Chapter Text
“Why me?” the phrase played in my head endlessly as I ran upstairs.
My parents had died when I was younger, 7, to be exact, leaving me with my brothers, triplet brothers, Nick and Matt. But, we were separated then we were separated, Nick and Matt went with my mom’s best friend, even my best friend, Nate’s mom, Gabriella. She is so sweet, every time I see her, she treats me as one of her own, but she could not take me in because she simply did not have enough room.
And honestly, I wouldn’t have had any of my brothers switch with me if I had the choice.
I got placed with my dad’s best friend, Tony. Tony had volunteered to house me when my parents had passed, and at first, it seemed nice, until it wasn’t.
Tony always used to give me special treatment when my parents were alive, well, from what I remember. He would always hug me tighter, or get me a bigger or better gift than my brothers, and of course, I never expected anything of it until I moved in.
Little things started happening at first, like always “accidentally” walking in on my shower, or just complimenting me on my body a little too much.
But then, the “accidental” walk ins turned into touches, and compliments turned into commands, ungodly commands.
The first time it happened, I was showering, and Tony walked in to get the bar of soap for him to shower with, since he insisted on only using one to save money, instead of grabbing the soap, he just opened the curtain and… well, you know the rest. The worst part is, I didn’t even stop him, I just froze.
After that day, things just progressively gotten worse. Tony did not let me out of the house, except for school, anymore, scared I would tell his secret, and he cut off all of my communication with my brothers. The only time I get to see them is when I go to school.
Of course my brothers noticed, but we were much younger at the time, and they just thought Tony was strict.
So, I kept up my happy face, and I powered through and acted fine everyday. My brothers didn’t notice a thing.
That was 10 years ago, now I am 17. Tony has gotten way worse. He does stuff to me everyday. And the worst part is, every time, I still freeze up.
One time, I was lying on my bed, and he came into my room, naked, and lied in bed with me, then he slowly moved closer, and closer. About 15 minutes later, I was naked too, covered in his sticky residue everywhere, and he said to me as he was leaving “Don’t lie, you loved it”.
And the truth is, in a way, I did, I mean, my body did. In my mind, I hated every second of it, from the way his lips kissed me, to the way his hands felt, everywhere, but I couldn’t have hated it if my body liked it, right?
The first time I came in my pants untouched was the day I realized my body had betrayed me completely. Tony had cornered me in the laundry room, his hands roaming under my shirt while whispering how "good" I was—and despite the revulsion twisting my gut, my traitorous hips had jerked against empty air until I shuddered. Afterward, he'd licked the tears off my cheeks and laughed.
School became my only escape, though even there, I carried the weight of silence. Nick and Matt would sling their arms around my shoulders between classes, blissfully unaware of the fingerprint bruises hidden under my hoodie.
The lies got smoother with practice. "Tony's just protective," I'd say when they asked why I never hung out after school. At home, I perfected the art of dissociating, floating outside my body whenever Tony's breath hit my neck. But the worst moments came after, when my skin still hummed from touch it didn't want. I'd scrub myself raw in the shower, trying to drown out the memory of my own muffled moans.
Last week, Matt joked that I'd gotten "weirdly jacked" from all Tony's "father-son workouts." I almost vomited right there in the cafeteria. Now, as I stare at the rusty razor blade balanced on my bathroom sink, two truths war inside me: I don't want to die. But I can't keep living like this.
The razor glinted under the flickering bathroom light, its edge promising an escape I wasn't sure I wanted. My fingers trembled as I reached for it—then froze at the sound of Tony's footsteps creaking down the hallway. Instinctively, I flushed the blade down the toilet just as the door swung open.
"You hiding in here again?" Tony's grin showed too many teeth as he leaned against the doorframe, eyes dragging down my towel-clad body. I forced myself to meet his gaze, noticing for the first time how his left pupil was slightly larger than the right—a tiny flaw in the monster.
That night, while he snored beside me, I dug my nails into my palms until blood welled up. The pain grounded me.
The words still echoed, a hollow clang in the empty chambers of my mind: “Don’t lie, you loved it.” They were a poison, seeping into every thought, tainting every memory. My body, a traitor, had reacted. My mind, a prisoner, had screamed. The disconnect was a chasm, wide and black, and I was perpetually falling into it, never quite hitting the bottom.
Upstairs, the shower still ran, the rhythmic drumming a cruel mockery of normalcy. Tony would be down soon, whistling some tuneless melody, his scent lingering in the air, a phantom limb around my throat. I ran to my room, the sanctuary that was no longer sacred, the only place where I could truly be alone with the wreckage of myself.
My reflection in the dusty mirror was a stranger. Sunken eyes, shadowed and haunted. Lips swollen, a morbid testament to unwanted kisses. My hair, usually a vibrant cascade, felt dull and lifeless, mirroring the spirit beneath. I traced the faint bruises on my collarbone, the angry red marks on my wrists where his fingers had clamped down. Each one a story, a chapter in a book I never wanted to write.
The phrase, “Why me?” had evolved. It was no longer a question, but a lament, a whispered prayer to a deaf god. Why did I freeze? Why couldn't I fight? Why did my body betray me? Why did I feel this twisted, sick relief when it was over, simply because it *was* over, until the next time?
I rummaged through my desk drawer, past old school notes, faded drawings, and a half-finished journal from years ago. My fingers brushed against something cold, metallic. A small, disposable razor. It was an old one, left behind by my mother, forgotten in a moment of hurried packing before she and Dad had left on their last trip. I had kept it, a relic from a time when my world was whole.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. The plastic handle felt flimsy, almost fragile, yet the blade, though dull from disuse, gleamed ominously. This wasn’t for shaving. This was for… something else.
The idea had been a quiet whisper at first, a dark thought lurking in the periphery of my consciousness. It had grown louder over the past few months, a siren song promising release. When Tony’s touches became unbearable, when his words burrowed too deep, when the suffocating weight of his presence threatened to crush me, I would see it. A flash of red, a momentary sting, a way to reclaim *some* control over my own flesh.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the worn quilt a poor comfort against the chill in my bones. My breath hitched in my throat. This was it. The line. The boundary I had always pulled back from.
I pushed up the sleeve of my oversized sweatshirt, revealing the pale, unblemished skin of my forearm. It looked so innocent, so untouched. A lie. It was tainted, scarred by invisible wounds, by the ghosts of hands and lips that did not belong.
The razor hovered, a silent judge. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, yes, but also a strange, morbid curiosity. What would it feel like? Would it hurt more than Tony? Less? Would it finally make me feel something *real*?
A tear escaped, hot and stinging, tracing a path down my cheek. It wasn’t just about the physical pain. It was about the shame, the disgust, the utter helplessness that gnawed at my soul. Tony had taken everything. My innocence, my voice, my sense of safety. He had even, in a perverse way, taken my pleasure, twisting it into something monstrous.
The blade touched my skin. A faint pressure. I pressed harder. A thin, red line bloomed, a stark contrast against my pale skin. It stung. A sharp, immediate pain that cut through the dull ache of my existence. I watched, mesmerized, as a tiny bead of blood welled up, then another, slowly tracing a delicate crimson path.
This was mine. This pain was mine. I had inflicted it. I had chosen it. For a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of power, a defiant roar in the silence of my mind. Tony couldn’t touch this. He couldn’t control this. This was my secret, my rebellion.
One line. Then another. And another. Shallow, hesitant cuts at first, then gaining a desperate rhythm. Each one a whispered confession of pain, a silent scream. The physical sensation was a strange comfort, a grounding force that pulled me back from the precipice of dissociation. It was a tangible manifestation of the invisible wounds that riddled my spirit.
The blood, warm and metallic, trickled down my arm. It felt… cleansing. A morbid purification. Like I was letting out the poison, drop by agonizing drop. My mind, which usually raced with fragmented thoughts and terrifying memories, quieted. There was only the sting, the warmth, the stark reality of the red against my skin.
After a while, the initial intensity faded, replaced by a dull throb. I lowered the razor, my hand shaking. My arm was a canvas of crimson lines, some deeper than others. It looked… awful. But in that moment, it also looked like relief.
I wiped away the blood with a tissue, then quickly covered the wounds with my sleeve. No one could know. This was my secret, my shame, my dark comfort.
The sound of Tony’s footsteps on the stairs jolted me back to reality. My heart leaped into my throat. Panic flared. Had he heard me? Had he suspected? No, he was too engrossed in his own world, his own twisted desires. He wouldn’t notice. He never did.
I quickly composed myself, forcing my features into a neutral mask. The familiar "happy face" I wore for the world, especially for my brothers. The thought of them, Nick and Matt, twisted my gut with a fresh wave of guilt. They thought I was fine. They thought Tony was just strict. If they knew…
But they couldn’t know. I couldn’t burden them with this horror. They were living their own lives, safe with Gabriella, safe from Tony. I couldn’t drag them into my nightmare. I had to protect them, even if it meant sacrificing myself.
Days turned into weeks, and the razor became a silent confidante, a forbidden solace. Each time Tony’s hands found their way to me, each time his words chipped away at my soul, I found myself drawn back to the sharp edge. The small, hidden scars on my arms and thighs became a secret map of my suffering, a testament to the battles I fought within myself every single day.