Milo remembers, most vividly, the sound the bones made. The snap of his bone cracking, the way his finger looked, bent back too far and looking much too wrong.
He had screamed. Had choked on the sound, tears on his face and something visceral in his throat. He had sobbed himself raw, there, Jason crouched beside him, looking at him like he’s never seen someone cry before.
He hadn’t apologised- Milo hadn’t expected him to. His finger sat there, bent and broken, and by the time Jason left Milo didn’t have any tears to cry.
-
Birdie rung his throat with bruises on a Tuesday.
Nails in skin and sing-songs pressed into his hair. He hadn’t cried. Hadn’t tried to move, because the last time he had, Birdie had held him down by his hair until he had apologised, sobbing and shuddering.
She kisses the back of his head. Pinches his skin till it hurts real bad, till it throbs and aches, till he wants to cry.
She pets his hairs. Explains to him, quietly, why she’s doing this.
(it’s because she’s awful)
It’s because he’s been bad. Because he’s been avoiding her. He should have known better, right?
Milo doesn’t nod, or shake his head. He sits quiet, broken finger squeezed against his palm, blinking back tears.
-
On Wednesday, he made his Dads cry.
-
On Thursday, Jason found him behind the gym.
He had hidden from Birdie; had run like an idiot, because speaking hurts and the scarf he’s wearing itches, and he hates the way she touches his hair and says his name and the way she looks at him-
And then, there’s Jason.
He stands in front of him, head cocked, expression that blank one he wears whenever he hurts Milo.
“Where’d those come from?” Jason asks. His eyes are on Milo’s throat. On the skin there.
On the bruises.
Milo hunches down on himself. Glares. Tastes fire and coal and anger, and he wishes he could rip out Jason’s tongue, breaks his fingers, make him hurt like Jason makes him hurt.
Jason steps closer.
Milo flinches.
“Birdie,” he spits, arms wrapped around himself. His skin prickles. He wishes he could cry.
Jason steps back again. He stares at him for a while. Just stands there.
Milo looks at his shoes, and kind of wishes Jason would just get on with it.
It feels like an eternity passes, sitting like that.
Eventually Milo sighs. Flexes his fingers (the broken one) and says, a lot quieter than he means to: “Are you just going to stand there-?”
Except the words die as they fall, because when he looks up, no one’s there.
-
On Friday, Birdie corners him in the bathroom.
She pulls him by his head until it feels like his neck will snap, and she leaves ring-fingered bruises on his throat. Leaves him choking, because he can’t breathe.
“Where were you yesterday?” she asks, innocent and lipstick bright, and Milo can’t answer because he can’t breathe.
(when she lets him breathe, he apologizes. just like he should)
Before she leaves she kisses the crown of his head. Holds his hands. Tells him, sweet as honey, that she loves him dearly. Doesn’t he love her?
“Yes,” he says. “Of course I love you. I’m sorry.”
He tastes blood in his mouth, and doesn’t cry when the door swings shut.
-
He spends the weekend in his room.
Ignores his Dads worried questions and Cody’s texts, and everything that isn’t his pillow and blanket and bed.
He doesn’t cry.
Just pokes at his broken finger, and the bruises around his throat, and wonders, very quietly, why.
-
On Monday, he doesn’t see Birdie.
He sees Jason, for a brief moment. His wide smile, poisonous eyes, sharp movements. Milo flinches, even though Jason is nowhere near him, and doesn’t even spare him a glance.
His finger aches.
The fear tastes like dirt.
-
On Friday, he goes home confused, lost.
The bruises on his throat is healed. His finger doesn’t ache as bad as it once did. There’s no new broken ribs, no new bruises and pains.
Milo stays in the living room, after dinner.
On Sunday, he gets out of bed.
—-
(i lowkey realised Jason probably would not like Birdie and. well. it’s the closest thing to a happy end we could ever get)
