Chapter Text
As Travis Phelps walked down the long hallway of his Father’s corridor, he couldn’t shake the feeling something was off. Something didn’t feel quite right, it made his hands sweaty and his stomach queasy. Travis never liked it when his father called him down for anything, he knew the outcome would only be one thing every time – hitting and screaming. Nothing ever changed in the Phelps household, it was always filled with abuse and darkness, but that’s what Travis always thought it would be. He never knew anything different, so why try?
He shakily reached for the doorknob, taking a deep breath to steer his emotions back to normal before facing his father, Kenneth Phelps. Upon opening the door, he was met with the furious face of Kenneth, and before he could move, he was already on the ground, his Father’s foot firmly placed on his back. Travis could barely breathe, the air going in and out of his lungs in sharp, excruciating gasps, “You’ve been lousing around that Larry boy again, haven’t you?” Kenneth barks, and Travis looks up at him with wide eyes, slowly nodding his head in defeat, “Yes, Father…” He murmurs, the display of weakness earning him a slap to the head, “What did I tell you, boy? I will not be allowing you to be anywhere near faggots like him. You are going to be a good child of God, Travis,” Kenneth’s voice was a dangerous whisper, one that made Travis think of the worst possible outcome.
Kenneth finally lifted his boot from Travis’s back, and he sucked in air as quietly as he could. Travis had to be strong. For God. For his father. Travis’s relief was short-lived, however, for Kenneth had lifted his collar and made his feet hover above the ground. Travis was horrified, his eyes widening in shock as he saw what his father was holding. A glass bottle with a small, intricately built boat inside, Travis had worked on it for hours and hours, “This better teach you to stay away from that family,” Kenneth retorted, each word slipping off his tongue like a curse. Travis watched as his father lifted his arm, the bottle gaining enough momentum to his face, watching as it came dangerously close to his eye-
BEEP….BEEP….BEEP…BEEP
Travis Jolted upright in bed, his breathing ragged and uneven. Shit. He had the same nightmare again, the one that made him have these….urges. He hated it but…he couldn’t stop either. Travis looked over at the nightstand by his bedside, opening the small drawer and rummaging through everything he had until he found it. A small, metal pencil sharpener he kept ever since he used to draw, but his father shut it down since “drawing is for fags.” Using a small coin the kept in his pocket, Travis carefully undid the screws to loosen the blades, which were a bit rusty and covered in dried blood, but it would have to do.
The blade clattered out of the metal casing, and he gripped it tightly. Travis watched the small knife glint in the gentle morning light as he lifted his sleeve and brought it close to his arm. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. One cut. Travis watched the crimson liquid bead on his skin, the small incision letting blood spill out quickly and easily. Second cut. Travis barely felt it when the blade actually sliced his skin, but it was the sting that followed quickly afterwards that reminded him of what he had done. Travis made another cut, and another, and another, and another, until his whole arm was red and bloody. He reached for the cloth that he kept in his nightstand alongside with a few bandages, starting to clean up in fear his father would find out. Travis was horrified of what he would do if he found out. He had to keep it a secret.
Weird. There was more blood than usual, it was making Travis a bit light-headed. He reached for a sip of water, looking at the mirror on his wall. He looked so ugly, so….weak. He couldn’t stand it. The way his bruise made his eye puff up a bit, how his cut lip seemed to never heal, the way his hair stood out against his skin, he hated all of it. The bruise was just a reminder of that day. The bruise hadn’t healed yet. Why? It honestly wasn’t even a bruise anymore, more like a scar that always stayed fresh and never healed, no matter how much you wanted it to disappear. Travis began to zone out, the cloth slipping from his grip and fluttering to the floor. He didn’t know why he lost focus so much. He hated it. Hated himself. Why can’t he just disappear? Why is he still here?
The door creaked open. Kenneth walked in.
Travis didn’t roll up his sleeve.
“What are you doing, boy?”
If only Travis could focus.