A collection of short little stories or ramblings I write when I'm bored or spontaneously inspired :))
• random updates • warnings posted above any chapters that need one • beware of triggering poems/stories • im a sad bean sometimes •
// This piece is old; I just pulled it out of my works for something to post today. Here are the original warnings- Disclaimer: some slight trigger warnings on this for domestic abuse and...uh...hurtful thoughts..? Yeah... (I have no idea where this came from..i just had some stuff on my mind and wrote this piece to grind it out. Don't be alarmed <3)
I have no idea if I'm going to continue this or not, but any constructive criticism is appreciated. Im trying out a new style, so it would really help me out.
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P.S. I'm not trying to romanticize abuse in any way, shape, or form. If you are experiencing these kind of things, there are a gazillion of people, including me, that at more than glad to help you through it. Please, talk to someone. There is someone who cares. I promise. //
You see, I told him to stop. I really did. I was pushing on his chest and yanking on his bleached locks to pull him away. He wouldn't budge, hands roaming in places they shouldn't roam.
At least not now. I was raised Catholic.
He never listened to me. He'd tune out my words until he wanted me for his own purposes. Then, he'd smile that wonderful smile of his and I'd forget about his trespasses until the next morning when I'd wake up to an empty space beside me.
He worked a lot, and when he did he told me never to call his cellphone because he didn't want me disrupting his meetings. It made sense to me at the time, so I'd just stay at home until eleven when my shift at the bakery started. Mornings were always cold, and I could never sleep in past six am.
Which meant I could always hear the slam of the door as he left. Every morning.
I found myself addicted to background noise, sometimes turning on both the radio and television just to keep the silence away.
Silence was bad. Silence meant rogue thoughts, and my thoughts were always the enemy.
Ten thirty, and I'd be out the door, every weekday morning. I'd crank the radio up and open the car window to hear the wonderfully busy noises of the neighborhood.
Work was always nice, but baking bread and cupcakes got tiring after the first several dozen or so. Ask me any details, and I wouldn't be able to tell you. My body goes on autopilot during the day.
I always get home before he does. Always. I'd make enough pasta or homemade pizza or soup for the both of us and sit quietly munching as the time ticked away.
Eleven thirty pm and he'd stumble through the door in the middle of one of my shows. He'd smell a bit off and walk with a wobble in his step, but I never questioned it. He never told me what he did for a living, after all.
I'd ask him how his day was. He'd walk into the bathroom to wash his face, and I'd always smile because I knew he was tired from all that hard work. I thought he was tired, anyway.
Then, just like always, he'd ask me for a bottle. I'd go to the fridge and pull out an ice cold bud light only to have him rip it from my grasp and chug half of it before I'd be sitting down again. He'd wipe his lips from the residue and look at me with those half lidded eyes I can never seem to resist.
And then it would happen, his hands finding their way to my hips and his lips attaching themselves to my neck. I never liked the way he made me shiver, but I never complained. How could I when I managed to be so lucky.
Three in the morning, I'd wake up in a cold sweat from the semi daily nightmares I'd been getting for awhile. I'd glance to my right and sigh out with relief to see him still passed out there, his bare chest bathed in the moonlight looming in from the window. I'd silently slip out of bed and pull on one of his enormous sweatshirts, like I used to do a year ago when we first moved in together. I went out into the apartment building's hallway and up the ladder towards the roof, stepping out once I'd reached the top.
Pant-less and sleepy, I hugged his sweatshirt to my skinny frame and peeked over the side of the building, the teeny cars and streetlights below almost blinding me in my sleepy, dark-focused eyes. I couldn't help but notice just how warm his sweatshirt was and ignored the smell of alcohol and sex it was infused with.
I hugged myself as I sat staring at the faint stars I could see what with the city glow and felt myself slowly falling to sleep.
It was then that I realized I'd spent the rest of the night sleeping on the rooftop. Panic setting in, I rushed back to our shared apartment only to find that I'd locked myself out without any keys. The clock in the hall told me it was six thirty, right around the time he always leaves for work. For some reason, however, my insides felt all jumbled up when I knocked on the door.
He opened a few moments later with an expression I was all too familiar with, almost as if he was displeased with me. It quickly changed, however, to one displaying no emotion at all as he forcefully pulled me into the apartment and slammed the door behind us.
He asked me why I was wearing his sweatshirt. I told him it was cold last night. He called me a dumbass for sleeping on the roof and promptly left without so much as a goodbye. I huffed a sigh and went to change.
I got out of work early that day, happy and excited to have extra time to get to the mall. Our one year anniversary was the next day, and I wanted to get him the perfect gift. I found it at the craft store he used to take me to all the time, back when he payed attention to what I was interested in.
I hurried home to finish making what I had in mind. I was making a scrapbook of sorts, so I practically turned the house inside out looking for pictures and memorabilia to place inside for him. It was looking great when he walked in a half an hour earlier than he usually does. I quickly shoved the black leather bound book behind the couch and leapt up only to see him gagging at the mess I'd made.
He asked me what the hell that all was. I told him it was a surprise. He said he hated surprises and stalked off to our bedroom. I sighed and went to the kitchen to make a box of mac and cheese.
He came back in five minutes later and glared at the box on the counter. He called me an idiot for being so childish. I just laughed at his joke. At least, I think it was a joke.
He'd sneak up behind me sometimes and hold my waist, his breath fanning my neck and giving me those chills again. He did the same thing now, only this time he knocked me forward and I burned my arm on the stove.
I cried out in pain in that voice that he would always tell me was annoying. I tried to hold it in, I really did. I knew he didn't like it but I started crying anyway. At least until he hit my cheek and told me to toughen up. I would nod and silence myself like I always did, glad to keep him happy. When he rolled his eyes and walked into the tv room, my gaze fell onto the dark burn mark forming just below my elbow.
His expression, always cold nowadays, always bitter, stuck out in my mind as I traced the burn with my finger. I found myself rather dazed again, just like I always was when he acted out like that. He'd been acting out more recently. It was probably my fault, anyway. Probably.
I could feel tears brimming at the corners of my eyes, yet I bit my lip and grimaced that gritty smile I always had nowadays.
