Triggering warning for mention/flashback of molestation. It's not heavily descriptive/graphic, though. It's nothing at all compared to the ones in my book Touch. Still, please beware and read carefully if easily triggered.
Unedited bc I'm impatient </3
Casey
I pause my music, staring at the random doodles on my paper. I grip the pencil, thinking of what else to draw. Due to the woody texture of the stick, the sensation feels familiar. A sickening feeling swamps my stomach,
The picture flame flashes through my mind. I can still feel my fingers gripping around the wood, my knuckles growing sore and white. A vivid image of the person sticks to my mind, not going away. I try shaking my head, but that doesn't help.
Ghost of hands crawl across my body, dirtying it. Nails pierce through my skin, creating scratches and indents. A voice echoes through my mind, taunting me. Humiliating me. Ruining me.
Bile rises and burns my throat. Shaky breaths leave my mouth as I begin to thrash around. I shake my arms and legs, hoping the false touch would disappear. However, it doesn't. If anything, it gets worse.
I feel the pressure of finger tips gripping my arm, tightening. The walls start to cave in, making me feel small and helpless. A feeling I thought I'd never feel again returns, hits my gut.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.
In a fit of anger, I throw the pencil across the room, watching it break after slamming into the wall. With a loud grppoan, I shove my face in my hands, hot tears slipping between my fingers. Waves of emotions slam into me, pulling me farther away from shore. I'm drowning in my own thoughts and I hate it.
I'm not sure how long it takes for me to calm down. Whenever I thought I felt better, emotions hit me harder than before. I sobbed harder, became angrier, and grew needier for an escape.
Once I am stable enough, I sneak out of my room. I am more than thankful that my grandparents go to bed before the sun even sets. I am also thankful they are both deep sleepers. That's the only lucky thing going on in my life.
I rummage through the cabinets, disappointment filling me. I hold up the empty bottle. "Fuck," I whisper under my breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
How could there be no more alcohol? Did I drink that much? Is my grandpa going to find out? Maybe I should asks Randy for alcohol instead of stealing from my grandpa.
With a sigh and heavy heart, I go back to my room, and sob for the remainder of the night. I know tomorrow morning, I will struggle to get out of bed. My pillow will more than likely be damp with tears as I force myself to sit up.
~~~
My eyes narrow on my math grade. How did I get an F on last week's test? I thought I did better than that. Why can't I do anything right?
What the hell am I going to do about my math grade? Should I keep letting my grade drop? It's not like math will matter when I'm dead, but I also don't want math to be the reason I kill myself.
A thought surfaces through the messiness of my mind. I grab my phone, searching for a contact. I hesitate, though. I don't want to seem stupid or needy. However, he did offer to help me.
I push my ego aside, sending the text.
Me- Are you good at graphing?
10:37 a.m.
The familiar feeling of waiting for the specific person washes over me. Between my teachers words, I glance at my phone, hoping I get a response sooner than later.
