that she hadn’t been home all evening. She had gone to her room and stared at the wall until black dots swam in front of her eyes. Allison swore then and there, that she would never share anything of herself with them ever again. And despite her vow, a small part of her wanted to run and scream at her parents, to tell them just why she was so upset, to let them know what they had missed. ‘Why should I?’ she thought cynically. ‘They ignore me anyway.’
0
Andy punched left and right, his hands moving in fast, furious arches. Sweat trickled down his forehead, irritating his eyes as he swung faster, his arms blurring while he moved. It didn’t matter, he could have been on fire, and still the sound of Larry’s screams wouldn’t have left his ears. He threw one last punch before crouching down, holding his knees and gasping from exertion. He sat down on the bench nearby and rubbed at his head roughly with a towel. It was all he could do to stay calm. He’d been jittery all day, knowing what was ahead of him, knowing what his father would say.
He knew that his father thought of him as fighter, someone strong who could be the best. But still, he knew that his father expected more, always more. Exercise longer, push harder, win at all costs, and never, ever give up. Andy wanted his father’s approval; he wanted him to be proud and to say that he knew that Andy could do it. And yet, in the moments when his father was screaming and berating him for not holding out longer on the floor, the only thing that he wanted was to have his knee give, right there and then. The voice would go and Andy could just stop, stop running, stop forcing himself to go the extra mile, stop worrying if he was doing it right and just be himself, not whatever his father thought he could be.
Andy gulped down water in between pulling his clothes on. He avoided looking at the corner of the room where Larry’s locker was. He felt a blush of shame creep over his neck. The other guys had encouraged him, cheered him on, and Andy had felt like a king in those moments. He was doing what his father had told him. That the weak were less than him, how they shouldn’t be considered equals and that he was better than them. He knew his father was wrong and he still hadn’t been able to stop, not until it was too late, and by the time the fog had lifted from his eyes, Larry had been sobbing on the ground and the room had fallen silent. He hurried from the room and out into the parking lot where his father was waiting for him.
The worst memory that Andy had was the day that he had given up during a match, had lost a game and the look on his father’s face still made him shudder several years later. The pain had been intense, he’d been gasping for breath and the grip the other guy had on him was a solid one. He’d seen a way to flip him, and knew deep down that his dad would have seen it too, but he hadn’t taken it. He’d let the other guy take the win and he had lain on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the ref blew the whistle. The look of raw fury on his father’s face had him up and moving, into the car so fast that the match had seemed like a dream. The fight they had that night ended with his father slapping him for the first time in his life.
Andy felt his eyes sting with useless tears. He closed his eyes tightly and scrubbed harder in the shower, turning the water up as hot as it would go. He could still hear Larry calling out for help, could hear the sound of his father’s angry words, and the memory of the disappointed look on his mother’s face wouldn’t leave him. He got out of the shower and stared at himself in the mirror. The hatred he felt was making him dizzy. He hated himself, he hated the guilt, the momentary pride that he’d felt in the locker room, and his father, God, how he hated him. ‘I wish he would just forget all about me,’ he whispered.
0
John kicked a pop can all the way down the street towards his house. The yappy dog in the neighbor’s yard started barking the second it saw him, straining excitedly on its lead. John sneered at the dog as he walked by. Home was the last place that he wanted to be right now. He approached the house slowly despite the chilled spring air. He opened the side door by the kitchen cautiously and peered inside. There was no sign of his mother or his father. He went down to the basement where he’d made a makeshift bedroom after his father had trashed his regular room in a drunken fit. He sat down with a heavy thud on the worn mattress and lit up a cigarette. He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he glanced around the room. He laughed to himself as he remembered the look on Vernon’s face when he’d given him the detention. Oh yes, false alarms were funny to him. He tapped the tip of his cigarette absently as he remembered.
John knew that if his dad were to find out that he had detention again, he’d be in for a beating. He made it a point to try and not be home on the weekends, days that he knew were usually filled with his father drinking till he passed out. He snorted at the fact that his earliest memory of his father was one where he had a beer can in one hand and with the other, gesturing at the TV explaining to him how the rules of football worked. John knew that at some point his father must have loved him, maybe when he was still too young to talk back, to question why they were so poor, and to take notice of the way his father drank. He sniffed lightly as his nose began to run again.
He lay back against the cold wall and wrapped the old blanket on the bed around himself. He shivered slightly, his stomach rumbling quietly. John sighed. At least tomorrow meant that he wouldn’t have to spend the day outside. The cold air left him chilled right to the bone. He pulled his knees up closer to his body in a vain attempt at finding warmth. John closed his eyes and tried to ignore his hunger pangs. ‘What’s so bad about a false alarm anyway?’ he wondered sleepily.
The worst memory that John had was the day that he spilled paint in the garage. He’d spent the day digging around, looking for various odds and ends. The teacher had told them to find things from home to use for their Father’s day gifts. John had already found several interesting things that he might be able to use, things he was sure that no one would miss. His father had stumbled into the room, swaying slightly, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. He’d demanded to know what John thought he was doing. The yell startled him badly, and in doing so, caused him to knock over a half empty can of paint from the lowest shelf. He watched in horror as it fell to the ground with a dull bang. His father had yelled so loudly that John’s ears began to ring. In a blur of movement, his dad had him cowering in the corner, arms raised to shield his face as the blows rained down on him. Through his cries of pain and his father’s shouts, he saw the burning red light of his father’s cigar ash coming towards him. A second later, a scalding, searing pain ate through his cries and his pain turned to panic, until his eyes rolled up into his head and he mercifully blacked out.
John fingered the edge of his scar through his shirt. It was just one of his many scars but that one hurt the most. All he’d wanted to do was to make his dad a gift for Father’s day. Something that might have made him smile, or made him happy enough to hug John and tell him that he was sorry, and that he loved him. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. He felt the usual angry wave roll over him every time he remembered something bad from when he was younger. It left him breathing hard and feeling the urge to hurt someone, to destroy something. He wanted to hurt, to cause pain and make someone besides himself suffer. He wanted love. ‘Screw love, love only brings pain,’ he thought resentfully. ‘And scars.’
Author: veiledndarkness
Movie: Breakfast Club
Rating: PG
Summary: Each one must deal with their thoughts, a heavy task.
Disclaimer: not mine, just messing with them.
0
Brian stared down at the ruined elephant in his hands. With exaggeratedly slow movements, he set the ceramic animal on his desk before sitting down on his bed, his hands shaking slightly. He watched it, almost afraid to take his eyes off the pieces of the elephant. It stared back at him, mocking him, mocking his failure, and taunting him every time he closed his eyes. He breathed out shallowly as the sound of his mother’s shrill voice floated up the stairs. The very idea of telling his mother what had happened in shop today sent a bolt of fear through him. Brian knew damn well what his mother would say, the words were always the same and he’d had them drilled into his head ever since he was five years old.
“What do you mean you don’t understand? How could you have gotten this wrong? How stupid are you?” she would say, her voice going higher and higher with anger until it was as sharp as an ice pick, one that would drill in his ears, making him want to cover them and cower from her rage. Her disappoint and the threat behind her voice had kept him toeing the line from a very young age.
Brian swallowed dryly as he stood up, to head downstairs for dinner. Each step he took towards the kitchen was heavier than the last. The note from the principal about his detention was still folded up in his back pocket. ‘I shouldn’t have grabbed the flare gun,’ he thought miserably. He’d been so desperate the night before, unable to think rationally. The very idea of facing his mother put the fear of God into him. Once she saw the lower mark on his grade report, once she read the note and realized that he had essentially flunked shop, Brian shivered. This might be just what she needed to go over the edge.
The worst memory he had of her was of the time that he’d come dangerously close to failing math when he was twelve. He’d been unable to concentrate properly in class and had struggled badly with algebraic equations. Brian had come home to find his mother in an absolute rage. He had cringed and ducked his head while she screamed at him, berating him for not paying attention in class, for not going and getting help from the teacher and worst of all, for not understanding. Brian had bit his lip until it bled, determined not to let her see him cry. It only fueled her fury, he’d learned over the years.
It was the words that she said that hurt the most, Brian reflected later in bed, while he let the silent, hot tears roll down his cheeks. Sometimes he would have preferred a slap to the terrible things she said to him. A slap would have hurt less, he decided. The words lingered, imprinted themselves on his mind and made him doubt everything about himself. And in time, Brian had learned to push, to work harder, to study until his eyes blurred, to push till he couldn’t breathe, if only to keep her happy. All he ever wanted was for her to say she was proud of him.
0
Claire was fairly certain that her mother didn’t love her, not really. Oh, she had pretended for awhile, until she had gotten tired of the façade. Claire had listened with much resentment as her mother went on and on about how wonderful her brother was, and how he had accomplished so much in the time that he was in school. When Claire had shyly shown her mother her essay from English class, one that she had gotten an A on, and her mother had nodded and then told her that she needed to spend more time on her studies the way her brother had if she ever wanted to make something of herself. It was then that Claire had decided to stop trying to win her mother’s approval. She’d switched to her father, winning him over by being as charming as humanly possible.
And now, years later, her plan had backfired miserably as she had become the pawn between her parents, a weapon that they could use to hurt each other. Claire hid in her room, listening to her music and experimenting with her makeup and clothing, blocking out the angry shouts, and the sound of smashing glass on the floor. She didn’t understand how her mother could be so upset at the threats that her father made. ‘It isn’t like she really cares about me,’ she rationalized to herself.
Claire fingered the slip of paper that the principal had given her the day after she’d cut school. She winced as the sound of more glass echoed down the hallway. She wondered idly how many glasses her mother had broken in ten years. Claire examined her fingernails while she waited for the inevitable slam of the bedroom door before she left for her friend’s house. ‘I’ll give them the note in the morning,’ she decided.
The worst memory she had was of the day she heard her mother on the phone to a friend. To Claire’s surprise and horror, her mother had been on a rant about how useless Claire was and how she would never amount to anything, about how they’d probably still be supporting her when she was an adult, about how much of a disappointment she was to them. Claire had leaned against the wall, her mouth dry, her heart beating madly, and felt the sudden urge to vomit uncontrollably. The last words reverberated loudly in her ears.
That night, Claire had tossed and turned in her bed, feeling hot, bitter hatred lodging in her heart. She felt a burning need to scream, and swallowed over the hard lump in her throat instead. ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she thought as she choked on the unwanted tears. ‘Why can’t she just love me the way I am?’
0
Allison sat in stony silence at the dinner table, stabbing her pork chop with the tines of her fork, mutilating it while her parents talked over her as though she didn’t exist. After four years of silence, Allison supposed that it must feel just like she wasn’t there. She stared out the window and watched a blackbird hop from branch to branch. ‘I wonder if I could fly if I wanted to bad enough?’ she thought, a small smile on her face at the idea of what her parent’s might say if they saw her trying to fly. She bit back a sigh as her parents laughed about something that she hadn’t heard. Allison tapped her foot to an irregular rhythm, ignoring the curious look from her father.
She stood up without a word and walked to her room, her plate of food only half-eaten. Her parents glanced at each other and sadly shook their heads. She wouldn’t talk to them, wouldn’t let them in. Allison rolled her eyes as she slammed the door behind her. ‘It’s their own doing,’ she thought viciously. She sat down on her bed, her notebook always close by as she started sketching the blackbird she had seen outside, outlining every detail, capturing the bird in mid-flight. She felt free when she let her herself draw without restraint. Allison scoffed softly as she remembered the last time she had said anything to her parents voluntarily. She’d asked her mom to look at some of her drawings, seeking, wanting approval much more than she was willing to admit. Her mother had brushed her off with a hastily promised ‘later’. ‘Too late now,’ she whispered as she initialed the page.
Allison flipped through her books, making a halfhearted attempt at doing her homework before giving up and lying down on her bed and staring up at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and envisioned herself to be flying, soaring above the clouds, anywhere but in the house where silence cloaked the inhabitants and you could cut the tension with a knife. She mentally went over her day and realized that the next day was Saturday. ‘The school, I’ll go there,’ she decided as she swooped below a flock of geese, smiling at the way they honked and squawked angrily at her.
The worst memory that Allison had was of Parent’s night when she had been 14, her first year of high school. She had left out the forms, making sure to leave them where she knew her parents would see them, feeling unable to tell them how badly she’d wanted them to come and see the art display that she had been asked to do for the event. A whole childhood of repressed feelings and rare displays of affection had left her desperately craving attention and being alternately afraid of it. Throughout the whole evening, Allison had waited, sure that her parents were just running late, confident that they would come, that they would understand why she didn’t just tell them how much she needed this.
When she had finally gone home, numbly accepting the truth that they hadn’t come, the car hadn’t broken down, and that they did not even notice that she hadn’t been home all evening. She had gone to her room and stared at the wall until black dots swam in front of her eyes. Allison swore then and there, that she would never share anything of herself with them ever again. And despite her vow, a small part of her wanted to run and scream at her parents, to tell them just why she was so upset, to let them know what they had missed. ‘Why should I?’ she thought cynically. ‘They ignore me anyway.’
0
Andy punched left and right, his hands moving in fast, furious arches. Sweat trickled down his forehead, irritating his eyes as he swung faster, his arms blurring while he moved. It didn’t matter, he could have been on fire, and still the sound of Larry’s screams wouldn’t have left his ears. He threw one last punch before crouching down, holding his knees and gasping from exertion. He sat down on the bench nearby and rubbed at his head roughly with a towel. It was all he could do to stay calm. He’d been jittery all day, knowing what was ahead of him, knowing what his father would say.
He knew that his father thought of him as fighter, someone strong who could be the best. But still, he knew that his father expected more, always more. Exercise longer, push harder, win at all costs, and never, ever give up. Andy wanted his father’s approval; he wanted him to be proud and to say that he knew that Andy could do it. And yet, in the moments when his father was screaming and berating him for not holding out longer on the floor, the only thing that he wanted was to have his knee give, right there and then. The voice would go and Andy could just stop, stop running, stop forcing himself to go the extra mile, stop worrying if he was doing it right and just be himself, not whatever his father thought he could be.
Andy gulped down water in between pulling his clothes on. He avoided looking at the corner of the room where Larry’s locker was. He felt a blush of shame creep over his neck. The other guys had encouraged him, cheered him on, and Andy had felt like a king in those moments. He was doing what his father had told him. That the weak were less than him, how they shouldn’t be considered equals and that he was better than them. He knew his father was wrong and he still hadn’t been able to stop, not until it was too late, and by the time the fog had lifted from his eyes, Larry had been sobbing on the ground and the room had fallen silent. He hurried from the room and out into the parking lot where his father was waiting for him.
The worst memory that Andy had was the day that he had given up during a match, had lost a game and the look on his father’s face still made him shudder several years later. The pain had been intense, he’d been gasping for breath and the grip the other guy had on him was a solid one. He’d seen a way to flip him, and knew deep down that his dad would have seen it too, but he hadn’t taken it. He’d let the other guy take the win and he had lain on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the ref blew the whistle. The look of raw fury on his father’s face had him up and moving, into the car so fast that the match had seemed like a dream. The fight they had that night ended with his father slapping him for the first time in his life.
Andy felt his eyes sting with useless tears. He closed his eyes tightly and scrubbed harder in the shower, turning the water up as hot as it would go. He could still hear Larry calling out for help, could hear the sound of his father’s angry words, and the memory of the disappointed look on his mother’s face wouldn’t leave him. He got out of the shower and stared at himself in the mirror. The hatred he felt was making him dizzy. He hated himself, he hated the guilt, the momentary pride that he’d felt in the locker room, and his father, God, how he hated him. ‘I wish he would just forget all about me,’ he whispered.
0
John kicked a pop can all the way down the street towards his house. The yappy dog in the neighbor’s yard started barking the second it saw him, straining excitedly on its lead. John sneered at the dog as he walked by. Home was the last place that he wanted to be right now. He approached the house slowly despite the chilled spring air. He opened the side door by the kitchen cautiously and peered inside. There was no sign of his mother or his father. He went down to the basement where he’d made a makeshift bedroom after his father had trashed his regular room in a drunken fit. He sat down with a heavy thud on the worn mattress and lit up a cigarette. He blew out a thin stream of smoke as he glanced around the room. He laughed to himself as he remembered the look on Vernon’s face when he’d given him the detention. Oh yes, false alarms were funny to him. He tapped the tip of his cigarette absently as he remembered.
John knew that if his dad were to find out that he had detention again, he’d be in for a beating. He made it a point to try and not be home on the weekends, days that he knew were usually filled with his father drinking till he passed out. He snorted at the fact that his earliest memory of his father was one where he had a beer can in one hand and with the other, gesturing at the TV explaining to him how the rules of football worked. John knew that at some point his father must have loved him, maybe when he was still too young to talk back, to question why they were so poor, and to take notice of the way his father drank. He sniffed lightly as his nose began to run again.
He lay back against the cold wall and wrapped the old blanket on the bed around himself. He shivered slightly, his stomach rumbling quietly. John sighed. At least tomorrow meant that he wouldn’t have to spend the day outside. The cold air left him chilled right to the bone. He pulled his knees up closer to his body in a vain attempt at finding warmth. John closed his eyes and tried to ignore his hunger pangs. ‘What’s so bad about a false alarm anyway?’ he wondered sleepily.
The worst memory that John had was the day that he spilled paint in the garage. He’d spent the day digging around, looking for various odds and ends. The teacher had told them to find things from home to use for their Father’s day gifts. John had already found several interesting things that he might be able to use, things he was sure that no one would miss. His father had stumbled into the room, swaying slightly, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. He’d demanded to know what John thought he was doing. The yell startled him badly, and in doing so, caused him to knock over a half empty can of paint from the lowest shelf. He watched in horror as it fell to the ground with a dull bang. His father had yelled so loudly that John’s ears began to ring. In a blur of movement, his dad had him cowering in the corner, arms raised to shield his face as the blows rained down on him. Through his cries of pain and his father’s shouts, he saw the burning red light of his father’s cigar ash coming towards him. A second later, a scalding, searing pain ate through his cries and his pain turned to panic, until his eyes rolled up into his head and he mercifully blacked out.
John fingered the edge of his scar through his shirt. It was just one of his many scars but that one hurt the most. All he’d wanted to do was to make his dad a gift for Father’s day. Something that might have made him smile, or made him happy enough to hug John and tell him that he was sorry, and that he loved him. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. He felt the usual angry wave roll over him every time he remembered something bad from when he was younger. It left him breathing hard and feeling the urge to hurt someone, to destroy something. He wanted to hurt, to cause pain and make someone besides himself suffer. He wanted love. ‘Screw love, love only brings pain,’ he thought resentfully. ‘And scars.’
