Chapter Text
It's been damn near a year since you’ve been to the hospital.
“you gon get out that phone long enough to enjoy yourself?”
what? you just stare at bro and go back to being on your phone. Besides, it’s not like anything exciting is going on here anyway, you wanna go home, but home wouldn’t be any better either, nothing to eat so you're basically giving yourself an eating disorder while snacking on chips. then you guess there’s also what could be considered verbal abuse or emotional. He never takes what they diagnosed you with seriously.
“You think im playing?” fuck. not this shit again. “I didn't bring you out here for you to be on your phone the whole time. You've been doing that all day.” Sometimes you wish he’d leave you alone.
there’s some fucking pyromaniacs doing a show. You watch them just long enough to lose sight of bro. or so you thought, the firemen also caught his attention and he’s walking over, you follow him and stand next to him and film about a minute of the show right before it ends. You stop at another booth, all this walking is killing your ankles. Theres toys here, you decide on a blue bubble gun “Don’t have all those bubbles in my house” bro says asking you to hold his previously bought oversized lemonade. you sneak obvious sips not knowing the flavor assuming it to be strawberry flavored due to the taste. you stand awkwardly on your phone as bro talks to the stall owner, eventually taking his drink back. He’s talking about his chosen profession while your legs ache from walking, you see an old lady smoking a cigarette and wish you had one. They wrap up their conversation and you walk off.
“you were talking about that lil child with those bubbles but here you go” bro. please. stop.
you retort that you "weren't going to do anything” with the bubble gun until you got home. Which was true, you weren't going to do anything with the blue and white gun located in the plastic bag around your wrist. you keep walking to the car as best as you can with your ankles and knees giving out every minute, giving you a limp of sorts. Why is there so much wrong with you? anxious, depressive, annoying. god you need to die. Bro questions if the chinese spot down the road was still open. like you’d know. Finally, you're in the car. You couldn’t stand another minute of walking.
you go on your phone for the remainder of the car ride, destination unknown, forgetting to buckle yourself in. not like you needed to anyway as bro whipped around the corner to the closing chinese restaurant leaving you in the car to check something inside the clearly vacant restaurant. What is this dumb thundercunt doing? Apparently walking back to the car to tell you to hurry your ass up as they close in thirty minutes. You guess the restaurant wasnt as vacant as you thought.
at checkout you fidget with the hem of your shirt. your ankles are basically blown at this point, the rubber band on the back of your shoes making the irritation even worse. Back in the car you blast music into your ears so they don’t fall victim to bros horrid music taste. placing the two stacked plates between your feet to keep the contents from spilling out. and of course bro has the windows down so wind keeps smacking you in the face or gliding over your surprisingly aerodynamic forehead. You let your phone absorb most of your attention till you're home.
You take your plate of food to your cluttered dark room and start chowing down on the overstuffed plate of noodles, rice, green beans, crab rangoons, and garlic bread. You fucking love garlic bread. You message your friends, especially your best friend and boyfriend, John. He always makes you feel better, and you need that right now because you feel like shit.
You message back and forth a bit with John before telling him you were going to bed. You weren't. You make your way over to your shelf where you pull back the picture frame hiding your blades, you don't know why you bother hiding them, bro doesnt give a shit. He doesn't even hide the knives from you. The only thing he locked away was his meds after he found out your plan of overdosing on them when the counselor told him. You sit down on your bed and take off your hoodie. Sitting in the cold air of your room, you turn on the lamp on your headrest. You hear a door close. He's gone for the night. You stare at your arm, part of you trying to convince yourself not to do it. But you know it needs to be done. You take the blades out of their container and select four out of the thirteen you have at your disposal. They're all dull as shit. You take the first blade and bring it up to your forearm, you bite the inside of your cheek and cringe, prepping yourself mentally and physically for the pain that's about to come your way.