So Young, So Destructive {self}
Triggers: alcohol abuse, physical abuse
His mother had looked less battered than Sorren had expected. There had been a swollen purple oval arching over her high cheekbone, stretching across the side of her face, and she still looked frail and older than she really was, but it was clear to someone who knew the situation that Jane Carridy was actually doing a lot better. The sensation of love was so strong when Sorren laid eyes upon his mother that he had nearly toppled over when he ran to pick her up and hug her. And he had been making his way there, his strides long and his eyes solid with purpose, when Sampson had entered the room. And then all of the love swimming in Sorren's head rapidly changed to a bitter hatred.
Sampson had folded his arms over his chest, a cruel smirk sliding onto his face, which so strongly resembled Sorren's that it often scared him. The two Thatcher boys looked almost identical, yet the years that Sampson had on Sorren were blatant. The leather weariness of Sampson's face proved that his alcoholic tendencies had only worsened, and the bruised knuckles proved that his habit hadn't disappeared. And then Sampson spoke, taunting him, threatening him, calling him every foul name under the sun. Sorren couldn't take it anymore. Without so much as a word to either of them, he'd simply flipped his older brother off with both hands, leaned over and spat viciously on Sampson's bare feet, turned on his heels, and ran like hell, towards a destination that he hadn't properly thought out. Where was Sorren to stay during the rest of the weekend?
The better question, however, was the gray shapeless matter of what would become of Sorren's life after the semicharmed summer. He had no college plans, no job, and absolutely no money. And, at eighteen years old, Sorren felt responsible to get his shit together. But how could he? He was permanently stuck in a rut, married to protecting his broken-beyond-repair mother from his malicious and paralyzingly cruel brother. This was the life that Sorren Thatcher had to look forward to, no matter how badly he wished this wasn't the case.
A dejected sigh was evoked from the boy, his shoulders slumping slightly, curling around his cut torso. The sun had faded into the skyline now, giving way for the moon to take her turn in the, no pun intended, spotlight. And Sorren was still on the swing, pondering lightly what his options were, and sending mass text messages to anyone and everyone who could possibly lend him a hand. He went to pull his phone out of his pocket, but it rang right as he was about to. The number was from the local area code, though he didn't recognize it.
"Hello?" He answered curiously.
"Sorren Thatcher? This is the Acostas Medical Center. We've got Francesca Kingsley in the ICU, and you're the only emergency contact listed here."
The phone slid from Sorren's hand.
