HIDING - every scar has a story

18. The basement (red).

*Trigger warning: abuse, blood. To skip and read a brief summary, scroll to the next asterisk in this chapter.*

{Cary}

The basement of Cary's house was not finished. There was one room sketched in with drywall, but the rest stretched open and dim, with plastic draping from the ceiling to the floor. The floor was bare concrete, cool and rough against Cary's cheek.

The kiss of a lit match and the crinkle of a cigarette lighting seemed loud in the silence.

"Get up Ciaran."

Cary found his hands, and spread them on the concrete to obey his father. He couldn't get up any further than his knees. Conall was limp and damp with sweat, sitting on the bottom step, smoking. Cary dragged his shirt over his skin, tasting blood and his father's cigarette. He was shaking—deep shock shakes he couldn't control. Adrenaline had left him a long time ago.

Conall folded his belt into four in his hands. "I wanted to start new with you, boy." There was no anger left in his voice. He thumbed sweat out of his eye, leaving a smear of blood on his temple. "I wish I knew how to start new."

There was one thing left to finish it. Cary made spit with his mouth and said, "I'm sorry, Father."

Conall looked at him from under his eyebrows. "If I didn't know better, I would have said you wanted me to do that."

Cary tipped against the drywall, closing his eyes. He was going to black out in a minute. His throat made a soft sound he couldn't help. He wanted black.

His father's feet scraped the concrete and Cary's eyes snapped open and he swayed back. Conall was right in front of him, huge and dark. His father's arms closed around him and he was lifted off the floor. Black.

Cary came to on the stairs, rocking in his father's arms in time to his father's climbing feet. The walls rippled like falling water. The water was red. Cary shut his eyes, opened them. Everything was red; there was blood running down the walls and down the steps.

He was red, shaking like a flame. Every step shook him; one more step and he would crush in a mess of no more Cary—just pain pain pain. 

*Trigger end. Summary: Cary and his father, Conall, are in the basement of their house. It is a large, unfinished space. Something scary has just happened: Cary can't get to his feet and he is shaking. His father is sitting on the steps, tired and sweating, his belt folded in his hands. His father says: "I wanted to start new with you, boy. I wish I knew how to start new." And Cary says, "I'm sorry, Father." His father carries him up the stairs and Cary passes out.*

///

It was night. The sky rippled with stars, so close Cary thought he could feel the cool touch of their light on his skin. He was lying in a grassland under the vast curtain of the night sky.

There was a campfire. He turned his face towards its heat as a log collapsed with a sigh and a cloud of sparks went up into the night.

A man crouched on the other side of the flames. His eyes found Cary, the firelight reflecting gold in their depths. Cary held still, heart hammering. He couldn't make his body get up and run.

The man looked away, using a stick of kindling to stir up the fire. The flames seemed to lick Cary's skin and he curled with a cry, drawing his arms over his head to press the pain out. But it ate the starlight and the fire and everything he knew about himself with a red mouth full of knives.

"Cary."

That was his name. He came through the teeth in shreds, gasping. The man was watching him with his face tipped, firelight and shadow flickering across his expression. It was quiet here.

Cary's throat hurt. "I'm thirsty."

The man stood and Cary was afraid.

"Don't leave me," Cary begged. "Don't send me back."

The night wrapped around him like a great sheet of cloth, soft and cool as satin.

///

Cary woke up once. He was lying on top of his blankets in his clothes, and he didn't know what day it was. Sunlight fell through his window and bounced off the water in the glass beside his bed.

He dragged himself up and reached for the glass. He drank it all, whimpering when the water spilled and ran down onto the welts on his chest.

He had one clear thought: water made blood. He needed blood to mend, make scars, get up again. He dropped back onto the bed and fell back out of consciousness. 

799 words.