Hand of Blood

I moved across my more than messy room to collapse down onto my black duvet that swamped my bed. It was the most comfortable, and comforting, thing I possessed. It was probably because you're not exactly supposed to have a double sized duvet on a single sized bed, but that's the way I had always liked it. I wrapped myself in the soft sheets, pulling them tighter around me until I almost couldn't breath. Only then did I stop my squirming and lay still, the dark material blinding me as the room returning to its deathly silence. That just wouldn't do.

I maneuvered my arm out of the huge mass of cotton and polyester and rolled awkwardly until my wavering hand connected with a hard wooden surface. I concentrated on the objects beneath my curious fingertips, identifying each one in turn. I eventually felt the smooth plastic and rubber buttons of my stereo remote and firmly took hold of it. Rolling back again, I directed my arm in the direction of my small stereo and started pushing every button along the surface of the object in my hand. Eventually I heard a faint click, telling me I had hit the power button. That's when I dropped the control to the floor, withdrew my hand back into the comfort blanket, and waited.

The seconds painfully ticked by as that silence surrounded me again. I bit down hard on my lip, as the sound of the CD spinning pointlessly in the machine teased me. Finally the deep bass vibrated through my room as music flowed from the speakers, causing the floorboards to shake from the maximum volume I always had prepared. Only then did I finally relax the muscles in my body, wrapping myself even tighter in my duvet and letting a heavy sigh fall from my lips. Only then, when I believed that even I wouldn't be able to hear anything from the deep vibrations filling my ear drums, did I allow myself to break down completely. Only then did I allow the tears to roll down my cheeks, and cries to escape from my dry throat.

And so I was alone again, it seemed, and on the worst possible terms. My parents had left me, or perhaps now just my parent. There was no worth of a plural anymore. I had, after all, just had another blazing argument with my 'step-dad', Spencer. As always, it wasn't just your simple argument, but had actually consisted of screaming, shouting and just the odd bit of violence. Today had been one of those days when I simply couldn't hold myself back. Just like every other day of my life since Spencer stepped into the lime light.

I couldn't suppress my cries as they steadily increased in volume, the events of the afternoon playing on repeat in my head. I hated myself for being like this, and the fact that I was so weak that I was driven to tears by someone like him, but just for that, I hated him even more.

It had been his 'master' plan to start with. Spencer had decided that it would be amazing to go on holiday, so everyone could have some fun, get a nice tan, and get that break they needed from the stresses of home. Everyone obviously translating to his selfish self and my mother; alone. This was the third time this had happened in a row, and to be honest I was more than tired of it. Sure, I was getting older now, but that didn't mean I wasn't a part of the family, especially considering I was here way before he was on the radar. And I had told him so.

So, we had argued, we had fought, and they had left straight after the hurtful words and actions were exchanged. Even as they were leaving, when Spencer had been dragging the suitcases out the the car, he was still hurling abuse back at me. He wasnt the type to give up. Ironically; neither was I. Sometimes, I really appreciated the love this family had for me, you know? Leaving me in this state, hurt and angry, without so much as a 'we should talk this through' just to clear the air and lighten the mood before we went our separate ways for a month. Not so much as a muttered apology or a real goodbye. It surprised me that I had ever believed he cared in the first place. This is the same evidence I use to support the fact I will never call him 'Dad', time and time again. I refuse to, simply because he didn't deserve it, and he was far from a father figure.

And now here I was; a month on my own, left with all but my thoughts and sweet nothing. No real hobbies, no real friends, no job, no school. I could have been at college, but I had dropped out 3 months ago, down to the fact Spencer said Id never get anywhere in life and there was no reason to bother. After another of our arguments, I decided it wasnt worth it either, and it was true that my grades had been slipping anyway. Quit while your ahead was my motivation at the time. I regretted it on occasion, but at the end of the day I couldn't go back. No one could ever change the past.

+

Half an hour and a sea of tears later I swallowed back the rest of my pathetic cries and awkwardly sat upright. I unwrapped myself from my duvet, the cold air of my room hitting me with a start and instantly soothing my aching head. I rubbed my eyes along the back of my arm and cleared my throat, looking around the low lit room, my sight readjusting until the blur had straightened out. My eyes settled onto my mirror to my left against the wall, my reflection showing me my messy hair was more out of place than usual, and eyeliner had streamed down my cheeks, lightly smudged. It would be a lifetime before I learnt to buy the waterproof variety.

I gradually untangled my sheets from around my legs before I roughly rubbed my cheeks, hoping to remove the dark black stains down my usual pale skin. I took a deep breath as I pulled myself to my feet and wandered across to my stereo, turning down the volume so a light hum circled my room, despite how much I adored the Machine Head song that had been suffocating me with its sound waves.

I walked back across to where my mirror was, on the opposite wall, and stared critically at my reflection. My earlier attempts to wipe the eyeliner from my face hadn't cleared the black streaks, but just smudged them further. I scrunched up my face as I rubbed furiously at my cheeks until the stains had almost completely gone. My cheeks were now more red and puffy than when I started, but I was confident that that would fade with a little time.

After careful consideration, I decided that my hair was too much of a mess to simply leave the way it was. I glanced around for a moment before I spotted my brush on the ground beside my bed, amongst various other hair products. I quickly retrieved it and moved back to stand infront of the mirror, running my brush through the choppy layers that fell above my shoulders, and smoothing it out the frizz. I then tied it back loosely, revealing the orange underside of my hair that was usually invisible beneath the black that claimed my bangs and the topside of my hair. I sighed lightly and reached for my eyeliner resting at my feet, applying a light layer around my deep brown eyes, which were often mistaken for black in poor light.

Now satisfied with my general appearance, I discarded the black eye pencil in my fingertips to the cream carpet once more. Vanity was a horrible thing, really, but its pretty much all I had left to care about. My eyebrows furrowed together as my gaze wandered my reflection, resting on my exposed upper arms. I bit my lip and scratched self-consciously at the only too visible white lines across my skin, stretched out in all directions, each varying in length and thickness. I hated the fact they were there, but I hated myself more for inflicting such a thing upon myself. You never realise how long it takes some scars to fade. More often than not, they never really do. But guess what? No one could ever change the past.

Shaking the thoughts from my head, I walked across my room and picked up a black pullover hoodie from my carpet that was littered with clothes. I quickly tugged it over my head, covering my Deftones tshirt, to hide the disgustingmarks from myself, and from anyone else in the world, although normally other people didn't notice them unless they were specifically pointed out. But as they say; out of sight, out of mind.