im high and sad. enjoy this rlly shitty thing i wrote.
Your name is Dave Strider. You're on the bathroom floor, watching the doorknob wiggle and the wood paneling to the medicine cabinet shake on impact. Your brother is banging on the door, desperately trying to coax you out. Legally, he is supposed to take care of you. He's supposed to make sure every day of your life is lived with the utmost certainty that there will be another. He always had room to fill in that role, though.
He's screaming at you through a slurred, intoxicated tone- making sure you can hear every word he's saying. You know he's pressing the side of his face up against the door, you just know it. You picture each word dancing from the gap between the tile floor and him, slowly stepping their way onto your lap. They are displayed in front of you- and God, are they ugly.
It's never really been this bad. Normally it's just a light tap on the ass, or a snide comment about what you're wearing. Nothing has ever gotten him to the point where he's trying to break down the structural integrity of a room to try and touch you. You think to yourself; sullen and scared, ‘If he was a girl, I would be the luckiest man alive'.
But he's not a girl you like, and he's not that teacher you had a crush on in the seventh grade, and he's not someone you'll love forever. He is the posterboy of hate and resentment. His face is what you doodle down with Crayola Twistables when your therapist asks you to draw ‘unsafe’. How did you make it this far? How have you not jumped out that third floor window yet? You trace the grout with your fingernails for a moment and think. You don't want your life to end before you get to be alone and happy. That's simple enough.
Sure you've thought about it. The way your spine would crunch against the pavement, the sound of police sirens, your brother's heartbroken face when he sees your body. But you know it's not worth it. It's never been worth it. Plus, who said you even had the energy for that anyway.
You're in the bathroom for a reason. You had some funny-tasting tap water in the middle of the night; courtesy of your guardian, and then retreated to the bathroom to go throw up. You know he drugged you, more than you've ever known anything. More than you knew that you broke your arm falling off your bike when you were eleven. It was bent all the way backwards. You know the feeling of betrayal more than a compound fracture.
He continues to yell at you through the splintering wood. You decide to get in the bathtub.
“Dave come the fuck out. I didn't fucking do anything. I'm just trying to help you!”
You feel the bile rise in your throat again. You empty the contents of your stomach into the bathtub and onto your clothes. Your favorite pajama shirt is ruined.
Before your retreat to the bathroom, he told you he thought you had food poisoning. You tried so hard to explain to him that you know what food poisoning feels like- and this is not it. He didn't believe you. He never does.
Now, like an uncanny figure of himself, he's claiming to want to help you. When has he ever wanted that?
You lean your head against the shower wall and let the warm tears trickle down your face. They're sliding down your neck. It's comforting. All you can focus on is the pure release of alleviating the pressure in the back of your throat, and letting your tears pour like handfuls of rainwater. It's gentle, but it's humbling. You hear him speak again. For once you pay attention.
“I'm sorry. I love you so much. I don't wanna see you hurt. Just trust me, please. That's all I want from you. Just please trust me.”
You fall into your momentary empathy, as hard as that is. Your thoughts race over everything he could possibly mean. Is he honest? You hope so. Maybe if you open the door you can get new, clean clothes. And go straight to bed… and this will all be over. Maybe.
You get up from the bathtub, your legs wobbling and hands trembling. You grab the sides of the sink and watch the racoon-esq red circles around your eyes contrast the dark brown or your irises. You understand why he thinks you're so pretty when you cry now. You don't look sad, you look hurt.
The bathroom light gently flickers above you. You take a deep breath. You mutter to yourself… “It'll be fine. I'll be fine.”
Your trembling hand and wavering breath reaches out for the doorknob, and finally curates the courage to twist it, revealing yourself to what you were scared of all along.
“You look rough. I'm sorry”
He shrugs his shoulders and presses his lips into a thin line.
“Want me to put your clothes in the wash? I'll go get you new ones, okay bud?”
You start to cry again. This feels like when you're a kid and you accidentally piss the bed for the third time that week. So everyone immediately feels bad and starts treating you with that sort of passive aggressive, frustrated kindness that you were always used to adults having.
“C'mere, Davey. I'm sorry. I love you so much. I never meant to scare you.”
You accept the hug, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist and crying into his shirt. Somehow, you manage to choke out words between sobs.
“Kiddo, I know its hard to understand. I know it's tough on you- But I think about you in ways I really shouldn't…”
You pick your head up and look at him with wide, scared eyes.
“I love you more than you think. I don't ever mean to hurt you by expressing that”
You're more confused than you've ever been. Your mind is going haywire like an untrained horse and your hands are shaking like falling leaves. What remains of your tears flow out.
“What… what do you mean?”
He grabbed your face and put your lips to his, making sure to interlock his fingers in locks of your hair, like a puzzle that can't be taken apart. It's a scary feeling. Like when you finally give into the thought of putting out a cigarette on yourself, and it hurts so good.
You lean into it, regrettably sliding your tongue past his teeth, and licking his beer-latent mouth. The taste of piss warm alcohol and cheap weed fills your senses in a horrific menagerie of guilty arousal.
He takes the time to slowly slide his fingers down your neck, and back up it again.
His fingers are calloused like sandpaper. They feel like heaven against your skin. You feel controlled, but it's all you've ever wanted.
His touch is like heroin, and now you understand why he does it.
He grabs your hand and places it onto his heart, it's beating faster than yours. Maybe he does really love you. Maybe he didn't really mean what he did. Maybe this was all because he cares. Maybe he wants you more than anyone ever will.
You break away, but your hand stays. He holds your other arm still.
You look down at your shirt. There's still puke on it.
You look him in the eyes, his gaze looks like regret and red wine.
“I’m disgusting” You whisper.
He replies, “I'll always be worse.”
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