Chapter Text
BITCHASS hadn’t meant to.
It was an accident.
He was trying to open his blinds to look outside, but his elbow hit the lamp and he tried to catch it, he really did, but he couldn’t and it fell and the bulb shattered.
Immediately he’s sent into fight or flight, and of course his body chooses freeze. Of course. In a scenario that will probably get him sent back to that horrible group home, he can’t even move! He’s frozen in place from fear until he shakes himself out of it.
BITCHASS grabs the pieces of larger glass and almost immediately cuts himself with it. He’s so stupid! You can’t grab glass with your hands and not expect to get cut. That’s why most of his other group homes made him pick up glass. He’s done this before; why didn’t he think for once? How did he still somehow manage to get cut?
He’s shaking as he grabs the glass, unknowingly getting blood on some pieces. He’ll probably have to either find a vacuum or try to pick the small pieces of glass out of the carpet. Maybe he’ll leave it and try to ignore it so he doesn’t burden Phil. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea!
The knock at the door makes him freeze, hand bleeding onto the beige carpet, glass in his hands. He’s still shaking, terrified.
“Can I come it? I heard something fall. I’m not mad, I promise. I just need to make sure you’re okay,” Phil’s voice calls from the otherside of the door. BITCHASS nods before realizing Phil can’t see him.
BITCHASS stands up on weak legs and opens the door, getting blood on the doorknob. Phil stands there, smiling up at the incredibly tall teen.
“Explain what happened so I can help you,” Phil gently says, stepping in. He could obviously see the broken lamp BITCHASS so stupidly knocked over.
“I was just trying to open the blinds, and I knocked over the lamp. I’m sorry, I know I’m stupid, but I’ll fix it! I’ll clean up the glass, I’ll try to buy you a new lightbulb. Please, just- don’t send me back. I’ll do anything,” BITCHASS pleas. He can’t go back to that place. Not again.
“Calm down, BITCHASS. It’s okay. I’m not mad, and you’re not going back there, okay? Accidents happen, and I’m here to help you fix this. You aren’t cleaning this up without gloves or a vacuum. Don’t worry about buying me a new lightbulb. I’ve got several to spare,” Phil explains.
Then he notices the blood on the carpet, doorknob, and BITCHASS’s left palm. A cut across, starting from the bottom of the pinkie and ending at the thumb. BITCHASS sees the older’s eyes darting between the three places, and he looks down at his hand. It’s covered in red liquid.
Blood.
His blood.
BITCHASS was used to blood on his hands. He fought kids at school starting from age seven. Then he started fighting kids at homes, both foster and group. It was almost always self defense; they’d be hitting him first, and he’d hit back.
But BITCHASS was strong, much stronger than he looks. He looks like he could barely lift a small toddler, but he’s broken a nose more than a few times. It earned him a reputation everywhere he went. People would point at him, cowering away from his bruised knuckles.
However, he wasn’t used to his blood on him. He didn’t bleed often. When fighting kids, they’d hit him in the face, but somehow miss his nose and hit his jaw (probably hoping to knock out some teeth). He’d always go for the nose because that was soft, that hurt a lot, that caused swimming vision and blood down your face. Punching someone as hard as you can in the nose stopped a fight immediately.
He was a bad kid, violent, rude, loud. Every foster parent said that, every almost-sibling made sure he remembered, every student, teacher, counselor, principal, nurse, everyone said that. Everyone knew BITCHASS ABUSER was a horrible person, and they made sure BITCHASS knew it too.
They would taunt him, throwing fake punches at him to see if he’d hit them first. Kids would pretend to trip him, purposely run into him, come up behind him to scare him.
But BITCHASS wasn’t stupid.
Usually.
He hit second. No matter what, he’d hit second. Cameras always caught that he hit second. If he was going to fight someone, he’d only do it where a camera was nearby so it would catch he hit second . It was a tip some kid who looked somewhat like him told him at school:
“You fight a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hit first?”
“Usually no. Why?”
“Good. Never hit first, and stay near cameras. Then you can say and prove you were acting on self defense.”
“What if someone is in trouble?” He was thinking about that foster parent forcing those yellow rubber gloves on that poor blonde poor that he punched in the jaw. Now he wishes he got the nose, but he was going to a different home and didn’t have much time to think.
“Hit them first. It’s defense.”
“Okay.”
And now BITCHASS doesn’t hit first.
His hand is still bleeding, he notices. He doesn’t know how long he was trapped in his own thoughts of his past, but Phil is gently talking to him, saying something about how he needs BITCHASS to give some sort of confirmation that he can touch him. BITCHASS jerks his head over.
“Sorry, I- I don’t know what just happened,” BITCHASS apologizes. It’s only a slight lie. He kind of knew what happened, but not to the point he could put it in words that didn’t sound childish or stupid.
“That’s okay. Can I touch you? I need to clean that cut,” Phil explains. BITCHASS nods, and Phil stands up and motions for him to follow. He does, and they cross the hallway into the bathroom. Phil flips down the toilet seat, and BITCHASS sits down, left hand palm up and covered in slightly dry blood.
“Will this hurt?” BITCHASS suddenly asks, terrified that Phil was doing this just to hurt him.
Phil hesitates before admitting, “It might hurt a little, but it won’t be bad at all.”
BITCHASS nods as Phil takes a wet washcloth and dabs his hand with it. Most of the blood is dried by now, so Phil can wash it off without much difficulty. BITCHASS watches intently, hoping Phil doesn’t have to do this again. He hates burdening people with his injuries.
As a kid, he went to the nurse a lot. He also visited the principal’s. They both knew him by name.
“Morning, BITCHASS,” the nurse said as he walked in. BITCHASS had just turned 14.
“Morning, Nurse,” he muttered, holding his cut arm. She waved him over, and he sat down on the cot-like bed. He sat down, still holding the arm.
“What happened this time?” she asked, gently moving his hand away from the gash. BITCHASS looked away, not wanting to see his own blood on him.
“They wanted to fight, but I didn’t. I don’t like fighting people,” BITCHASS explained. The nurse hummed. “I tried to tell them I wasn’t looking for a fight. All I wanted was to get to my first period on time! But they didn’t like that. They really wanted to fight.”
“And what’d they do?” she asked, wrapping a white bandage around the wound. BITCHASS hissed in pain as she accidentally grazed the cut. “Sorry.”
“They hit me,” BITCHASS lied. He didn’t want her worrying about him too much.
She rolled her eyes. “This is not from a fist or a foot. What’d they do?”
“They cut me with a broken beer bottle.”
“What the fuck?”
BITCHASS flinched at her sudden anger. She was still gently wrapping his arm, having already cleaned it. Her voice was dripping with anger, as though she wanted to kill whoever decided to cut BITCHASS with a dirty bottle, but her actions were so kind, not wanting to hurt anyone. BITCHASS wasn’t sure she could actually hurt anyone even if she wanted to.
“It’s fine, really. I deserved it,” he muttered. Every time they met up, he said those two sentences. Every time she reprimanded him for thinking like that. The nurse sighed.
“BITCHASS, I’ve told you many times before. It’s never your fault. I’ve seen footage. You never hit first, you never start fights, hell, BITCHASS, you usually try to leave,” she explained. She finished wrapping his arm, and BITCHASS was suddenly very interested in it. He totally wasn’t trying to avoid her eyes. “Who did this to you?”
BITCHASS wanted nothing more than to ruin that boy’s life. He wanted that boy to suffer, to be dragged through hell and forced to come back, to be hurt like he hurt BITCHASS. It’s sick, BITCHASS knew this, but he still couldn’t help but want it.
“Jared,” he replied. The nurse knew immediately. Jared usually came in with BITCHASS, but neither of them ratted each other out. They’d just glare at each other, and since the nurse didn’t have proof either of them hurt the other, she’d just have to sigh and bandage them up or give them ice.
BITCHASS was tired of being tormented by Jared. Everyday was something new, a new reason that BITCHASS “deserved” what he got. Everyday was a new meeting with the nurse and principal. Everyday BITCHASS fought back for his life, not wanting to seem weak or ever giving Jared the satisfaction of winning.
No matter how many times BITCHASS and Jared fought, BITCHASS always got the last hit, but Jared always got the last laugh. BITCHASS would get Jared to stop fighting him, and in return Jared would humiliate BITCHASS in front of everyone. He could have blood pouring from his mouth and nose, and he’d still find a way to make fun of BITCHASS in front of a group of students.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you.”
“Alright, I’m all done,” Phil says, applying the Band-Aid. BITCHASS looks at his hand, no longer stained red with his blood or anyone else’s. It was a normal hand, just with a beige Band-Aid across it.
“Thank you,” BITCHASS muttered, standing up to leave the bathroom, eager to stop bothering Phil with his issues. Why couldn’t he have just handled this himself? God, he’s so stupid sometimes.
“Anytime. I need to vacuum your room first, though,” Phil explains. BITCHASS freezes.
He hates vacuums. They were far too loud for BITCHASS’s liking. If only silent vacuums existed.
“Do you have to?” BITCHASS whispers. Phil nods.
“How about you go downstairs and get some water? You look pretty shaken up still,” he suggests. BITCHASS nods, happy to get away from the harsh noises of the vacuum, and heads downstairs. He makes it to the living room when he hears the faint hum coming from his room.
As he gets his water, he realizes how tired he is. It’s barely nine pm, but he’s exhausted. He wants anything more than to fall asleep then and there, even if it means falling asleep on the cold tile. In fact, that sounds like a good idea.
Sleeping on the tile is a good idea. Or so BITCHASS decides as he lays down, head directly next to his quarter filled glass of water. He closes his eyes, falling asleep to the soft hum of the fridge.