Prescription for (in)Sanity

By Rewy All Rights Reserved ©

Scifi / Drama

Strangled Cry

"Don't smoke in the house," his mother snapped as she came through the front door, dressed in her best.

Ciaran arched a thin brow over a bruised eye. "Make me put it out," he challenged as he took a drag, staring defiantly into her green eyes.

She glared at him and dropped her bag on the floor. "Your father will take it out of your hide when he gets back."

"I just bet he will," Ciaran retorted. "He definitely won't take it out of yours."

Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut but he never had been one to listen to anyone, even himself. His mother stalked over to him and raised her hand, slapping him hard across the face.

“Disgusting little whore…” she hissed.

He slanted his eyes up to meet hers. "Calling the kettle black, mother? If I'm a whore, so are you."

She took a step back, green eyes narrowing in anger. "Devil spawn," she hissed. "No wonder why he goes to your bed."

Ciaran laughed bitterly as he picked the ragged stick of nicotine out of his mouth and dropped it on the floor. "Must be missing something in yours," he said bitterly as he got to his feet and shoved past her. "You can have the bastard back. I certainly never wanted him."

She glared at him. "I should have left you on the street the moment you were born."

"Love you too," he told her with a mocking smile.

For one moment she was able to meet his gaze but then she had to look away. With a soft laugh Ciaran headed up to his room, slamming the door shut. He turned his stereo on and chose a bass heavy rock track, putting it as loud as he could stand it. The volume made his ears hurt and the glass in the window shake in its frame but he didn't care. Throwing himself on the bed he flung an arm over his eyes and tried to ignore the headache in his head that was pounding out a counter rhythm to the music.

For a time, all that existed was the music that chased away the voices in his head. Then a weight pressed down on his bed and he moved his arm, staring dispassionately at the drunk figure of his father sitting beside him. "What do you want?" he hissed even though he knew very well what he wanted.

Ciaran doubted he heard him. He never did. He just reached for him, brown eyes bloodshot and glazed over from too much liquor. Ciaran attempted to move away from him but a fist slammed into his gut and drove the air out of his lungs. With a choked gasp he curled around the pain, rolling to his side. Then a heavy body was pressing down on top of his and blunt fingers were forcing his head up.

"Don't ever fucking tell me no, got it?" his father slurred angrily, one hand already undoing the button on Ciaran's jeans.

Ciaran nodded. "Yes," he whispered in a shaky voice.

And like all the times before he let his mind drift away from what was happening. His body was a puppet with knotted strings and he let his father do what he wanted. It had always been easier to just give in to him instead of fighting. Fighting meant pain and he hated pain. Lying there on his bed, glassy green eyes staring up at the white ceiling and seeing nothing as his father fucked him, he let the pain of sex drag him into oblivion like it always did, with his father whispering obscenities into his ear.


Silja poured him another shot of vodka. His ninth. Or maybe it was his tenth? He didn't know. He'd lost track after they had finished off the tequila bottle and were now making inroads on the vodka. She was sitting across from him at the bar counter. He was standing.

"Sunday fucked you again, didn't he?" she asked casually. Ciaran wasn’t even sure if she was a friend or not. Everyone said they were his friends, but they were only after his reputation.

Ciaran rolled his eyes. "That obvious?"

She smirked. "You're not sitting down, are you?"

"I don't want to," he muttered into his drink.

"Figured you wouldn't."

They were at a club, like always. She was dressed in a leather dress and red lipstick, blond hair falling over one shoulder. He was wearing straight pants and a long sleeved shirt, his dark hair uncombed and falling over his black eye. She set down her shot glass and rested her elbow on the bar counters. "You look tired," she said.

"Mind your own damn business," he growled. He wanted none of that pity. It was all a fraud. Just like he himself.

She shrugged. "If you want me to."

Ciaran stared moodily down at his drink. With a grimace he downed the bitter liquid and wiped his lips on his sleeve. "Anyone here for you tonight?" he asked.

"None with any good shit. No one you'd want to trade for. Trust me on that," she told him. "Why?"

He gave her a bitter smile. "Just curious"

Silja nodded and put a cigarette to her lips and lit it. Offering him one from her pack, he took it and lit it off of hers. Ciaran watched the bodies move into a beat and licked his lips. He thought he'd had more than enough sex for one day, but his but his body thought otherwise. Finishing his drink, Ciaran kissed Silja sloppily, before going to find a new person to harass.

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.