Sixteen – Oliver

Once I woke up, I lounged in bed in my dazed euphoria for way too long. I was too distracted by literally everything that happened yesterday, from Calvin to the conversation with Dad, back to Calvin. Okay, maybe it was mainly Calvin. But when I finally looked at the time, there's was only twenty minutes until 10 AM. I practically propelled myself off the bed, ripping my clothes off and pulling fresh pants on, slipping on a random sweater.

I stumble out of my room and rush out to the fridge, looking for anything I can eat on the way. I can't stop to eat because it usually takes me thirty minutes just to get to the library and I have less than twenty. I grab a slice of bread and shove it in my mouth all at once, trying to chew around it. A door opens in the house, the creak ringing out in the quiet house. I know whose door that is. My glance flicks over to the timetable that's taped on the fridge. Today's day is green, which means she's meant to be at work, but she's not. Carefully, I sneak towards the door and go to slip away when she catches sight of me from the hallway.

"Oliver," Mum says, her tone dull and unreadable.

I pause, waiting for her to come around the corner. When she does, I can see on her face that I'm in trouble. My stomach drops and my face does too. There's nothing good that's going to come out of this.

I attempt an excuse, my voice small. "I have somewhere to be."

"Yeah, that job, right?" She asks and my face gets hot under the pressure. I move my hand to the door handle. I know I can run, but that means I'll have to face this all later. I hear her sigh, "Come sit on the couch."

I walk away from the door and plant myself carefully on the couch, the furthest away from her that I can get. She comes over but doesn't sit down. Instead, she rounds the couch and stands in front of me. I feel sick. I can feel her staring directly at me.

She lightly shakes her head, pressing her fingers into her temples. She goes to turn away but then turns back and stares me down again. I don't look at her.

She speaks, her tone flat, void of any emotion, "You never cease to disappoint, do you?"

This isn't good. I turn my head in the opposite direction to her. She's not drunk this time... she's never not been drunk. I hear her feet pad lazily across the tiles, stepping ever so closely towards me and she bends over, putting her face in front of mine. I still won't look her in the eye.

"Look at me." Hate pours off her like a wave.

I shake my head.

"LOOK AT ME," she yells, standing up quickly, flinging her arm out as she trips over the glass coffee table. She kicks it aside and the thin glass slips, coming dangerously to falling off its frame.

I look at her with my eyes, not moving my head, and see her face burning with fury.

Loose strands of burnt orange hair dangle in front of her face as she continues to yell at me, "I THOUGHT YOU WERE OVER THIS... THIS GAY THING!"

My heart freezes. I feel my whole body cease.

She heard.

"TELL ME, WHY DID IT CHANGE AGAIN? WHY ALL OF A SUDDEN?" She rips my face towards her, and I pull her hand away barely managing to keep myself together. Her face twists at my retaliation. "TWO YEARS," her voice seems exhausted, but she keeps pushing it, "TWO YEARS OF NOT HEARING A GODDAMNED THING FROM YOU AND I JUST HOPED SOMETHING HAD CHANGED! I FINALLY THOUGHT YOU WERE NORMAL FOR ONCE!"

My whole life she's told me I'm not normal. She's always hated me, since I was a kid. Dad told me that something changed when she got pregnant with me... and it's only gotten worse since then.

I snap out of my paralysis and use that anger from last night. "I am normal." My voice is small but it's enough to piss her off.

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!" She drops her voice into a low, sharp tone, "Who was he anyway." Her tone tells me she couldn't be less interested in this even though it's clearly bothering her, but she keeps pushing me, "TELL ME!"

I don't know what she means by 'was'. Dropping my head in my hands, I take a deep breath to try and stay calm. I can't tell her. I won't tell her. Unhappy with my lack of response, she steps closer to me, grabs a handful of my hair and rips my head up. "OW! Calvin! His name is Calvin!"

Now she's even more unhappy, "I MEANT WHAT CLASS! WHAT CLASS IS HE? GODDAMMIT OLIVER! I HEARD YOU WHISPERING SOMETHING TO QUENTIN, NOW TELL ME!"

She spits in my face and tightens her grip. Pain shoots through my scalp as her grip keeps getting tighter. Everything is suffocating me. It feels like I can't breathe. Tears start to burn in the corner of my eyes, but I still stay as quiet as I can manage.

"He's an Upper-class, isn't he? HE'S A FUCKING UPPER-CLASS!"

I can't manage a single word, if I say anything I feel like i'll break in two. I can't even nod of my head. My head spins. Everything. She heard everything. I thought she was black out drunk.

She lets go of my hair shoving me back against the couch. She turns and lashes out, kicking the table. The glass shakes off the frame. It falls in slow motion, delicately dipping through the air, landing awkwardly on its side and shattering into unfixable pieces. I wince watching it spill across the tiles. I look up at her startled.

"FIRST IT WAS JUST A BOY, BUT NOW YOU'RE FUCKING WITH UPPERCLASS? YOU ARE RUINING EVERYTHING I DID FOR THIS FAMILY!"

"I-" I try to speak but she grabs me, ripping me out of my seat and pushing me onto the floor... right into the shards of glass.

There's a split second where I move to catch my fall before hitting the floor, hard. I land on my right side, the shards tearing at my shin and forearm, and I feel the glass crunch under my weight. It tears holes into me. I just barely contain a scream of pain. The cold floor mixed with the hot, stinging pain that's rising up inside of me makes me want to vomit. Tears stream down my cheeks as the glass continues to cut deeper into my flesh. I try and move but the most I can do is get into a bent over, half-sitting position, away from the pile of red shards. Blood streams down my arms and legs and my head throbs, making the colours all swirl into one.

She stands over me. She knows exactly what she's doing. There's no hiding her intentions anymore... her mask is off. Mum heads to the kitchen, sighing to herself and gets out a wine bottle. She pours herself a drink, letting it fill right to the brim of the glass. Swiftly, she downs half of the glass, on her way back to me.

Her hand grabs my shirt, pulling me up until our faces are only centimetres away. I struggle to see through the shaking and tears. She talks to me in a hoarse whisper, "I shouldn't have given birth to you... I should've gotten rid of you a long time ago. You've done nothing but bring me pain. And do you think anyone cared? No, all they cared about was the baby," then she drops her voice low, "And to think I didn't go through with that abortion, all for your stupid father."

Immediately, Mum rips me forward and I stagger to stay on my feet, feeling the sharp blades cutting my flesh as I move. She drags me to my room, before throwing me on the floor and slamming the door behind me.

I can't move. I don't even want to try. After a sharp breath in, I gingerly slide my hand over my legs to assess the damage, struggling to contain the sobs that are spilling from me. There are some larger shards hanging awkwardly from cut skin and others that are glued to me with blood.

Carefully, I shift myself so I can get up. I wobble and fall a few times, but eventually I manage to make somewhat of an effort to walk through the piercing pain that shoots up my legs and make my way to the bathroom. Blood flows down my legs and arm and my face feels puffy and cold. I lower myself down onto the lid of the toilet and feel for the larger fragments of glass. Biting down on my hand to prevent myself from weeping in pain, I pull on them gently, guiding them out of my skin. There's no point in describing the pain because it's what you'd expect; razor-sharp splinters tearing through skin, throbbing pain and blood smeared everywhere, blurred vision, hot pain and clammy skin.

Shock has frozen my reactions entirely as I focus on the blood dripping down my body. The last of the larger fragments clatter to the floor. I feel like I'm dying. I'm dizzy and I feel like throwing up. I try to stand again but my legs fail me and I drop to my knees. A bloody hand flew to my mouth to stop myself from screaming. The other hand reached out in front of me, searching for the cupboard handle. I know there's a medical kit in here.

I fling the cupboard door open and grab the nylon strap of the kit, desperately pulling it towards me. It was always a just-in-case kit that I never thought I would need, but things have changed. My hands slide through the contents, coming across some bandages. Carefully, I rub my legs down with my hands, pushing any small fragments of glass out of the cuts. Then, reach up against the pain and grab a cup off the vanity, pouring the water down my left leg. The blood dilutes to a liquid, bright red, spilling across the tiles. My hand finds some toilet paper and I dab my legs as dry as I can manage before wrapping a bandage tightly around the three deepest cuts. I wince against the sting of how tight it is but I can't let it bleed.

I repeat the process with my left arm, awkwardly biting the bandage with my teeth to wrap it tight. After the worst of the cuts are covered, I take a second to breathe, letting the sobs take control. My brain is shouting instructions at me: don't bleed out, call an ambulance, call Dad, get out, get out, get out. My body can't move. It's stuck, glued to the spot by pain. I don't even want to open my eyes.

Nothing could have made my life worse.

I dress the final cuts with gouges and bandaids. I scull some water and take four tablets of what I hope were a mixture of paracetamol and ibuprofen. I couldn't tell past the tears, all they looked like were tiny white tablets. Then I collapse on the floor.

The pain is too loud. The house is too quiet. My clothes are stained black with the blood that escaped my cuts. I try to pick myself up but every muscle refuses to move and my eyelids grow heavy. My eyes feel like they have no more tears left to cry, and my body feels drained.

I put on a soft expression, even if I couldn't see myself, and told myself that it's okay. If I could convince myself that, then I would be fine. But within seconds of hopeless mumbling, I passed out.

Nothing could tell me how long I was passed out for but I eventually came to. The now warm tiles were a comfort, it told me I wasn't dead, even though death would feel better than this. With all my strength, I pushed myself up, ignoring the burning pain and blood-soaked floor and bandages. I hobbled through the discomfort to my bed and managed to lay down. I know I'm bleeding a lot. I know I need help. I peel the phone out of my back pocket and squint at it through the darkness. The screen is cracked. I carefully press the button, but the screen doesn't turn on. I try again, holding it down for a few seconds. The screen flickers, turning white for a second, then it cuts to black before turning off again. It's dead.

My only other option for help is the home phone but leaving my room right now would be too dangerous. If I don't faint on my way there, the chances of coming across Mum are way too high. I shuffle on my bed slightly. My options are as exhausted as my body is. The springy mattress presses awkwardly against my cuts and my head starts to swim with pain again. I close my eyes and try to think logically about this, but there's no use. I fall asleep, completely exhausted. I think I dreamt about something, but I can't remember what it was. Maybe I wasn't supposed to remember it, maybe it's just another thing lost to the chaos of my mind.

Pain shoots through me and I jolt awake. My clock flashes the time at me. It's Sunday, 5 AM. I wait a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the poorly lit room. Slowly, I manage to register that I've bled through my bandages and dark circles of dried blood stain my once clean bed sheets. I sit up carefully and pick off my blood-soaked bandages, my movements pained and stiff. Then, I drag myself to the bathroom to clean up, re-cover my cuts and take some more pain killers.

I stare at my dark reflection in the mirror. I can't take this, I need to get out.

And I try, but when I reach my door, it's locked from the outside.

Great.