Chapter Text
☆Nov - 23☆
Twist of the heart
Living feels impossible.
Which is almost ironic if you think about it,
Andrew has the scars lining his arms to prove he almost lost that battle more then once, but right now felt so much heavier then when he was 10 or 12.
Thanksgiving was right around the corner and the familiar memories or hands creep over his body almost every day.
The worst part is Neil is in new York to handle some moriyama bullshit and will be back on thanksgiving day.
So with no junkie to help in the slightest andrew resorts to sliding off his arm bands and taking a knife out of one of them, He lets the fabric slide to the bathroom tiles and weighs the knife in his hand.
There's no fear or shaky hands, just overwhelming thoughts and the compression of a unwanted touch all over.
Andrew presses the tip of the blade to his wrist, nestling the sharpness between old layers of scars.
With no hesitation he digs the blade tip in further and pulls a thin cut, he stares for a minute admiring the slither of blood welling up in a small bubble.
It's not a deep cut, not at all, it's just enough to keep Andrew grounded to reality. To realise there's no actually hands clamped round his thighs or wet lips on his neck.
For now there nothing, just the little speck of blood and sting of the cut that he'll have to deal with.
☆Nov - 24☆
Na zawsze tylko dziecko. (Polish btw)
Hands. Everywhere, his thighs and his wrist.
Andrews laying down in his bunk, staring blankly, he's laying on the arm he cut yesterday to try and feel the dull ache of pain.
The day started off as any other bad day would, Absolutely shitty.
It had resulted in andrew kicking everyone out the dorm, putting his duvet on the floor because it felt like it was weighing him down and just laying there trying to will away the feeling of greedy adult hands.
There was never anything to do except curl up like a child and stare at the door like Drake or Proust are going to come back from the dead to traumatise him all over again.
The thought of Proust brings back disgusting memories of teeth on his wrists and the world please.
Over and over again non stop like he's drowing.
Distantly his phone buzzes with a text, probably Betsy. Andrew hadn't had the energy to go and lie to her face, because an appointment with Bee means the usual question of 'are you a danger to yourself' and Andrew doesn't feel like lying to Bee at the moment.
He just stares at the wall and let's the calloused hands roam over his hips.
What felt like a heavy sludge kept Andrew in bed when he actually wants to get up. Hah, funny, he still wants because he was told by Bee and Neil wanting was okay.
The wall is blank but Andrews mind fills it in with the pasty yellow of the walls in Easthaven and his brain tells him he's back there in that hospital stuck in a bed trying to get off court mandated drugs.
It draws a cold smirk onto his face, not medicated, no of course not there's non of that in his system.
Just as quickly as the smirk comes it falls away, his mind gnawing at the itch to grab a blade and just stab the shit out of a wall, though that might get him into psychiatric ward.
☆Nov - 25☆
Crack in the seems.
The cold of the bathroom tiles touches the back of Andrews thighs as he sits down, back against the door, trying to be as small as possible like when he was a small child hiding from the words monsters.
There was never a way to escape the greedy hands, hands that belonged to men who saw Andrew as a child and decided that traumatising him was okay.
He was fully aware it wasn't but the once small voices whisper louder and louder.
'You said please..'
'You begged for it..'
"Say please AJ'
The voices hiss and buzz from no where in particular.
He's crazy. So fucked up that he's hearing voices now..great..just what he needs.
All he actually needs is Neil. Betsy. Hot chocolate and someone to take these thoughts of death away from his mind and lock them in a box so tight he can't even remember it through his perfect memory.
'You held onto him'
He slides his armbands off again and pulls out one of his slim blades, the cut from past time scabbed and trying to heal when Abdrew uncaringingly drags the blade over the skin, then again till there's slivers of blood dropping onto the floor.
'It's your fault they did it'
The skin around the cut covers with blood slowly, he hasn't gone deep. He swore to himself he wouldn't but the temptation of pressing down so hard he cut an artery sounds like what he needs.
Slowly he grabs the roll of tissues and winds up a big wad pressing it against his bleeding arm half heartedly.
The voices fade back into tiny whispers that try crack the seems of his strength and it feels like their winning.
He lets the rest of the day drift by, hiding under his covers like a child and biting at his finger whilst keeping his eyes locked on the door so long they sting from not blinking.
Soon it's pitch black and he can only feel the hands on his waist, they feel like Neil's hands though except Neil's still in new York and these hands are violating a no.
That what he mutters until he falls asleep over and over just a simple boundary no one in his past has ever accepted.
◇November - 26◇
Not everyone wins.
'Please'
'Disgusting'
'Please'
'Wh-re'
'Please'
Over and over and over again, the nagging voice has grown louder and more consistent.
The memories of last thanksgiving are all Andrew can think about, a bottle over his head, the bed creaking against the wall, clinging to the headboard like it can save him from his childhood nightmare.
All the memories loop together creating one big mess in Andrews mind that plays on repeat with a break.
He doesn't register the blade in his hand or the cold air in the bathroom, only barley registers the sting of the first cut, then the second.
After the 4th he feels numb, his mind elsewhere, he's still dragging and dipping the blade into the broken skin, the blood spills down his finger tips and onto the floor, his entire left wrist is blood and he can barley see the cuts.
With little strength he swaps the blade into his left hand grasping the handle despite the wet familiar blood.
He replicates the same actions onto his right wrist. Cut after cut. This time the loud voice calling him gross doesn't drown out.
"Please..." Andrew whispers something when running down his cheek from his eye, huh it's been a while since he's cried, andrew had shut off his emotions after the 5th time some foster father or foster brother laid a hand on him.
He lets the blade clatter to the tile which is bloodied.
'Say please AJ'
'You like it'
'Freak'
That fucking voice repeats as the world scribbles memories together, all he can think about is Aaron realising he won't have an asshole twin brother. Kevin losing his goalkeeper, ew exy but still. Renne losing her sparring partner, Dan even though they weren't close losing another teammate.
Coach wymacks efforts to keep Andrew out of trouble would be for nothing. All those times Abby patched Andrews injuries and made andrew cookies.
Betsy being the only therapist Andrew was comfortable to tell stuff to.
Then Neil...the pipedream, something Andrew would never usually allow himself to have and he still took because Neil's an insistent little shit.
Neil the one who respected Andrews boundaries the most and was never upset when Andrew leaves for a while after the occasional blow job or hand job.
Andrew tries to think how his life would've been if he'd been raised in a good family and fails to even picture himself as a happy child.
Well he supposes that's just another thing he fails at.
Slowly the world dims and Andrew shuts his eyes, the voice goes silent and his breathing slows to a stop, bloodied fingers stop twitching and all those overwhelming memories and thoughts are gone forever but so is Andrew.