’I fucking hate you!’ roared Harrison Tate, Adam’s younger, fifteen-year-old brother.
Adam nodded, and held back tears.
‘All you do is bitch and moan. Fuck you.’ He stuck his finger up at Adam and stormed off into his room, slamming the door behind him.
It was just those two at home. No one else. That way, no one would hear them fighting. Adam never usually fought back, he sought peace in his life. He thought maybe one day everything will be okay eventually.
He sighed, and a tear drooped over his eyelid. He sniffled, and walked into his room, head down.
As he was making his way to his room, he glared at his brother’s door. He felt he’d vindicate his brother soon. Frowning, he put his head back down and made his way to his room.
He shut the door quietly, then swiftly walked over to his bottom drawer, avoiding his computer chair in the action. Pulling it open, he smelt a whiff of something … what was it? He couldn’t place his finger on the scent. He looked around. Nothing. Whatever.
He pulled open his drawer. He half-smiled, his face creasing. ‘Hello again, old friend,’ he said softly. He grabbed the razor blade and dragged it across his upper arm, just. He did it again, getting harder each time until blood began to draw.
‘Here we go.’
He didn’t typically self harm very deep, and he wouldn’t do it this time. He just needed a quick fix, like a meth-head.
He grabbed a tissue from his bedside table and placed it against the cuts. They weren’t bleeding profusely, but there was still blood nonetheless. It burned. Seeing it made him feel queasy. He sniffled and tears were streaming down his face at a rapid speed now.
Then he realised the smell: Lisa Craig’s perfume. Lisa Craig was the girl of his dreams, being a year below him -- Year 10. She had the most beautiful blonde, wavy hair, like the sea. She also had eyes that were the colour of a lush jungle. He felt he could get lost in them for hours.
Then he realised he’d never be with her. He was seen as a freak, a geek. She was seen as a goddess, a jock’s best fuck.
He tried to hold back the vomit, and he did, but he felt it tickling his throat. The acidic bile was just about to come up. He opened the door ajar, peeking through. Harrison was still in his room, so he made his way to the bathroom which was close to his room. He turned on the tap, cleaning off his blood and the blade.
He put his sleeve down and made his way off to his room, where he sat on his bed listening to The Beatles.
Harrison was sitting in his room, thinking: Why is he like this? He knew his brother had avoidant personality disorder, but he was so fucking asocial it wasn’t even funny. He wished he had a better brother, a brother who took him out and wasn’t afraid of leaving the house without Mum.
He punched a pillow, absolutely livid. The bed squeaked when his fist made contact with the pillow.
‘Stupid piece of shit,’ he whispered. His face was sweating from his fuming anger. ’Gawd, I hate you,’ he hissed, emphasising the “hate”.
Maybe his brother would get better, he didn’t know. He couldn’t really comprehend mental disorders. He didn’t want anything to do with mental disorders -- it made him uncomfortable.
Adam wanted someone to understand him. He wanted his mother to understand him. He wanted Harrison to understand him. He wanted Lisa Craig to speak to him. He wanted to be better. He wanted to die.
He needed to die.